The Blood Royal(41)
‘On site? Not again,’ the inspector growled. ‘Here, there and everywhere. Why can’t the man just sit still and stick to signing forms like he’s supposed to?’
‘Think on, man. One of those forms passing across his desk just might have your dismissal details above his signature. We’re being kept up to the mark, Inspector. It’s the New Policing. It’s why they’ve put him there – to be the stick of ginger up our arse. Smile and accept. Hope for everybody’s sake he’s got it right. He’s out on a limb and looking to us to prop him up. Now get a bloody move on!’
Joe had stopped the car outside the neat lodging house in Little James Street. He turned to Lily. ‘Look, I think it might be politic to leave the inspection of the premises to Superintendent Hopkirk and his men. I’ve trampled on more than my quota of toes today and it’s not yet teatime. We’ll sit here on watch until they can get here. I’ve advised a silent approach, no bells or hooters. Are you aware of our Hopkirk, Miss Wentworth?’
‘I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on the superintendent, sir.’
‘Sound man … dependable. He’s a dour Yorkshireman and a teetotaller to boot. Doesn’t smoke either.’
‘I wonder what he does for pleasure, sir,’ Lily commented unguardedly.
‘Plays the trombone, I think. He’s risen as far and as fast as is possible from the ranks. A career copper. Destined for the top. He’d have thrived in Cromwell’s army. Or Napoleon’s. Alexander of Macedon would have promoted him to the General Staff. Good-looking chap, too, in his craggy way.’
‘He sounds quite charming, sir. But, sir … can you … will you make this piece of millstone grit understand that I must have a few words with Patrick Dunne’s mother before I leave?’
‘It’s not a consideration that would weigh heavily with Hopkirk, I fear, but I’ll have a go,’ Joe said. The girl was gaining the confidence to make demands of him. Not unreasonable ones, but he must never allow his men to suspect any undue influence. He sighed. A balancing act. Could he keep his feet on this tightrope?
‘At last! Good – they’ve parked a few yards down the road. Who’ve we got? It looks like Inspector Chappel and a couple of DCs and the superintendent himself. Let’s go and shake hands.’
Hopkirk was a good-looking chap certainly, Lily thought, and about the same age as his boss. Joe’s brief description had not prepared the constable for the thick brown hair that shrugged off any attempt to control it with Brilliantine, the vivid blue eyes that stabbed once and danced off, or the chiselled features, somewhat marred by a broken nose. If asked, Lily would have advised against the neat moustache which underlined and drew attention to it.
The two men fell at once into an easy and efficient exchange of information and confirmation of tactics. ‘Over to you, Hopkirk. I’ll await your findings back at the Yard. Oh … one other thing. Constable Wentworth – to whom we owe our discovery of the prisoner Dunne’s identity …’ Hopkirk acknowledged this with a nod, ‘tells me she is honour-bound to pass a message – entirely approved and authorized by me – to the man’s mother. Perhaps when you’ve finished you can grant them a moment or two alone?’
Lily frowned and Joe could guess the reason for her cross face. He’d rather landed her in the soup. Again. She could now look forward to delivering her message to a furious and grief-stricken woman whose house had just been turned upside down by this crew in an effort to find proof of her son’s involvement with terrorism and murder. Not a comfortable interview. The women on the force, he knew, were habitually delegated to carry out the unwelcome task of breaking bad news. ‘Females are good at that sort of thing … It’s why we have you along … Don’t worry – I’ll back you up …’ He’d heard it frequently from male officers. And the women, bless them, always performed the duty without complaint, largely, he guessed, because they knew the men wouldn’t come up to scratch. Men showed no facility for conveying sympathy to the suffering; their blunt, emotionless delivery in no way eased the shock and, if anything, provoked anger. It was the outstretched hands of the women, their soft voices and the pity in their eyes, that the bereaved responded to.
Hopkirk was looking at the policewoman thoughtfully. ‘Sir, would you mind? It’s just a suggestion … Why don’t we consider the advantages of sending Miss Wentworth in first? Woman to woman before the old lady’s heard the worst, so to speak. She might give something away which she wouldn’t otherwise. I have some experience of these Irish women, sir. Leathery as the sole of my shoe but they have their sentimental side if you can locate it before they hit the roof.’