The Blood Royal (16 page)

‘Right, Smithson. That’s how we’ll tell it, if anyone asks.’

‘Still – that’s a clever operator, sarge. Had you any idea?’

The sergeant looked thoughtful for a moment and said carefully: ‘Why is it everybody always coos over the monkey’s antics? When it’s the sodding organ-grinder they ought to be keeping their eye on?’

Chapter Twelve

The sodding organ-grinder sat thoughtfully at his desk, checked his wristwatch then rang for his secretary.

‘One letter, Jameson, before I dash off again. Got your pencil? Internal – and address it to the Commissioner himself, would you? His eyes only or whatever formula you use. Head it … Vine Street Police Station. Dear Commissioner, I visited today in pursuit of the Dedham case. My experiences there threw up some unsettling observations on the management of the station. I would welcome the opportunity to discuss these face to face as soon as possible.’

When she had left to type up his note he picked up the telephone. ‘Pass me Superintendent Hopkirk, will you?’

Superintendent Hopkirk raced into the inspectors’ room and peered through the cloud of tobacco smoke. ‘Chappel! Put that blasted pipe out. Bloody hell! What a puther. I’ve breathed fresher air downwind of Grimethorpe Coking Works. Get your team together, fast. We’ve got the buggers!’

‘Vine Street come up with the goods then?’ Inspector Chappel asked in some surprise. ‘They took their time. We were all betting this pair would take their secrets to the gallows with them. You know what they’re like for the rule of silence, these Micks. Worse than the Eyeties. Should have thrown them to the Special boys to have a gnaw at.’

‘There’s a bit of a turf war going on that’s no business of ours, Inspector. Suffice it to say that the powers that be are of the conviction that there’s more than an element of
civil
interest in this affair.’ He paused to allow this to sink in and, having received the hard stares and splutters of disbelief he was expecting, went on: ‘Oh, yes, civil interest.’

The inspector took up the challenge. ‘I think I may be missing something here, sir. We’ve got the chief critic of Sinn Fein done to death by – guess who – two Irishmen still clutching hot guns. Most ordinary folk would be happy to draw the obvious conclusion and hand the whole can o’ worms over to an outfit better equipped to deal with an outbreak of politically motivated shootings. But not our boss. Oh, no. CID can have this one, he says. Am I getting this right, or what?’

‘To a point. What you seem to have missed, Inspector, is that the hush-hush boys we’re all so fond of aren’t technically military. Nor are they MI1b, MI1c or any of the rest of the alphabet. They report ultimately to his nibs – to
our
his nibs. Sandilands trumps their director. Whoever
he
may be. But let’s not forget that Sandilands isn’t the ultimate authority in the Met. And he’s saying what quite a few of the upper echelons want to hear. He’s sketching out a scenario that pleases the government more than a full-blown military situation. Nobody’s of a mind to sound the trumpet and slip the leash on those dogs at the Branch. It would be admitting CID can’t handle it – that the bloody Irish terrorists have opened up a front on the streets of London. That the capi-tal’s on a war footing.’ His audience winced and groaned. ‘But cheer up, lads. We seem to have won the latest round. Or at least Sandilands does. He was on the blower just a minute ago to say he wants to see us down the East End.’ He waved a piece of paper. ‘At this address. Little James Street. Anybody know it? Righto then, get your skates on – he’s going to be there waiting for us. Pawing the ground and breathing flames as usual no doubt.’

‘On site? Not again,’ the inspector growled. ‘Here, there and everywhere. Why can’t the man just sit still and stick to signing forms like he’s supposed to?’

‘Think on, man. One of those forms passing across his desk just might have your dismissal details above his signature. We’re being kept up to the mark, Inspector. It’s the New Policing. It’s why they’ve put him there – to be the stick of ginger up our arse. Smile and accept. Hope for everybody’s sake he’s got it right. He’s out on a limb and looking to us to prop him up. Now get a bloody move on!’

Joe had stopped the car outside the neat lodging house in Little James Street. He turned to Lily. ‘Look, I think it might be politic to leave the inspection of the premises to Superintendent Hopkirk and his men. I’ve trampled on more than my quota of toes today and it’s not yet teatime. We’ll sit here on watch until they can get here. I’ve advised a silent approach, no bells or hooters. Are you aware of our Hopkirk, Miss Wentworth?’

‘I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on the superintendent, sir.’

‘Sound man … dependable. He’s a dour Yorkshireman and a teetotaller to boot. Doesn’t smoke either.’

‘I wonder what he does for pleasure, sir,’ Lily commented unguardedly.

‘Plays the trombone, I think. He’s risen as far and as fast as is possible from the ranks. A career copper. Destined for the top. He’d have thrived in Cromwell’s army. Or Napoleon’s. Alexander of Macedon would have promoted him to the General Staff. Good-looking chap, too, in his craggy way.’

‘He sounds quite charming, sir. But, sir … can you … will you make this piece of millstone grit understand that I must have a few words with Patrick Dunne’s mother before I leave?’

‘It’s not a consideration that would weigh heavily with Hopkirk, I fear, but I’ll have a go,’ Joe said. The girl was gaining the confidence to make demands of him. Not unreasonable ones, but he must never allow his men to suspect any undue influence. He sighed. A balancing act. Could he keep his feet on this tightrope?

‘At last! Good – they’ve parked a few yards down the road. Who’ve we got? It looks like Inspector Chappel and a couple of DCs and the superintendent himself. Let’s go and shake hands.’

Hopkirk was a good-looking chap certainly, Lily thought, and about the same age as his boss. Joe’s brief description had not prepared the constable for the thick brown hair that shrugged off any attempt to control it with Brilliantine, the vivid blue eyes that stabbed once and danced off, or the chiselled features, somewhat marred by a broken nose. If asked, Lily would have advised against the neat moustache which underlined and drew attention to it.

The two men fell at once into an easy and efficient exchange of information and confirmation of tactics. ‘Over to you, Hopkirk. I’ll await your findings back at the Yard. Oh … one other thing. Constable Wentworth – to whom we owe our discovery of the prisoner Dunne’s identity …’ Hopkirk acknowledged this with a nod, ‘tells me she is honour-bound to pass a message – entirely approved and authorized by me – to the man’s mother. Perhaps when you’ve finished you can grant them a moment or two alone?’

Lily frowned and Joe could guess the reason for her cross face. He’d rather landed her in the soup. Again. She could now look forward to delivering her message to a furious and grief-stricken woman whose house had just been turned upside down by this crew in an effort to find proof of her son’s involvement with terrorism and murder. Not a comfortable interview. The women on the force, he knew, were habitually delegated to carry out the unwelcome task of breaking bad news. ‘Females are good at that sort of thing … It’s why we have you along … Don’t worry – I’ll back you up …’ He’d heard it frequently from male officers. And the women, bless them, always performed the duty without complaint, largely, he guessed, because they knew the men wouldn’t come up to scratch. Men showed no facility for conveying sympathy to the suffering; their blunt, emotionless delivery in no way eased the shock and, if anything, provoked anger. It was the outstretched hands of the women, their soft voices and the pity in their eyes, that the bereaved responded to.

Hopkirk was looking at the policewoman thoughtfully. ‘Sir, would you mind? It’s just a suggestion … Why don’t we consider the advantages of sending Miss Wentworth in first? Woman to woman before the old lady’s heard the worst, so to speak. She might give something away which she wouldn’t otherwise. I have some experience of these Irish women, sir. Leathery as the sole of my shoe but they have their sentimental side if you can locate it before they hit the roof.’

‘Excellent notion, Hopkirk. Wentworth – would you be willing to do that? Break the news? Deliver your message? Work your magic again?’

She looked from one to the other, not troubling to hide her scorn for their readiness to exploit a female. ‘You want me to break the ground for the superintendent, sir? I’ll do what I can to ease his path,’ she said with quiet sarcasm.

Hopkirk turned a blazing blue gaze on her and seared her eyeballs for two seconds.

It was Joe who flinched.

The men waited in some discomfort, wincing with each piercing scream of pain and rage that came from the open window of the sitting room. A silence followed, and then they made out an intermittent sobbing. Wentworth’s voice was not audible but her questions and comments were interleaved by Mrs Dunne’s replies. Vehement, pleading, truculent, and, at the last, despairing, she ran the gamut of noisy emotion.

Lily emerged a quarter of an hour later, pale and shaking. She walked up to the two men and, straight backed, delivered her statement. ‘Mrs Dunne is English; her husband, now dead, was Irish. She confirms her son’s identity and says she suspected his involvement with a political cause. He is no fire-eating republican – he has a gentle nature – and she insists, as the boy himself indicated, that he must have been led along this path by others. She referred to his best friend, whom she seems to despise, as Ronald O’Connor and gave me his address.’ Lily passed a sheet from her notebook to Hopkirk. ‘There’s a tin trunk under Patrick’s bed where you might find further indications concerning the identity of those who were running him. She knows he kept his copies of the official organ of the Irish Volunteers in there.’ Lily looked up at Hopkirk. ‘I assured her that the forces of law and order would tread lightly in view of her cooperation and not wreck her home.’

Hopkirk shook his head and then said stiffly: ‘Then you exceeded your brief, constable.’ He turned away from her to hide his flash of anger. Catching the force of Sandilands’ dour expression, he added grudgingly: ‘I’ll have a word with the men.’ He called Chappel and the DCs. ‘In we go, and we’re bidden to “tread lightly”. Hear that? No rough stuff, and anything you pick up to examine, you put back in its place. Got it, lads? Pretend it’s your granny’s house you’re turning over.’

‘Well done, Wentworth,’ Joe said, watching the superintendent bang on the front door. ‘I think we can leave them to it. Now – what about a cup of tea somewhere? I’ll ask the driver to drop us at the nearest Joe Lyons, shall I? Or would you prefer the Ritz? I think we have a small triumph to celebrate.’

‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to go straight back to the Yard.’

*    *    *

Lily maintained a stiff silence in the car on the way back, fidgeting with something in her pocket. She plodded up the stairs after him, heard him sing out his arrival into Miss Jameson’s office and followed him into his room.

She waited in the at ease position before his desk and watched as he pounced on a large envelope placed centrally and held down by a jade paperweight.
Urgent!
said a handwritten note attached.

‘Will you excuse me for a moment?’ Joe asked, hardly aware of her presence, his face suddenly strained. He took out a sheet of typed writing paper with a very flamboyant heading and read. He read it again.

He looked at Lily. ‘Won’t you sit down? You’ll excuse me if I do. Rather weakening news at the end of a long and tiring day. As this affects you, I’ll summarize the rather surprising contents. It’s from the Home Secretary. He refuses to accept my resignation, which he considers precipitate and unjustified. Ah! Tomorrow’s papers, he assures me, will sport letters to the editors from various highly placed gents, among them a field marshal, the First Sea Lord, members of Parliament and ministers for Ireland, making it clear that they take personal responsibility for requesting the withdrawal of police protection. No blame can possibly attach to any public servant.’ Joe gave her an evil grin and added: ‘I should guess he includes himself in that category. We’re in the clear, Wentworth. Blue Train to the Riviera postponed. You’ll have to put off seeing those palm trees for a bit longer.’

His rush of boyish good humour provoked an answering smile. ‘I’m glad justice has been done, sir,’ she said. ‘Any other outcome would have been a hideous shame. And I congratulate you on having such powerful allies. From what I’ve seen of the task you have ahead of you, you’re going to need them all. I wish you luck with it.’

Joe detected a farewell-and-thanks-for-the-ride flavour to her speech. ‘What’s this? I don’t much care for your tone, Wentworth. What are you trying to say?’

‘Earlier in the day I offered you my resignation from the force. I meant it then and the day I’ve just been through has served to reinforce my decision. I don’t care to go to war, sir. I’ve had enough of bullets and bandages, male mischief-making and female grief. I’m leaving and here’s my letter of resignation.’ She produced it from her pocket.

He was irritated. ‘Don’t be rash. What on earth will a bright girl like you do in the world? Do you have other employment in mind? Jobs are scarce, you know. Ah! Hopkirk scared you off, has he? I ought to tell you – he scares everyone.’