A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) (8 page)

“Isn’t he concerned? And shouldn’t
we
be concerned? I’m supposing our remit embraces mental equilibrium as well as physical well-being.”

Armitage considered this. “I’d leave it,” he advised. “It’s a game they play. Wouldn’t do for you and it certainly wouldn’t do for me. I’d fetch her a wallop! She’ll be back.”

Joe picked up a silver-framed photograph from the dressing table. “This is her, the runaway, here with Kingstone?”

“That’s her. Taken in Switzerland last winter.”

Joe admired the small figure tucked like a teddy bear under the senator’s arm. Clear features in a pale rounded face were softened by an abundance of curling black hair and a furry hat. Dark eyes as round as buttons peered out with a gleam of mischief from the sheltering folds of tweed suiting. “An informal pose,” the society magazines would have sniffed but Joe was enchanted. The photographer and whoever held the snapshot in his hand
was involved in their careless gaiety and—yes—their undisguised affection.

“And our worldly, sophisticated statesman is truly in love with this ‘taking little thing’ you say?”

Armitage bridled at the question. “How would
I
know? You’re asking, so I’ll say—‘in love’ doesn’t come near. Obsessed? No, sounds too melodramatic and mad. This is something strong but it’s not uncomfortable … Magicked! That’s it! Poor bloke’s been magicked!” He dismissed his flight into fantasy with a shrug and a grin.

Joe groaned. “That’s all we needed! Look, Sarge, I can’t give you a direct order any more, so I’ll give you a bit of advice. Find the antidote for this love potion before worse occurs. Oh, and when you’ve found it—give me the recipe. You never know when it might come in handy.”

“Too late for some, I think, Captain.” His expression was hard to read.

“Seven years too late, Sarge? Perhaps that’s the answer—leave it to Time. Was that
your
antidote? Time? And distance?” He put the question carefully, conscious that this was his first reference to the tragedy he suspected lay behind the sergeant’s flight.

He needn’t have worried about being misunderstood. Armitage replied at once, “No. But—
La vengeance se mange très bien froide
. I’ve learned to appreciate cold dishes since I emigrated.”

So that was what had brought him back. Could it be so simple?

Revenge. The notion had crossed Joe’s mind but he’d questioned it. He’d told Bacchus that he, Joe, might expect a bullet in the head from the formidable sergeant but there was someone else, he knew, who was a much more deserving target for Armitage’s wrath. The woman responsible for making him flee the country with a capital charge of murder on his head. And a broken heart.

“Watch it, Bill! There’s a much older saying that I’ve learned to put great store by. Confucius. ‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge,’ the wise man advised, ‘dig
two
graves.’ ”

T
he telephone shrilled as Armitage was giving this his silent consideration. He stepped forward to lift the receiver. “Yes, he’s here … It’s for you, sir. Cottingham.”

Joe took the phone. “Ralph? Still here, yes. Message from the Yard? Yes, go ahead … Where? Dug up in Chelsea? A few yards from my own front door, you’re saying … I think I may have an alibi. Tell them to look elsewhere …

“What! Say that again … I see. And they say they want
you?
Must be important … but—no.”

He looked directly at Armitage, implying that he was speaking for his benefit also. “No. I’m countermanding that order. I want you to remain on duty here, overseeing things. The senator is well guarded—he has his own eminently capable guard dog at his side. I’ll deal with this other matter myself. Tell them I have it in hand and I’ll be at the Yard in ten minutes.”

“You’re walking out on us?” Armitage asked. “I have other duties. And a
dead
body perhaps should take precedence over one that is not likely to become so in the immediate future. Law enforcement before politicking, Armitage. I decided my priorities a long time ago. And I’m senior enough to be able to indulge myself. Something very puzzling and very sinister has come—all too literally—to the surface in the middle
of my patch and I’m going to cast an eye over it.” He took a step towards the door. “You know Cottingham, I think? Now Chief Superintendent Cottingham.”

Armitage nodded and confirmed: “Good bloke. We can work together. I’ll make your apologies to the senator. Don’t you worry about him—I’ve got his back.” A smile broke through, showing, Joe was sure, a gleam of envy, a reminder of the keen young detective Joe had known. “A body, eh? You’re still lead hound in this kennel, then?”

Joe knew for certain that the sergeant would have liked nothing better than to be running alongside, nose to the ground, following a trail.

T
HERE WAS AN
indignant detective inspector waiting to brief him in his office.

The man, to whom Joe was relieved he could give a name—Orford, that was it, Orford—was red-faced and breathing heavily. He was standing about, tense, and giving off a smell of river water and sweat. In his agitation, he ignored Joe’s invitation to take a seat. Calmly, Joe took the bowler hat from the twitching fingers and put it firmly on the hat stand. The command to sit down was accepted when Joe repeated it more forcefully. It was followed by a friendly request for an account of the inspector’s adventures on the riverbank.

Joe listened, fascinated, to his account of the discovery a short time ago. Inspector Orford knew a good deal about the case since, while in the area on police business, he’d been diverted from an early morning stakeout by the sound of police whistles and shouting. He’d been very quickly on the scene. Joe was invited to figure the inspector’s horror when he’d come upon seven members of the public digging up and making off with a corpse with the apparent collusion of two uniformed beat bobbies. A pair of strapping blokes in red neckerchiefs were helping the officers to load the body onto
a sling hurriedly fashioned from their police capes and carry it up to the Chelsea embankment.

“But the scene of crime!” the inspector revealed that he’d yelled. “You’ve pounded it to pieces! Nothing should be disturbed! You know the procedures!”

Joe had nodded, understanding that the man was carefully covering his back. “Quite a proper response,” he’d said encouragingly. “Do go on.”

A different view had prevailed when one of the bobbies had pointed to the river. The desperately struggling officer had informed the inspector in blunt terms that in three minutes time he’d have lost the scene of crime under six foot of water. He’d remarked that they were lucky they’d got the manpower on hand to get her out before worse occurred and muttered that he didn’t believe even a Met inspector had the power to command the Thames to retreat. Orford had lost no time in getting his Oxfords wet. He’d declared himself, in accordance with the latest practice: Scene of Crime Officer. As such, all decisions were his to take and not even the Commissioner, if he’d come strolling by, would have had the authority to say him nay. A bold move and the inspector’s subsequent instructions showed a calm and decisive mind, Joe concluded. He further concluded that the officer had assumed—and who should blame him?—that he would be given responsibility for the follow-up police work.

“So there you have it, sir,” Orford finished resentfully. “A corpse preserved in the nick of time, and waiting on the slab. The case taken out of my hands and handed over to a superior officer. Handed over, what’s more, at the suggestion of a member of the public.” His tone grew steely. “But a well-connected member of the public. Makes a difference. If that will be all, sir, I will surrender my notes to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things waiting for my attention.” He rose slightly in his seat, awaiting dismissal.

Joe had been impressed by the man’s speed of reaction, his workman-like methods, his sure-footed control throughout the whole difficult and unusual recovery of the body. He’d spotted with a flash of sympathy the tide line of oily Thames water reaching up over the knees of the inspector’s smart grey trousers, the soggy state of the black Oxfords on his feet. And, lastly, Joe had appreciated the man’s pluck in speaking up in a tone that bordered on mutiny to his Assistant Commissioner.

“No, that won’t be all, inspector. Remain seated, will you?” Joe said pleasantly. “This is your case. I’m handing it straight back to you.” He reached down and opened the murder bag he always kept to hand by his desk. “Look, I can’t offer much in the way of fresh trousering and clean shoes, but these might help.” He found and handed over a pair of black woollen socks. “Always keep a spare pair by me.”

Guardedly, the officer tugged off his shoes and squelching socks and pulled on the fresh pair. His face melted into an expression of bliss as he eased the soft fabric up to his knees. “Cor! That’s a good moment! Nothing like the feel of dry socks sliding up your shins. My old Ma used to send me a pair every month. I think you must have been in the trenches, too, sir?”

“Long enough to appreciate dry feet. As good for the spirits as a cease-fire.”

Joe picked up the shoes and, talking as he went, strolled over to park them on the sunny window sill where they sat, steaming gently. “You ought to know, Orford, that there are things going on in London even I have no knowledge of. The city’s full of important foreigners, some here with evil intent. There’s clearly something about this body that someone …” he stabbed a forefinger upwards at the ceiling, “wants kept quiet. If I were you, I’d be grateful that some other bugger with more gold frogging on his uniform has been shoved in to carry the can, which may well turn out to be full of worms.”

The inspector stared in surprise and sat back more easily in his chair.

“I’ll look into it. Think of me as advisor and can carrier, will you? Now fill me in on a few more details in the car. We’ll go straight there. Which hospital have they taken her to? St. Mary’s? St. Bartholomew’s?”

“Neither. She’s on the premises, so to speak. A few yards down the embankment in the police lab.” Orford paused, noted Joe’s raised eyebrow and answered his unspoken question. “Dunno, sir. It’s all a bit hush-hush. I’d guess somebody at the end of the line decided that until identity is established it might be more discreet to keep this one under wraps on our own premises. Even though conditions aren’t perfect.”

Joe nodded. “Hospitals being rather soft targets for the gentlemen of the press … easy of access and bribable informants behind every screen?”

“And this body being one as would be likely to get the flash bulbs popping and the headlines shrieking … Just wait till you’ve seen her, sir, you’ll start composing headlines yourself. I did!” Orford sighed. “The only reason the press hasn’t got wind of it is this group of witnesses knows how to keep their mouths shut. They’re not the sort who’d go blabbing. Members of some society or other … dowsers—that’s it. And the female in charge is a lady you’d not disobey if she told you to keep shtum. The Home Office has appointed a pathologist and he’s at it right now …” He put up a hand to ward off Joe’s objection. “No, no! Preliminary inspection only. He’s awaiting the arrival of the appointed case officer at the slab side before he gets down to any serious slicing. You don’t need to spell out the rules to a St. Bartholomew’s man.”

Joe grunted. “He probably wrote them. Name?”

“He’s one of the best. Dr. Rippon. Professor Sir Bernard Spilsbury’s department.” The inspector mentioned the name of the Home Office Pathologist in chief with reverence. “Sir
Bernard’s student, now his colleague.” The inspector grinned wickedly. “Our demanding witness claims an acquaintance with the good professor and insisted he be fetched to officiate in person. Unfortunately, the person of Sir Bernard was not available to us on this occasion. He’s taking a well-earned break in Cornwall at the moment so we were unable to oblige. They agreed to accept Dr. Rippon when I clobbered them with his credentials.”

“Ah yes—these so-helpful witnesses? You say you have a list?”

Joe looked at the sheet of paper Orford produced from his file and burst out laughing. “Colonel This, Professor That, the Honorable The Other … Good God, man! You’ve got the English establishment on your back! What a lineup! I shall enjoy hearing
them
perform. Shall we take a minute to arrange an audition with this Greek Chorus? Back here at the Yard? Where’ve you confined them? I’ll ask my secretary to summon them here.”

“Well, tell her to ring up the Savoy Grill. They’ve gone off there, the whole group, all squeezed into a taxi, to have an early lunch. Keeping themselves available, so to speak. I, er, judged the presence of so many assertive characters on the premises counterproductive, sir, and made the luncheon suggestion myself. Though I believe I recommended the nearest Joe Lyons Tea Room. Ask for Colonel Swinton—he’s footing the bill. I mean—playing host.”

“Right. I’ll tell my Miss Snow to fix up a meeting for, say, two o’clock. That suit you? It’ll give you and me a few minutes for a sandwich at the Red Lion in Scotland Court.”

“If we still have the stomach for corned beef and tomato ketchup after a two-hour autopsy, sir.”

Joe grinned. “I think I shall give the slice off the joint a miss for once. Get your shoes and hat, Orford. You’re Scene of Crime officer. It won’t do to keep Dr. Rippon standing about.”

The inspector shot to his feet, eager to be off. He seemed prepared to join in Joe’s malicious amusement. “Glad to have you aboard, sir!” he commented.

T
he rooms that passed for a police laboratory were a few yards downstream in a building of ornate layer-cake architecture matching the rest of Norman Shaw’s New Scotland Yard headquarters. Lined with filing cabinets and shelves of dusty bottles and cluttered with piles of decaying gear that seemed to have been around since Victorian times, the rooms always struck Joe as dim and dank. They lacked the sleek modernity of St. Mary’s or St. Bartholmew’s, where pathology was normally performed. No tiled walls here. No easily sluiced-down mosaic flooring. No Matron to insist on the level of cleanliness that the great hospitals had to offer.