Enter Pale Death(7)
“You seize him by the ears and demand marriage, evidently,” Joe said. “Sorry, Lily! It irritates you, I know, but I can’t help fretting about your safety. And that reminds me … Look here.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk and took out a small, neat handgun. “Just in case you come across any excitable blokes this weekend. It’s your old Beretta. Licenses all up to date and in order, but I wouldn’t want things to get to the point where someone had to check.”
“Nor would I. I’ll take it in the spirit in which it’s offered,” Lily said, unbuckling her satchel. “Spare ammo with that? Thanks. I’ll get some practice done before we kick off. Just the weight of it in there is reassuring. Let’s hope they don’t spring awake and think of frisking me as I try to make my way out of here. I’m sure I won’t need to use it. The setup you describe doesn’t bring to mind either of the two things that have me reaching for my gun: villainy or politics.” She pursed her lips and frowned. “Now, the best suite at the Castlemaine … that’ll have a luxurious bathroom attached, two double beds, a sitting room, possibly a study … room enough for an orgy, in fact, if he were so minded. No, it’s pretty clear your subject’s looking forward to a weekend of steaming romance. Perhaps with someone as shy of being recognised as he is himself. Now—which heartthrob can we think of who’s in London at the moment? Lolita Benevente? Marlene Dietrich? Ivor Novello?”
And, with the gurgle of amused irreverence that had always lifted his heart, “Perhaps if Noël Coward’s in town too, we’ll find we’ve uncovered an after-the-show get-together of the Naughty Set? A spot of sinning in St. James’s? I’m going to enjoy this one, Joe!”
CHAPTER 2
Ten minutes after Lily left, the reception officer was greeted by a gentleman requiring an immediate audience with the Assistant Commissioner. The officer, unimpressed by the urgency of the man’s manner, checked and rechecked his duty log.
“May I ask if you have an appointment, sir? Assistant Commissioner Sandilands appears to have no further appointments scheduled for this morning.”
“No, I haven’t, but if he’s in the building, he’ll see me,” the gent told him confidently and passed his card over.
Sir James Truelove, it announced, giving a home address in Suffolk and a town address in Albany, Piccadilly.
The desk officer was an inspector working light duties while recovering from an injury. He was experienced and aware enough to fill in other details for himself. Truelove. Minister for Reform and Education. Generally expected, in the course of his ascent to the highest office in the land, to become the next Home Secretary with overall responsibility for the Forces of Law and Order. Police, Special Branch, Secret Services, the keys to the Tower of London, all in his hands. Sandilands’ future boss? His own future boss? The inspector’s voice took on a more respectful tone.
“I’ll let Commissioner Sandilands know you’re here, sir.” He picked up the telephone and kept an impassive face as Sandilands barked back at him.
“You’ve got who down there? Truelove? Hell’s bells! No … no … quite right, Hawkins. Bad timing, though—I’ve got a meeting with Flying Squad in ten minutes. Darned nuisance, but you’ll have to show him up, I’m afraid. Yes, yes. Right away. Just make time for me to order up a couple of mugs of tea and straighten my tie.” A throaty Scottish expletive accompanied the slamming down of the receiver.
“The assistant commissioner will be delighted to see you directly, sir,” the inspector said with unctuous formality as he signalled for an escort. “But first, your briefcase. Would you mind passing it over, sir? And the keys? A necessary nuisance, but it shouldn’t take long. Charming weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say? June can be so uncertain …”
“ALWAYS A PLEASURE to see you, Sandilands,” the minister murmured, shaking Joe’s hand. Again, Joe was taken aback by the workaday roughness of the hand, which seemed at odds with the suave appearance of the rest of the man. “We don’t meet often enough. Both busy men, of course, but we must make time. I’m back in London for the next four weeks and insist you meet me for lunch at my club.”
A constable appeared with a tray while the two men were still on their feet exchanging pleasantries. “Ah! Thank you, Smithson,” Joe said. “That’ll be all. I hope you can drink Assam, sir?”
The minister grabbed a mug, helped himself to two lumps of sugar, stirred, sipped, exhaled with pleasure and sipped again. “Nothing like a pot of Typhoo at this time of the morning!” Grasping his tea with the casual assurance of a stonemason, the spoon tucked away behind his thumb, he strolled over to the window and looked out, admiring the view as Lily had done an hour earlier.