‘Cor, blast! What do we make of that then? Makes us look bloody fools! Especially you, Kent. How long were you working on that pair with nothing to show for it but an earful of Irish screaming and two false names? Miss waltzes in here and she’s got name and whereabouts out of one of ’em in …’ he looked at his pocket watch with heavy emphasis, ‘eight minutes flat. And now they’ve gone trotting off to pay a call on Mum! Won’t be long before they’ve rolled up the other one as well.’
His shoulders began to shake with laughter and his men took their lead from him, outrage turning to puzzlement and finally hilarity.
‘Well, look at it this way, sarge,’ offered one, ‘at least we got it done in house, so to speak. The lass is one of us if you think about it. This is her home nick. And we didn’t give way and hand the buggers over to Special Branch – if that’s who they were – when they came calling. We held the line. I reckon we can chalk this one up to the station.’
‘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.’