The Bee's Kiss(56)
‘Very well then – client,’ said Joe sharply. ‘How about that? Is that the term a gigolo would use?’
He was pleased to see a flush of anger begin to light up the controlled features.
‘We will of course check on the facts you have given us this morning, Mr Donovan. And perhaps, before leaving, you would allow the constable to take a sample of your fingerprints.’
‘For purposes of elimination, naturally,’ said Donovan.
‘Naturally.’
As he reached the door, Joe spoke again. ‘Donovan? . . . Irish, I believe? Which part of Ireland do you hail from, I wonder?’
‘County Antrim.’
‘Ah? As did Sir Roger Casement? The county would seem to produce its share of . . . handsome men.’
Joe seemed to have at last got under the man’s skin. He turned from the door and spoke quietly, his lilting accent now unrestrained: ‘You’ll be referring to the notorious traitor, Casement? Executed by the British? Yes, I understand him to have been born in Antrim. Now tell me – was not William Wallace born a Scot and Guy Fawkes an Englishman – like your honours? We all have to share our native soil with rogues and villains and misunderstood heroes, don’t we now? Well, gentlemen, if there is nothing further I can do for you, I will return to my duties.’
‘You let him go off? Just like that?’ Cottingham was squeaking with distress. Realizing he was on the point of insubordination he collected himself and hurried on, ‘Sir, was that wise? Weren’t there many more questions we had to put to the bastard?’
‘Hundreds,’ Joe replied calmly. ‘But until I’ve done a bit more research into the character and career of Mr Donovan I’m going to let him run loose. Look, Ralph, when you’ve finished at the Ritz, make a few enquiries at the Admiralty, will you? Check this bloke’s record with the navy. We’ll need to know what rank he reached and why he left . . . how did his path cross that of the Dame . . . what were his specialities . . . you know the sort of thing. I’ll give you a number to ring and the name of a contact.’
‘Won’t be necessary, sir. I have my own.’
Joe smiled grimly. ‘The next time I see Mr Donovan, we’re going to be armed with incontrovertible evidence of his villainy and we’ll be booking him into a room! In Pentonville!’
Joe was still working his way through the reports in his office when the telephone rang.
‘Commander Sandilands? Glad to catch you at your desk for once!’ said Sir Nevil. Without preamble and without his usual bonhomie, he hurried on: ‘Now then, our Wren at the Ritz. Decisions to be made, conclusions to be arrived at. Look, why don’t you pop along to my rooms, shall we say in five minutes? Join me in a cup of coffee.’ There was the slightest of pauses. Was he conferring with someone? Receiving an order? ‘Oh, and it might be helpful if you brought your files on the case with you. Your complete files, Commander.’ Another pause and then, decisively, ‘I’m saying – clear the case off your desk. If you have any officers out in the field on duties related to the enquiry, then call them in at once.’
Joe guessed from the unnatural and strained phrasing that Sir Nevil was not alone in his office. The abrupt use of his rank and surname at the outset was signal enough to Joe that the conversation was being overheard. He would pick up the hint and reply in kind: formally and loudly. He managed to keep his voice level as he replied. ‘Of course, Sir Nevil. I’ll be right along. Oh, look – could we make that in fifteen minutes? I’m in the middle of a briefing here – a briefing which I shall now have to turn around.’
He put the phone down, grim-faced. Joe knew how to interpret this summons. He was being instructed to bury Dame Beatrice.
For a moment the soldier’s automatic reaction to a command had kicked in. His shoulders had squared on hearing the General’s clipped voice and he could have done nothing other than respond as he had. ‘Yessir. Yessir. Three bags full, sir!’ was still the formula. But instinct was warring with training. He’d played for time simply to give himself a chance to think. Dizzily, he stood at his desk gripping the smooth rolled edge but staring into a void before him.
He got his bearings.
He grabbed his briefcase and set it open on the desk. He reckoned he had ten minutes. Swiftly he cast a calculating eye over the Beatrice files and made his selection. Into the case went Cottingham’s scrawled interview notes on Donovan, the Dame’s diary and Westhorpe’s handwritten inventory. He carefully detached the paper-clipped flimsy copies of Cottingham’s typed-up reports, blessing the man for his thoroughness. He emptied the pile of photographs of the corpse and the murder room and selected two for his personal collection. Looking critically at what was left of the evidence files, he thought they looked substantial enough – an impressive coverage for the thirty-five hours that had elapsed since the murder. On a fresh sheet of foolscap he wrote out a quick summary of the depleted contents. He took the trouble to change pens halfway through and squeeze in a supposed omission in pencil. Deciding it looked convincing, he pinned it at the top. He packed the files back into the two cardboard folders in which Cottingham had carried them.