by Graham Ison
“You bastards,” said Fox, attempting to keep a straight face.
Once the raucous laughter had subsided, Detective Sergeant Crozier opened Fox’s bedside locker and glanced at the door where Kate Ebdon stood guard. “All right, Kate?” he asked.
“All clear, skip,” said the Australian detective.
As one, the Squad officers opened their brief-cases and, with a speed that would have done credit to a top-class shoplifter working in reverse, began to fill the locker with bottles of Scotch and packets of cigarettes.
“Hope you come back soon, guv,” said Crozier. “The bloody place is in chaos already.”
Fox ignored the implied compliment. “What about your enquiry in Cannes?” he asked, unable to forget the job even when confined to a hospital bed.
“Lasage came up trumps, guv’nor,” said Crozier. “He found that Povey and Michelle White were both born in France, which is why we couldn’t find any entries at St Catherine’s House.”
“And once Bert Glass heard that Povey was dead, sir,” chipped in Kate Ebdon, “he admitted to posting the gear to Sailor Pogson that you found in the safe at City Road. He hadn’t said anything before because Povey threatened him with GBH if he grassed.”
“And just what d’you suppose is going on in here?” The stentorian voice of the sister cut through the conversation as she stood in the doorway, all starched and bristling. “Out, all of you.”
Sheepishly, the members of the Squad, any one of whom would unhesitatingly have tackled an armed robber, made for the door.
“There’s a Lady Jane Sims here to see you, Mr Fox,” said the sister. “I’ve told her not to stay too long.”
Jane Sims entered the room, her arms full of the largest bunch of flowers Fox had ever seen outside Covent Garden, and laid them on the end of the bed. She sat down and took Fox’s right hand in her own. “I can’t let you out of my sight for a moment, can I, Tommy Fox?” she said.
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