by David Field
‘Not here, and not now. A coach will collect you from your house in Hackney at nine am on Thursday. Be there — both of you.’
With that he hobbled on past them, and Jack stared after him in amazement.
‘Was that him? He’s as old as the cathedral himself, by the look of him.’
‘Get used to surprises like that Jack, and welcome to my new world. At a guess we’re invited to dinner with someone even more important on Thursday. For the time being, where’s the nearest tea shop?’
Later that day, having left Jack behind in their office at the Yard, Percy approached the tenement in Lowder Street, Wapping, where Jack had first interviewed Lizzie Black. It had been agreed that Percy would be the better of the two to make this visit, since it might involve the sort of intense interrogation that he delivered best, and matters had gone beyond polite enquiry. Michael Black had never reported back for police duties since the night he’d presumably stood aside while Bartrams’ warehouse was looted of army uniforms, and now he appeared to be a member of the Home Front Club, according to what Jack had learned. Some important questions required honest answers, and Percy was not likely to be seduced from his mission by the woman who claimed to be Black’s wife.
Percy wrinkled his nose against the smell of human urine and boiled pigs’ trotters as he mounted the crumbling stairs to the landing on the second floor of the tenement and hammered on the door. Then he hammered again when there was no reply and was seriously contemplating making his next enquiry with the sole of his boot when the door across the landing opened and an unshaven face appeared in the doorframe.
‘You bin sent by the landlord? If so, yer too late. They done a scarper last week.’
‘Who done — did — a scarper?’ Percy asked.
The man coughed, then spit on the floor of the landing in front of his door before deigning to reply. ‘Them what lived there. Lizzie an’ ’er bleedin’ kids what was always runnin’ up an’ down them stairs.’
‘Lizzie Black?’
‘Never knew ’er proper name, but ’er man were a copper, afore ’e pissed off an’ left ’em.’
‘And they left last week, you said?’
‘Yeah — was they owin’ the rent?’
‘No idea,’ Percy told him as he raised his police badge high in the air for the man to squint at across the landing. ‘Is there anyone else living there now?’
‘You a copper?’
When Percy confirmed that he was, the man coughed and spat a second time, then closed his front door with a loud bang after his parting words.
‘Let me see — ’ow can I put this? Piss off!’
The week passed uneventfully as Percy and Jack made one gallant effort after another to organise what they had designated as their ‘Master Manpower Plan’ for the policing of half of London during the crucial two days of the Diamond Jubilee celebrations. From time to time Chief Superintendent Bray wandered in to demand to know what they were doing, and to remind them that any major transfer of manpower from one police station to another would require his final approval. Then on Wednesday morning they were summoned to the office of Assistant Commissioner Doyle, who glared at Jack as they sat in front of his desk, clearly of the belief that he was more easily intimidated.
‘Have you finished that manpower audit yet, Sergeant?’
‘Not quite, sir,’ Jack replied in a respectful tone, fully aware that Doyle might well have an unhealthy interest in what they were engaged upon.
‘And what are you doing with your time, Percy? If your nephew here is in need of a helping hand, surely you’ll be better employed in assisting him?’
‘I’m searching for possible security weaknesses.’
‘And have you found any?’
There was an awkward silence, during which Jack crossed his fingers in the hope that Percy’s affability would not fracture.
‘I’m afraid I report directly to Superintendent Melville at Special Branch, sir, and — through him — to the Home Secretary.’
‘And the ears of an Assistant Commissioner of the Yard are not deemed trustworthy enough to receive any information on possible lapses in operational efficiency?’
‘It’s a bit more than that, with respect, sir. We know of at least three distinct acts of corruption at street level among Met officers, each of which might have implications for the Queen’s safety during her forthcoming Jubilee celebrations.’
‘And they are?’ Doyle demanded.
‘Solely for the ears of Superintendent Melville, sir.’
‘This manpower survey of yours, Sergeant,’ Doyle continued unabashed, and seemingly unfazed, as he glared round at Jack. ‘I trust you aren’t going to send West End men into the East End? We can’t afford to have any resignations at a critical moment.’
‘I’m aware of that, sir,’ Jack replied deferentially, ‘and so far as possible I’m arranging to move men only one station down the social scale. Stepney will be reinforced from Holborn, Holborn from Mayfair, Mayfair from Kensington, and so on. But at some stage we’re likely to need to rely on every “Special” we can call out.’
‘For the East End, and specifically St. Paul’s?’ Doyle asked.
Jack shook his head. ‘No, sir, with respect. We’ll need our most seasoned men at St Paul’s, and I’m proposing that they be drafted in from Stepney. Stepney will get reinforcements from Holborn, and so on, as I already explained, then the final gap will be left in the numbers at Bow Street. That’s where I propose that we station the Specials, at least on the first day, while the Queen’s in residence at Buckingham Palace.’
‘So the weak spot in all this will be in the West, on the first day at least, while “full strength” deployment will be at St Paul’s, on the second. Have I got that right?’
‘Yes, sir, since that’s where we perceive that her Majesty will be in the greatest danger,’ Jack replied.
Doyle nodded. ‘You may be right at that, Sergeant. Clearly the two of you seem to be on the right track, so I won’t delay you any further, particularly since I want you both out of that office by the end of January.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ Percy enquired cautiously.
‘The entire Yard’s scheduled to move to new headquarters in the next year or two, and we need to slowly phase out the use of offices in this building, to make the transition smoother when that day comes.’
‘And we’re being allocated an early office in this new building?’
Doyle smiled unpleasantly as he shook his head. ‘No, you simply have to vacate that office by the end of January. By all accounts you’ll be finished by then, and I’ll ensure that your plans are implemented to the letter.’
‘And what about us?’ Percy demanded.
‘If you’re of sufficient remaining value to Special Branch, presumably they’ll find some office for you somewhere in their little empire. Good morning, gentlemen.’
Jack waited until they were back in the privacy of what had now become their temporary office before speaking. ‘That’s outrageous and unfair! Downright rotten! We do all the hard work, solve all his problems, then we’re out on our arses! You into greengrocery, and me back to Chelmsford. And after we obviously got it right.’
‘You think so?’ Percy said with a self-righteous smirk.
‘That’s what Doyle said,’ Jack reminded him.
‘That’s what he said, certainly, but that’s not what he meant. He wants us out of here before we can come up with another plan.’
‘We don’t need another plan, if we’ve got it right this time,’ Jack insisted, and Percy’s face finally returned to its customary serious expression.
‘That’s just the point, Jack. Doyle doesn’t want us to come up with another plan, because he thinks that we’ve got it wrong, and he wants us out of here before we get it right. He’s happy for us to focus on St. Paul’s, and we have to ask ourselves why.’
Chapter Sixteen
Jack watched, entranced, as Manning — the butler with a serious
looking revolver strapped under his armpit — served the coffee and sandwiches and then slid quietly into the rhododendron bushes. They were having a picnic around a table on the rear lawn of the Home Secretary’s private residence in Buckinghamshire, and somehow it all seemed to fit with the bizarre series of events that had begun shortly after breakfast on a far from normal Thursday.
First of all, a coach had pulled silently up to the front garden gate of Percy and Beattie’s house in Hackney, and its door had opened seemingly of its own accord. Once they climbed in, Jack had been formally introduced to Superintendent William Melville, Head of Special Branch, and he’d found it impossible to reconcile the appearance of the tall, straight-backed military type sporting a neatly trimmed moustache with that of the bent old man who’d accosted them on the steps of St Paul’s the previous week. His companion was a swarthy looking individual with the Irish name of Reilly, but who had a funny way of speaking English, and Jack formed the instant conclusion that he wouldn’t trust the man further than he could throw him.
There had been little to no conversation during the two hours in which the coach had rumbled resolutely through the outer western London suburbs before coming to a halt outside a palatial mansion into which they had been ushered by a liveried footman, to be met in the front entrance hall by British Home Secretary Sir Matthew Ridley. Had the Queen herself taken their heavy topcoats and hats, Jack would have not been surprised, such was the unreality of it all.
‘I regret that I won’t be able to offer you and your nephew dinner today, Percy,’ Ridley explained as he smiled across the table, ‘since while the House is in session I’m expected to be in my office in Whitehall most afternoons. However, hopefully these sandwiches will be a compensation of sorts, and this way we have at least an hour to learn where your investigations so far have taken us.’
‘Melville already knows most of this, since it was in my written report to him two weeks ago,’ Percy announced as he selected his second sandwich, ‘but basically, we’ve been able to confirm the acts of corruption within the Met that you suspected. I investigated the Holborn one personally, and there can be no doubt that Sergeant Hector Cameron was responsible for the theft of police uniforms and wagon that facilitated the Hatton Garden gem raid. He was clearly open to bribery, on account of the fact that he has a young son in need of the sort of medical assistance that you can’t buy on a police sergeant’s salary. He’s still in his post, and his somewhat weak Inspector’s protecting him for commendable reasons of sympathy and loyalty for a colleague. But not, I think, as the result of any corruption. Jack here investigated two other cases you alerted us to, and I’ll let him reveal his own findings while I savour this excellent chicken sandwich.’
Jack cleared his throat, somewhat overawed by the occasion, and mindful of the cool stares of Melville and Reilly. ‘I have every reason to believe,’ he began somewhat pompously, ‘that corruption has set in at the Whitechapel police station, under the guarded control of the Inspector there — a man named Ingram; George Ingram. Thanks to him, and as the direct result of his connivance, there was a change of personnel on fixed point duty outside the Wapping warehouse of Bartrams, from where we suspect that army uniforms were stolen before the place was set on fire. The constable who should have been rostered on — a man called Michael Black — seems to have been heavily in debt to some soldier he’d been playing cards with previously, and of whom, according to his wife, he was very afraid. Shortly before failing to report for duty, he gave his wife a substantial amount of money, but refused to say where it had come from. Then he disappeared from sight, but I think I know where to find him.’
‘So who was on duty that night?’ Ridley enquired.
‘A constable called Edward Ainsworth,’ Jack replied. ‘A man who enjoyed an expensive lifestyle, and who liked the ladies. He was last seen with one, heading towards St Katherine Dock the day after the warehouse fire, and his body was fished out of there, beaten to pulp, almost two weeks later.’
‘And you reckon that the man behind all this was his Inspector in Whitechapel?’ Melville asked. ‘I think you said his name was Ingram?’
‘That’s right,’ Jack replied eagerly. ‘He all but threw me out of Whitechapel when he could see where my enquiries were leading, and Uncle Percy here — sorry, Inspector Enright — can tell you more about him. Over to you, Inspector.’
Percy cleared his mouth of sandwich and nodded. ‘This same bloke, Ingram, was a mere sergeant at Stepney when a load of illegal firearms, mainly army rifles, were found in a house on his patch, by two constables called Greenway and Padley. When they kicked the door in, they arrested a man called Hiscock, at least according to the information you gave me at the start of all this. But the curious fact that I discovered when I went through the books in Stepney — which now has a new Sergeant who’s too thick to be corrupt — was that there was no record of Hiscock having been arrested in the first place. The duty sergeant on the front desk that night was Ingram, and my guess is that he never formally booked Hiscock in, but simply slipped him out of a side door when no-one was looking.’
‘As I recall,’ Melville interrupted, ‘the weapons themselves were conveyed to Scotland Yard, from where over half of them were stolen. Did you manage to get any more information on that?’
‘Indeed I did.’ Percy frowned. ‘You will recall that the two constables who first located them were called Greenway and Padley. I’m afraid that Constable Greenway didn’t live long to celebrate his success, since a few nights later he was lured up a dark alley and done to death.’
‘And the other one — Padley?’ Melville urged him.
‘By some miracle that owed more to blatant corruption than coincidence, when Padley was transferred to the Yard he was placed on “stores” duty that made him directly responsible for the arms cache from which eighty or so army rifles disappeared on his watch. I can only assume that the rifles belonged to whichever subversive group was using the Stepney house as a store, and that they were the ones who stole them back while Padway looked the other way.’
‘Presumably this man has been interrogated?’ Reilly asked in his first contribution to the conversation, sounding as if his Irish ancestry came by way of Eastern Europe.
Percy grimaced as he continued. ‘We now come to the bit that I’m sure you don’t want to hear. I was in the process of consulting Padley’s record, in the hope of locating his current whereabouts and duties, when the file was all but ripped out of my hands by my own ultimate superior officer, Chief Superintendent Bray. The reason he gave was that my remit only covered Met stations, and not the internal workings of the Yard, and I’d like to believe him. But I’m bound to report that the corruption may have crept even higher up inside the Yard.’
‘Higher than Chief Superintendent?’ Ridley said with worried creases in his brow.
‘Indeed,’ Percy confirmed. ‘You recall that my basic remit was to sit and wait for someone to approach me with a view to corrupting me? Well, you were right. I’ve been basically offered high office in some sort of post-revolutionary police force, in return for turning a blind eye to what I’ve discovered, by none other than Assistant Commissioner Doyle.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Melville observed quietly. ‘It had to be someone fairly high up, and it seems that all this low-level corruption is a prelude to something much worse.’
‘To do with the upcoming Jubilee?’ Jack asked.
Melville nodded. ‘They’ve so far corrupted only at a low level, although by these means they’ve managed to acquire guns, police uniforms, a wagon and God knows how many army uniforms. Not only can these commodities be put to good use when the time comes, but they now have a little coterie of corrupted police officers who can be relied upon to either look the other way or positively assist when some sort of anarchistic attack’s made on the Queen.’
‘We’ve begun to get a few provisional lines on that as well,’ Percy ventured, and all eyes turned to him. ‘We know that the Jubile
e festivities will last for two days, and that the Met’s under strength in both parts of London in which they’ll be taking place. The first day will centre around Buckingham Palace, and some sort of State reception of all the crowned heads who’ve been invited. The responsibility for policing that will fall on the West End stations and chiefly Bow Street, whose Inspector — a man named Lionel Markwell — was far from reluctant to share with me his views on how the nation should be run. Those opinions do not incorporate any sort of elected democracy headed by a monarch — more like a military dictatorship, in which he no doubt envisages himself in a prominent position. He’s obviously ex-military himself and has staffed his station with former soldiers.’
‘And the police in Bow Street have an unhealthy relationship with soldiers from the local barracks,’ Jack chipped in. Embarrassed by the silence that followed, he felt obliged to explain. ‘They’ve formed this club in a very salubrious set of premises in the West End. The membership’s free to serving police and army, and it must be costing someone a fortune to finance it, so you’d have to ask “who” and “why”. They call it the “Home Front Club”, and it’s fiercely patriotic on the surface, but with a very uncomfortable Irish undertone. I’ve managed to get myself elected as a member, and I discovered quite by accident that another member admitted a week or two ahead of me is the same Michael Black who deserted his post in Wapping in order to facilitate the Bartrams raid, and who hadn’t been seen since by his wife when I interviewed her. And according to the Inspector here, even the wife’s now disappeared.’
