“You’ve brought it on yourself, Farman. Should have run a tighter ship. Not given Rapson so much rope.”
“That’s easy enough to say. And what do I do when this gets out? When the daily rags start clamouring for interviews?” He wiped his shining forehead again. “When the parents get wind of it and start withdrawing their sons? They will do, you know!”
“I’ll tell you what you don’t do. You don’t look to me for help. If the lid comes off there’s nothing I can do. I have my orders. The moment the sun shines on this can of worms I withdraw and leave you carrying it.”
“You’re maltreating your metaphors again, Gosling! Thank God I didn’t entrust you with Year Three English!”
“I only do it to annoy. Now—brace up and tell me where this joker’s sprung from, Farman.”
“I’ve searched the boy’s records, and there’s no mention of a Sandilands. Someone’s pulling a fast one. The only connection that occurs to me is—India. He mentioned it himself. Oh—and he bandied the word ‘diplomacy’ about in a menacing way. Reeks of—er—influence, I’d say.”
“Damn it! Look, whoever he is—we don’t want him anywhere near this. The whole thing is supposed to be kept under wraps. Fat chance of that with the Met and the Branch swarming all over it.” Gosling spoke firmly. “Get rid of him. Tell him that you’re happy with Martin’s coverage. The good old Sussex Constabulary can cope. Keep it local. Stress your total confidence in them. You’d be quite right to do that—Martin’s an impressive officer. Be polite but make sure of two things—one: that he’s left the boy behind and two: that he’s buggered off himself by the end of the day.”
He turned to leave, paused and grumbled over his shoulder: “Oh, and thanks a bundle for handing me charge of the Crazy Gang! Yes, a hideous thought, but—I have to say—good tactics, Farman. I think I shall have to make a friend of young Drummond. Offer a sympathetic ear for his confidences. Listen to his adventures in the Big Smoke.… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll fix on a suitably chastised expression and nip off to—where is it they have their awful rookery?—room 10, is it? I’ll take the roll call and dodge the ink gobbets. Oh, and, this copper, call me when he gets here, will you? I’d like to meet him.”
CHAPTER 5
Joe paused on his way out into the still dark street, hesitated, then came to a decision. Better safe than sorry. With the boy’s sudden appearance last evening, there had gusted into his home an unease as menacing as the snow-bearing wind. Joe had learned over the years to conceal these presentiments under a cover of bluff normality, but he never disregarded them. He picked up the two bottles of milk from the step, smiling to see that the frozen liquid had forced its way up through the cap and was sitting like a penny-lick of ice cream at the neck. He stepped back into the hall and tapped on the door to his landlord’s ground floor apartment.
Alfred Jenkins didn’t keep him waiting. His door was flung open, revealing a stocky, shirt-sleeved figure against a glare of bright electric light. A blast of air lightly scented with smoke and coffee gushed out, and Joe heard in the background the friendly domestic sound of electric trains rattling their way around a circuit.
“You’re a bit late this morning, sir? Oh, thanks for that. Just in time. Glad you got to it before the sparrers! I’ll chisel a bit off the top for my cuppa. Join me?” The china mug of coffee raised invitingly at him and the sight of the morning’s Daily Mirror spread out over the kitchen table very nearly lured Joe inside to spend a happy half hour with Alfred setting the world to rights.
“Morning, Alfred. Something of an emergency on, I’m afraid. I have to go out for an hour or so. Look—I’m leaving my sister up there and she has someone with her. It’s my nine-year-old nephew from India. Name’s Jack. He’s in a spot of bother. They won’t be leaving until I come back to pick them up and—I feel a bit over-dramatic saying this.…” Joe shuffled his feet but, encouraged by an alert and enquiring face, hurried on: “Could you keep an eye out.… My nephew may possibly find himself the subject of unwanted attention. No one should be allowed in to visit them.” He grinned. “Especially not our flat-footed chums. It’s quite possible that a contingent of the provincial Plod may come calling and try to pick him up while my back’s turned. You’ll have no trouble identifying them—they’ll be a pair of florid six-footers with a Sussex accent. Oh—one exception—there’s a delivery expected in the name of Mrs. Dunsford. A Mr. Partridge of the outfitting department is sending out some things from Derry and Tom’s but no one else should go up. Just tell anyone showing an interest that the flat’s empty, will you? Not that I’m expecting anyone will call.” His rambling speech was betraying his anxiety and he stopped himself.
“The lady’s safe with me. And the young gent,” Jenkins replied briefly. “I’ve cleared the pavement out front, but watch your step. It’s come down thick in the night and it’s frozen over. Nasty.”
IN HIS LONELIER moments Alfred Jenkins, retired Metropolitan Police Inspector, told himself that he lived a full and rewarding life. His wife Mavis had died just after the war, but she’d left him with a good son. And now that son had sons himself, and Alfred was blessed with their frequent company. Their ma was a hard-working woman and left the lads with him while she got on with her jobs. Early severance from the Force due to injury some twelve years ago had left him a promising officer with a police medal for gallantry but with ambitions unfulfilled and a minuscule pension. Jenkins’ optimistic nature scorned to dwell on the disappointments. He reckoned he was a lucky bloke. Thank God he’d inherited his old uncle’s house at a dark moment. A bit of a ruin and out here in mucky old Chelsea down by Lots Road power station. All the advice had been: “Get rid of it, Fred. It’ll be a millstone round your neck. Shift it quick.” But he’d seen the possibilities. Georgian building. Good structure. Spacious. Just a bit faded. He’d taken a chance and spent his severance pay on refurbishing the top floor and having electricity put in. And a lift. In the end, he’d been able to pin a notice on the board at the Yard offering superior modern accommodation to a single professional gentleman. He’d been delighted when Sandilands had turned up holding the notice in his hand. His price and terms had been agreed without a quibble.
He hadn’t expected the young officer to spend many months under his roof. He was a professional all right, meticulous and driven you might say, but—single? Sandilands didn’t have the look of a bloke who’d stay unmarried for long. Yet twelve years down the road, and here he still was. Odd that, Jenkins always thought. It wasn’t as though he was uninterested in females. He never brought a floozie back, of course. The man was a gent, after all, but he did sometimes come rolling home late smelling of brandy and exotic perfume, collar melting and tie askew. Late? Sometimes early. Dumping the milk bottles at his door with a cheeky grin. Plenty of time though. Most men with a career to build waited until they were into their forties before they settled down. And the Captain, as his oldest mates who’d known him in the war years still called him, was on the right side of forty. Still looking around. Plenty of time.
Alfred decided he’d wait until ten o’clock before he went upstairs to check with Miss Lydia that all was well.
THE DERRY AND Tom’s van passed his parlour window just after eleven, and Alfred made his way into the hall to greet the messenger.
The smart young man was holding a package and looking around him, getting his bearings. “Delivery. It’s for Sandilands. Top floor? I’ll take it up. That lift working is it?”
Cockney accent, Alfred noted. “Hold your horses, mate! Deliveries have to be recorded. Give me a minute to get the book, will you?” Alfred made his way back into his parlour, and found his record book on the sideboard. When he emerged, he found the man had followed him and was looking eagerly over his shoulder into the room. Pushy blighter.
“Train set is that? Electric? Cor! Gentleman’s hobby, would that be? Bet the kids love it!”
Alfred understood his interest and responded warmly to a fellow enthusiast. He smi
led his pleasure and opened the door wider to allow the friendly young man a view of the room. “I keep it here for my three grandsons. Their ma leaves them with me every morning while she does her charring.”
Three small boys in check pinafores were squabbling gently over the train track. They all looked up on hearing the stranger’s voice at the door but turned back at once to the railway. A delivery man was no distraction from a derailed Flying Scotsman.
“Now then, Sid and Ian—you little ’uns better listen to your big brother,” Jenkins directed firmly. “Do what Andy says while I deal with this gentleman, will you? I don’t want to hear any quarreling when I’ve got my back turned. Or I’ll pull the plugs,” he finished with cheerful menace.
He waited for the automatic acknowledgements of “Yes, Grandpa” before turning back to the visitor. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind signing just here? Oh, and thank your Mr. Peacock for being so prompt with the order, will you? It is still old Peacock in outfitting, is it? Or has he retired by now?”
“Still there, sir. Bit doddery but he gets by.”
“Know the feeling! You can leave it down here with me, if you like.”
“Naw! Thanks, but I have to make sure it’s got into the right hands. I’ll use the lift.”
“Right-oh, then. Oh, Sandilands has nipped out, but it’s all right—his sister’s up there. She’ll see to you. Watch out for the lift—it can be a bit temperamental. Well, if you’re sure.…” And, as the Derry and Tom’s man walked off with jaunty stride towards the lift, he called after him helpfully: “Just press button 3, mate.”
CHAPTER 6
Joe took a taxi to the government offices at Whitehall. He got out on King Charles Street and turned in to a courtyard lined by architecture of an Italianate flavour. Sir Gilbert Scott was responsible for the ornate Victorian grandeur, Joe remembered, and he paused to get his bearings and admire. There could be no doubt that he was approaching a temple to Britannia.
Chilly and echoing, the building Joe entered had the feeling of a busy space suddenly deserted. Without the animation of the usual swarms of bowler-hatted men jousting about with briefcase and brolly, he was feeling more keenly conscious of the grandeur of the surroundings. And more out of place. He looked down at his feet. Gumboots had seemed the obvious choice this snowy morning, looking purposeful and proper with the ancient tweed suit he’d put on, mindful of the journey into the country.
Lydia had thought to question his choice of get-up. “Is that going to be quite right for Whitehall, Joe? Will they let you in or hand you a spade and send you off to clear the pavement?” The kind of comment that roused a growling contrariness in Joe. Now he watched regretfully as dirty gobbets of melting snow oozed from the runnels of his boots and settled on the Minton tiles. Gold fleurs-de-lis, he noted, on a background of magenta and blue. Tiles so sumptuously heraldic deserved to be dripped on by nothing less than a pair of Lobb’s best, he thought guiltily.
The civil servant in attendance cut short his anxiety. He was expecting Joe and with one stately finger directed a footman to take his hat and overcoat. Joe was reassured to be greeted by title. “Assistant Commissioner? We’ll go straight up. Sir James fought his way through from Albany half an hour ago and is waiting. Commissioner Trenchard is with him. And one or two others. This way.”
Sir James? The Commissioner? One or two others?
Joe kept his surprise to himself and followed his guide in silence. In his flurry of calls and returned calls after breakfast he’d simply tried to set up an informal meeting with his chief superintendent, Ralph Cottingham, and one other: “any bright bloke from the Department of Education, if that’s not an impossible request … and if there’s anyone at home.…” he remembered saying. The final message had come through an hour ago, fixing “a meeting with interested parties” in one of the government offices in Whitehall. A courtesy to the Education bloke, Joe surmised. Statesmen of any rank in the rumour-mill that was Whitehall preferred to avoid the indignity and possible stigma of a trip down the corridors of Scotland Yard. But why such a gathering? Early in February grandees of this political type ought to be away holed up on their wide country acres or skiing in Zermatt. Had Ralph overreacted?
Mind racing, Joe was chilled by the thought that the series of phone calls he’d instigated must have got out of hand, rolling along gathering substance like a snowball. And who the hell was Sir James, anyway? He could think of at least five Sir Jameses in the upper ranks of public life.
He was ushered into a carpeted and well-lit first floor reception room that was already occupied by some half dozen people sitting, it seemed casually, around a low table. His first glance took in a preponderance of sober grey pinstripe and even a uniform. All eyes lifted to him as he approached.
“Thank you, Spencer. That’ll be all.” The voice that dismissed Joe’s guide was unknown to him. It was low, authoritative. The speaker rose to greet Joe, indicating with a crisp movement of the hand that the others were to remain seated. “We’ve kept you a place over there at the end opposite me, Sandilands. Help yourself to coffee, will you? We’re all enjoying a certain informality this morning, you see. No clerks, no tea-ladies. Glad to note you’ve dressed—like me—in keeping with the weather. Harris tweed and galoshes! The only possible riposte to an unscheduled summons to the work place in the middle of a blizzard. Good man!” His voice dropped to a level of confidence: “Now, your boss will never admit it, but I do believe Trenchard still has his pyjamas on under that Savile Row outer layer.”
This must be “Sir James,” Joe guessed. Talking lightly to put him at his ease? Disturbing, perhaps, to think that he needed to be put at ease, but Joe rather liked the aplomb with which the man dared to tease the austere Lord Trenchard. The Commissioner appeared less diverted, and Joe avoided meeting the basilisk stare.
Alarmingly, they all waited until Joe had settled and taken his first sip of coffee before his host continued. “Now, we all know who you are, Sandilands—indeed, your ears must have been burning for the last half hour as we all heard your praises sung—but you may not know all of us. I’ll go round the table. Where shall I start? With the prettiest … why not? Miss Peto I think you are acquainted with?”
Dorothy Peto, the newly appointed Superintendent of Women Police, was managing to sit to attention, spruce in her blue serge. No one had ever seen her in civilian clothes—indeed, the word was that she slept in her uniform. She dimpled at Sir James, acknowledging his gallantry, then nodded and smiled at Joe. One ally then at least in this company. Miss Peto and Joe had done a lot of agreeing over the employment of women in the force over the years, though he would never have had the gall to call this undeniably attractive but formidable woman “pretty.” Effective, clever, tough, principled, redoubtable—many adjectives would have sprung to Joe’s lips before “pretty.” But, by God, here she sat, turning a tender gaze on Sir James instead of a frosty set-down.
“And here you see, we have your boss, Lord Trenchard, and, on his right hand—for where else would you find him?—his Right Hand: Howgrave-Graham, whom you know.” Joe nodded with pleased recognition at the grey-suited Secretary of Scotland Yard. A civilian but much admired by the officers of the Met, he was known to be the trusty backstop for the Commissioner. “And Superintendent Cottingham, who issued the invitations.”
Ralph twitched his shoulders and grunted. Joe detected the signs of rising irritation in his normally equable colleague.
“And now for the non-police handout—the other chap armed with a notebook is my own private secretary Christopher Gledhill and, on his left—the man you really wanted to see—a minister in the Department of Education. A junior minister but word has it not junior for much longer: Aidan Anderson.”
Joe rose and reached over to shake the hands of the men he had not met before. As he murmured pleasantly, he cobbled together a swift inventory. This double quadrille seemed to him to consist of four specialists in their field (the head of the Met and the head of the women’s p
olice plus two politicians), balanced on the other side by four work horses: two secretaries and two coppers.
“And our convener, Sandilands,” Trenchard’s dry voice broke in, “who assumes that everyone knows him, I will introduce myself. With proper regard for procedure. And to spare you, Truelove, the embarrassment of blowing your own trumpet. You wouldn’t want that! Sir James, may I present to you: Joseph Sandilands, one of my assistant commissioners? Sandilands, I’d like you to meet Sir James Truelove, the Secretary of State for Reform.”
Everyone was uneasily conscious of the set-down, with the exception of Truelove himself, who genially extended a hand. Joe was expecting the token squeeze dished out by an elegantly manicured politician and was surprised by a vigorous shake from a square and rather rugged hand. Joe had encountered similar callouses before. On men who handled oar, ax or spade. Truelove! Joe’s consternation grew. The rising star of the government by all accounts; next prime minister but one, it was whispered by those who claimed to know these things.
Joe had seen photographs of him in the newspapers but would not have recognised him from their evidence. The black and white prints gave emphasis to the smooth, lofty forehead, the neatly barbered, brilliantined hair, the commanding nose and the cold intellectual stare that brought reassuringly to mind the face of the young Duke of Wellington. The pressmen’s flash bulbs turned him into a sleek assembly of planes in light and shade, from any angle a challenging face, a modern face. A face often photographed above a white tie and stiff collar, leaving the Savoy or the Ritz. But the flesh and blood reality in front of Joe this chilly morning was less the impeccably groomed hero of a Hollywood movie, more the backwoodsman. He was much younger looking than his forty odd years. His hair had received only cursory attention; the rough jacket and trousers were more suited to a grouse moor than the city. A man who’d dodged the attentions of his valet this morning, Joe thought with approval.
Not My Blood Page 5
