“Quite a bit, Farman. Quite a bit! But first—that was rather well handled. You said just enough to satisfy their curiosity and managed to give nothing away. Now, I contacted London. There’s a further problem I’m afraid. They were full of information we’d rather not have on this Sandilands fellow. This self-styled uncle. Had you any idea?”
Farman shook his head. “I told you! Not a hint! Who the hell is he?”
“The last man you’d want poking about down here in the circs. He is what he claims to be—recently appointed Assistant Commissioner. Young. Quite a star. And well connected. You’d have to be to reach those heights by his age. Just the sort of military, ramrod-up-the-backside bloke Commissioner Trenchard would promote.” Gosling sighed. “And you know what the rank of Assistant Commissioner brings with it?” The young man eyed the older with weary scorn. “No, why would you? Well, this one’s C1. ‘C’ for ‘Central.’ He doesn’t concern himself with traffic offences and administration and bureaucracy like the others. His department has authority over the Detective Branch and usually over the Special Branch as well. As far as anyone’s ever allowed to cut any ice with the Branch.… Now, how do you fancy a pack of those smart alecks in knuckle-dusters sticking their patriotic noses in?”
He shot a grin devoid of humour at the headmaster. “Sorry! But, Farman, if this chap is who I think he is, he could have the whole school turned inside out and shaken all about before you could say knife.”
The headmaster cringed. “Can’t have that, Gosling. Can’t allow it.”
“You’ve brought it on yourself, Farman. Should have run a tighter ship. Not given Rapson so much rope.”
“That’s easy enough to say. And what do I do when this gets out? When the daily rags start clamouring for interviews?” He wiped his shining forehead again. “When the parents get wind of it and start withdrawing their sons? They will do, you know!”
“I’ll tell you what you don’t do. You don’t look to me for help. If the lid comes off there’s nothing I can do. I have my orders. The moment the sun shines on this can of worms I withdraw and leave you carrying it.”
“You’re maltreating your metaphors again, Gosling! Thank God I didn’t entrust you with Year Three English!”
“I only do it to annoy. Now—brace up and tell me where this joker’s sprung from, Farman.”
“I’ve searched the boy’s records, and there’s no mention of a Sandilands. Someone’s pulling a fast one. The only connection that occurs to me is—India. He mentioned it himself. Oh—and he bandied the word ‘diplomacy’ about in a menacing way. Reeks of—er—influence, I’d say.”
“Damn it! Look, whoever he is—we don’t want him anywhere near this. The whole thing is supposed to be kept under wraps. Fat chance of that with the Met and the Branch swarming all over it.” Gosling spoke firmly. “Get rid of him. Tell him that you’re happy with Martin’s coverage. The good old Sussex Constabulary can cope. Keep it local. Stress your total confidence in them. You’d be quite right to do that—Martin’s an impressive officer. Be polite but make sure of two things—one: that he’s left the boy behind and two: that he’s buggered off himself by the end of the day.”
He turned to leave, paused and grumbled over his shoulder: “Oh, and thanks a bundle for handing me charge of the Crazy Gang! Yes, a hideous thought, but—I have to say—good tactics, Farman. I think I shall have to make a friend of young Drummond. Offer a sympathetic ear for his confidences. Listen to his adventures in the Big Smoke.… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll fix on a suitably chastised expression and nip off to—where is it they have their awful rookery?—room 10, is it? I’ll take the roll call and dodge the ink gobbets. Oh, and, this copper, call me when he gets here, will you? I’d like to meet him.”
CHAPTER 5
Joe paused on his way out into the still dark street, hesitated, then came to a decision. Better safe than sorry. With the boy’s sudden appearance last evening, there had gusted into his home an unease as menacing as the snow-bearing wind. Joe had learned over the years to conceal these presentiments under a cover of bluff normality, but he never disregarded them. He picked up the two bottles of milk from the step, smiling to see that the frozen liquid had forced its way up through the cap and was sitting like a penny-lick of ice cream at the neck. He stepped back into the hall and tapped on the door to his landlord’s ground floor apartment.
Alfred Jenkins didn’t keep him waiting. His door was flung open, revealing a stocky, shirt-sleeved figure against a glare of bright electric light. A blast of air lightly scented with smoke and coffee gushed out, and Joe heard in the background the friendly domestic sound of electric trains rattling their way around a circuit.
“You’re a bit late this morning, sir? Oh, thanks for that. Just in time. Glad you got to it before the sparrers! I’ll chisel a bit off the top for my cuppa. Join me?” The china mug of coffee raised invitingly at him and the sight of the morning’s Daily Mirror spread out over the kitchen table very nearly lured Joe inside to spend a happy half hour with Alfred setting the world to rights.
“Morning, Alfred. Something of an emergency on, I’m afraid. I have to go out for an hour or so. Look—I’m leaving my sister up there and she has someone with her. It’s my nine-year-old nephew from India. Name’s Jack. He’s in a spot of bother. They won’t be leaving until I come back to pick them up and—I feel a bit over-dramatic saying this.…” Joe shuffled his feet but, encouraged by an alert and enquiring face, hurried on: “Could you keep an eye out.… My nephew may possibly find himself the subject of unwanted attention. No one should be allowed in to visit them.” He grinned. “Especially not our flat-footed chums. It’s quite possible that a contingent of the provincial Plod may come calling and try to pick him up while my back’s turned. You’ll have no trouble identifying them—they’ll be a pair of florid six-footers with a Sussex accent. Oh—one exception—there’s a delivery expected in the name of Mrs. Dunsford. A Mr. Partridge of the outfitting department is sending out some things from Derry and Tom’s but no one else should go up. Just tell anyone showing an interest that the flat’s empty, will you? Not that I’m expecting anyone will call.” His rambling speech was betraying his anxiety and he stopped himself.
“The lady’s safe with me. And the young gent,” Jenkins replied briefly. “I’ve cleared the pavement out front, but watch your step. It’s come down thick in the night and it’s frozen over. Nasty.”
IN HIS LONELIER moments Alfred Jenkins, retired Metropolitan Police Inspector, told himself that he lived a full and rewarding life. His wife Mavis had died just after the war, but she’d left him with a good son. And now that son had sons himself, and Alfred was blessed with their frequent company. Their ma was a hard-working woman and left the lads with him while she got on with her jobs. Early severance from the Force due to injury some twelve years ago had left him a promising officer with a police medal for gallantry but with ambitions unfulfilled and a minuscule pension. Jenkins’ optimistic nature scorned to dwell on the disappointments. He reckoned he was a lucky bloke. Thank God he’d inherited his old uncle’s house at a dark moment. A bit of a ruin and out here in mucky old Chelsea down by Lots Road power station. All the advice had been: “Get rid of it, Fred. It’ll be a millstone round your neck. Shift it quick.” But he’d seen the possibilities. Georgian building. Good structure. Spacious. Just a bit faded. He’d taken a chance and spent his severance pay on refurbishing the top floor and having electricity put in. And a lift. In the end, he’d been able to pin a notice on the board at the Yard offering superior modern accommodation to a single professional gentleman. He’d been delighted when Sandilands had turned up holding the notice in his hand. His price and terms had been agreed without a quibble.