The Bee's Kiss(22)

A river police launch shot the bridge like a swimming rat, its three-man crew alert and looking out into the oily depths of the river, the sinister grappling iron projecting from the stern announcing their grim purpose. Joe shivered. The sun would rise too late to bring warmth to some poor, cold, hopeless bugger. He was faintly embarrassed that he’d been about to linger, fancifully trying to decide whether the misty grey scene would have been more effectively rendered by Monet or Whistler. Some other day, he decided. And he wasn’t quite in tune with Wordsworth this morning either.

He yawned. Another thing he must do was put through a call to Records before the meeting. He wanted to ask them to look out a file for him. The name on the file would be Sergeant W. Armitage. He wondered whether Sir Nevil’s question mark was the same as his own.





Chapter Six


‘Sir! I’ve been detailed to lend a hand this morning. Constable Sweetman. Attached to Vine Street.’

The eager young policeman in his impeccable uniform was, Joe judged, in his probationary year.

‘Good morning, Sweetman. You have your instructions from Inspector Cottingham?’

‘Yessir. He’ll be here in a moment. I think we’re both early, sir.’

‘You’re aware that I may require you to demonstrate your particular skill?’

‘That’s what I understand, sir.’ He grinned and added, ‘Won’t be the first time.’

‘Good. Then we just have to wait until my assistant, Sergeant Armitage, gets here.’ Joe checked his watch. He was five minutes early.

‘I think they’re just arriving, sir.’

Cottingham strode up looking disconcertingly dapper. Starched collar and bowler hat, spats and smart black cashmere overcoat, he’d dressed for a working day in the West End. Bill Armitage, on the other hand, to Joe’s satisfaction looked more blurred around the edges than he did himself, though the sergeant had obviously taken pains to make himself presentable. His light tweed suit topped off with a sample of the nob’s version of the proletarian flat cap favoured by the royal princes was giving out signals complex enough to hold the attention for a good five minutes. Joe thought his choice was perfectly in tune with the bright spring day and with the task in hand.

They greeted each other with slightly twisted smiles and wry pleasantries, agreeing to get on with the job at once. The four men set out to retrace Armitage’s tour of inspection the night before, circling the building until they reached the façade on the eastern side. They all looked up, eyes following the ledge below the mansard roof and focusing on the one window which had been boarded up. For a moment there was silence as they examined the challenging climb.

‘Fire escape as far as the third floor,’ said Joe, ‘but then it gets a bit tricky. It’s a fingers and toes job up the next floor and then there’s the ledge overhang to negotiate before he can inch his way along to the broken window. Not pleasant but it has to be done. Heaven knows what clues, what evidence he might have left behind. Well, you know . . . button, thread of fabric . . . identity card?’

‘Found a pair of false teeth at the scene once!’ said Cottingham jovially. ‘Clamped around a beef and horseradish sandwich, they were.’

Armitage handed his cap to young Sweetman and began to take off his jacket. His usual swagger was absent, Joe noticed, as he said, ‘Leave this to me, sir.’ He clenched and unclenched his large hands and the knuckles were white with tension as he scanned the façade.

‘Stand down, Sergeant,’ said Cottingham. ‘No need for that! Constable Sweetman is here for a purpose. Not just a pretty face – the lad has hidden talents, I’m told. Rock climber at weekends! You may divest yourself of your helmet and tunic before commencing, Roy, if you wish.’

The constable grinned and cast an assessing eye over the climb. ‘It’ll be a doddle, sir. Shall I start now? Is anyone going to time this?’

Cottingham took out a stop watch and moved off with his officer to the foot of the iron ladder of the fire escape. When they were out of earshot Joe said quietly, ‘Very bold of you in the circumstances, I think, Sergeant, to volunteer for a climb like that?’

He paused, waiting for a response. Armitage looked truculently at his feet.

‘The leg, Bill? Anything you want to tell me about the leg?’

Armitage’s face stiffened with resentment. ‘Following me down the street last night, was it, sir?’

Joe was unapologetic. ‘Yes. Couldn’t help noticing you were favouring your left leg . . . when you thought no one was looking. War wound, I take it?’