“Hello there, Cyril! Still dishing it up for the Daily Dirt?”
“Joe? No! I’m contributing to the piles of Fortnightly Filth these days. I’m moving up in the world. Hear you are, too. Congratulations! Hadn’t realised an honest copper could make it so far up the slippery slopes of Mount Olympus. What have you got for me? I can spare a minute or two but be sharp about it—I’m up to my ears in Ascot outfits. Big weekend coming up.”
“I’m rather hoping you’ll have something for me. I find myself involved with one or two dubious characters presently strutting the London stage. You know me—I always perform better when I know the other players’ lines.”
Joe put his questions, listened to the answers and made notes. Finally he could detain Cyril no longer and, promising the usual exchange of information should things resolve themselves, as Cyril always delicately put it, he rang off. He sat on for a few minutes reviewing the case he was building until the unease of the records department staff filtered through his concern.
With a brittle smile, a lady clerk brought him yet another cup of tea and a sergeant asked him politely but pointedly if there was anything else they could possibly supply. They didn’t expect and didn’t welcome the sight of an Assistant Commissioner down here in their dingy but busy space, commandeering a desk and a telephone, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and setting to work. Especially this Assistant Commissioner. Sandilands was a new broom and they said he missed nothing. “Watch it! He’s going through the departments like a dose of liver salts. All fizz and pop and we’re told we’ll all feel better for it in the morning. But watch you don’t end up down the pan. You heard what he did to Flying Squad!” the sergeant had muttered to his fellow officer.
They were watching him out of the corners of their eyes as they sorted, stamped and filed, demonstrating a quiet efficiency. Acknowledging their discomfort, Joe got to his feet, gathered up his things and apologised for his intrusion.
The sergeant had expected peremptory formality. Disarmed by Joe’s smiling thanks for the staff’s assistance, he hurried to hand him his jacket and asked, with some relief: “Did you get what you were looking for, sir?” His interest sounded more than polite—it was a genuine enquiry and he was waiting for a reply.
He deserved one. Joe had not failed to notice the intelligent anticipation with which the officer had accepted the irregular tasks Joe had set him once the wider objective had been sketched out. One of the files he’d thought to hand to Joe had been outside the prescribed area and had turned up a vital piece of information. It would certainly have been missed had not the Assistant Commissioner been sitting, an anxious and demanding physical presence, amongst the troops.
Joe found himself answering with less than his usual reserve. “Oh, I got it, all right. It’s all here. Wrapped up neatly in closed and separate files. No reason for anyone to re-open them and connect them; the information I needed is spread across county boundaries and three decades. Trouble is, Sarge, instead of the one dead woman I was chasing after, I find I’ve got two on my hands. Now—I have to ask myself: do we leave these files closed, look the other way and let sleeping ladies lie?”
“Not you, sir. Not you.” The young man’s voice took on a tone of almost fatherly concern for his superior officer as he added, “You just finish your tea, sir, while I get these signed out and you can take them away with you. We’ll hang on to the flimsies. Oh, and good luck with the ladies, Commissioner.”
OF COURSE, WHAT you did was send at least an inspector, at best a superintendent, up to Cambridge to confront the Chief Constable. Having first cleared the delicate matter with the Commissioner himself.
Joe tried out a possible brief for his most senior and most trusted man, Ralph Cottingham: “Introduce yourself to the county force, Ralph, and tell them you’ve been sent to pick up and take over a case of theirs which is officially closed. A ‘death by misadventure’ three months back that no one has questioned. Until the Assistant Commissioner received an anonymous letter last week suggesting that closer scrutiny by a more alert force is required. While you’re at it, you’d like to rake up a twenty-five-year-old possible theft for which no complaint was ever made and, for good measure, a further and unassociated pre-war suicide. If they will be so good as to make the usual formal application for assistance, the Metropolitan Police will be pleased to offer their expertise in re-opening the cases.”
No. It wouldn’t do. It couldn’t be attempted by anyone but a complete idiot who was maniacally sure of his ground. Joe recognised himself and silently volunteered. He recognised also the impossibility of ever getting the Commissioner’s blessing in the matter. He wouldn’t even seek it.