Not My Blood (15 page)

“No such thing as a good war, Martin!”

“You were clearly in the war, and you survived,” Martin commented drily. “As good as it gets, wouldn’t you say?”

Joe nodded. “Yourself?” he ventured. To talk about the war and one’s part in it was bad form, but he sensed that Detective Inspector Martin was set on discovering or revealing information—or perhaps prejudices—that had to be taken out of the way. He would have guessed that the Sussex man was about his own age—late thirties, early forties at a stretch. Certainly a young age to have reached his current position in a county force where promotion tended to go by years of service and not on ability or social contacts. A bright man, Joe guessed, but one with a chip on his shoulder most probably, when faced with a rising star in the Metropolitan force. The barely concealed resentment betrayed by the war comment indicated as much. For years, Joe had dealt with the suspicion and criticism that came his way at each promotion, bad feeling largely spilling over from the continuous appointments of retired military grandees to the all-powerful position of commissioner: Field Marshal Lord This. General Sir That. Marshal Viscount The Other. Aristocratic old warriors, sent in to bat at the end of the day, to play out the over as twilight fell. The Nightwatchmen.

With a quiet show of spirit and acuity, the Nightwatchmen, one after another, had calmly seen what was required, had listened to good advice and implemented improvements before hanging up their bats. Each had valued and rewarded the input of an officer like Sandilands. “Clever man. Effective. A patriot (something of a war hero) but watch it—he has his bolshy side,” seemed to be the opinion passed from commissioner to commissioner.

“Oh, nothing so glamorous as yourself, I’m sure, sir.”

Joe waited, one eyebrow raised.

“PC Plod before the war. Joined up when war was declared. Recruited in Brighton.”

“One of Lowther’s Lambs?”

“That’s right. Royal Sussex Regiment. Eleventh Battalion.”

“Lucky to have survived. Not many of the Lambs did.”

“Call it luck if you like!” Martin snorted. “We were in that life-wasting diversionary show before the Somme. Richebourg.”

“Ouch!” Joe flinched at the name of the bloody encounter.

“I was wounded and sent home. So—I missed Passchendaele. Yes, you could say I was lucky.”

“And you recovered sufficiently to step back into your old job.” Joe hoped he was feeding Martin the right lines.

“Well, they were desperate. With all good, fit men out at the war, they’d take anything in those days. I worked hard. Jumped into dead men’s shoes and kicked about a bit. Drew a veil over certain injuries. Fought my way up through the ranks.”

“I expect that, compared with a confrontation with the Sussex promotions board, Richebourg was a doddle?”

Martin gave him a sharp look. “It’s been slow and hard going.”

“But it won’t always be the same, Martin. Lessons have been learned. Wild angry voices have been heard and listened to. One of them mine. No comfort to you at this stage of your career but the police college at Hendon, so long talked of, will open next year. The very best, the sharpest and most dedicated, whatever their backgrounds, will be recruited. We’re moving forwards.
You
may not profit from that but your son, if you have a son, could well—”

“I have three daughters and a son. He’s called Edmund, like me. No police force for him, Hendon or otherwise. No. All he can think about is aeroplanes. Daft ’apeth wants to be a fighter pilot!” The moustache twitched, signalling a smile, and the solid face dissolved into indulgent affection.

Joe’s objection was heartfelt: “Martin, you must speak to him firmly. Dissuade him at all costs! I’ve never met a flyer yet who was
compos mentis
.”

“I’ll tell him, sir. But you know what they’re like. Have you got a lad yourself then?”

“Sadly no,” Joe said. “Not married. Unless we count young Jackie, your escaper. I’ve been officially assigned care and control until his mother gets here from India. Not quite sure what’s expected of me, but I think I ought to start by ensuring you’re not planning to put him in manacles or on a treadmill or whatever medieval retribution you still exact down here in the sticks.” He smiled while he said it.

“Oh, we’ve been making progress, sir. Thumbscrews rusting away in the town museum. I think I can say the worst he has to undergo is having his fingerprints taken. Just to confirm the little smudges found on the bannister alongside Rapson’s are his. We took samples from a book by the lad’s bed but, just to be sure. Now, where would you like to start? I can offer you a view of the body. It’s still in the morgue.”

Joe silently reminded himself that he was appearing as a concerned uncle. Martin was making it all too easy to fall straight into a professional pattern of behaviour. “What about that tour of the premises you promised? The Rapson Ramble?” he said lightly. “Anything to get out of here! How can you stand it, man? What’s that awful stink?”

His expression as he looked around the room gave the lie to his tone of distaste. Dust-laden, cramped, a deliberately insulting choice of working place it might be, but Joe was responding to it with a schoolboy eagerness that had not gone unnoticed by the sharp Inspector. It was a base in a hostile environment, police territory, a bivouac. He noted with approval the shining new telephone freshly installed on a table by the door, notebook and pencil lined up beside it, list of numbers taped onto the wall
behind. He took in the row of cardboard boxes along one wall, each one labeled with a painted clue to its contents:
Victim, Staff, Boys, General Evidence
. The blackboard and easel commandeered from a classroom and bearing a hastily chalked message:
Find the bloody weapon!

“The stink? That could be my rough shag, sir.” Martin picked up a pipe from the windowsill and blew down it thoughtfully. “Or it could be a mélange of rotting leather, cat-gut and sweaty socks that’s built up over the years.
Cuir de Russie
it’s not, but you’ll get used to it.”

“Will I, though?” Joe asked with a grin. “Not if old Farman has anything to do with it! The moment I swallow my last mouthful of rice pudding, he’ll hand me my car keys.”

“In that case, better get on, sir. Oh, before we set off I’ll just try to get through to HQ in Brighton again. I want to fix up the sniffer dogs. They’ve got a good pair down there, and we’re going to need them if we’re to find the knife before the melt.”

Joe waited until he replaced the receiver.

“You got that?” Martin asked. “No joy! Damned dogs are out already on a job. Missing child down in Combe Haven. Blacksmith’s son wandered off from home last night. I suppose that takes precedence over a missing murder weapon.”

“Ah, yes, the weapon,” Joe said. “I hear from an overtalkative member of staff that you know who and how. An itinerant knife-grinder seems to be in the frame?”

“Well you heard wrong! He hasn’t been arrested. He’s a man of no fixed abode. The moment the cell door opens he’s off like a shot, and we’ll never find him again, so he’s in custody pending divulgence of information.”

“Helping you with your enquires?”

“Right. That’s the idea at any rate. Except he’s not being very helpful. Old Rory could have done it, but I’ll lay odds he didn’t. His contribution to the crime seems to be a peripheral one. He
it was who’d just freshly sharpened the knife before a person unknown sank it between Rapson’s ribs. Inconveniently, he’s come over all shy in police custody and won’t utter a word. He’s not a gypsy—as far as he doesn’t live in a gypsy community—but he swears he doesn’t talk English, only Romany when he’s in a fix. May be true. I doubt it. He’s just waiting for us to get fed up with him and turn him loose.”

“Can’t you call his bluff—get a local Romany to translate for you?”

Martin put back his head and hooted. “Now I know you’re from the Met! A Romany help the police? They don’t recognise Old Rory as one of theirs, but they’d never shop him to us. We come last on their list of personae gratae … somewhere after Old Nick and Judas Iscariot.”

Joe smiled. “In the matter of Old Rory’s reticence—I think I may just be able to help you. But tell me—if you haven’t got the weapon to hand, how on earth do you know it was one of Rory’s specials?”

“Cutting edge of forensic science, you could say if you didn’t mind a pun, sir. Our Brighton boffins are rather good. The medic who did the PM on the body found some interesting traces around the wound entry point. They can work out how long and how wide the blade is from the profile, but they can also make some interesting deductions from the residue that piles up in front of the mouth of the gash. Too small to see with the naked eye, but they’ve put it under the microscope. Grinding powder. They’ve analysed it. Corresponds exactly to the gunk Rory smears all over the blades before he applies them to his grinding wheel.”

“So this one went straight from the wheel to the heart without passing through a steak or a cabbage?”

“Exactly. And we know what we’re looking for. All the school’s kitchen knives were sharpened the day before. Happens every six
months when Rory turns up. Does a good job, they say. One missing. Six-inch-blade, chef’s knife. Could have been picked up by anyone working in the kitchen or passing by out of hours. It’s out of bounds, of course. But it’s never locked.”

“W
ell, here we are, Miss Joliffe. It’s not grand, but it suits me well enough.” There was an edge of challenge in the voice as Miss Harriet Hughes, matron of St. Magnus School, ushered Dorcas and Jackie into her room.

Mindful of the head’s briefing, Matron ran an eye over the odd pair. Drummond appeared to be smartly turned out. Fresh clothes, straight parting, handkerchief in pocket. She observed no sign of distress caused by his recent experiences but didn’t wonder at it. It would take a blast from Big Bertha to shake the confidence of some of these privileged little persons. He was just a boy who’d put himself by his arrogance into the wrong place at an inconvenient time. And who had heaped further inconvenience on them by running away for protection to—what had the head said?—“a well-connected uncle with a vast potential for trouble-making.”

Matron had not been impressed by this. She’d crisply reminded Farman that almost all the boys in his school could claim such a relative—they weren’t running an orphanage in Wapping, after all. If you gathered together all the fathers and uncles of the current intake they could probably run an empire, she’d suggested. “Several empires, Matron,” Farman had corrected. “That’s exactly what they do. It keeps them busy and out of our hair. They entrust
us with their offspring and expect to be relieved of all further paternal involvement. No—this uncle is a concern to us for the second of the qualities I mentioned: trouble-making. The man’s a
policeman
. Not one of our kind—old buffers shot in at a high level like Sir Renfrew or Lord Buntingforde to head a county force. Men who speak our language, share our patriotic values. I’ve made enquiries. This one’s risen through the ranks, you might say, on account of his record. Well-connected, as I say, but a professional bobby. Worst of both worlds.”

“Only if you have something to hide, sir,” Matron had said, deliberately to annoy.

She rather wondered why Farman thought he was about to be put under the spotlight. Pompous prat! What misdemeanour did he have on his conscience? Had he been dipping into the school roof fund? To spend on what? Matron reviewed the head’s known indulgences. Sweet sherry and first editions of Dickens novels. And his extracurricular activities? An occasional visit, on Wednesdays, to the Odeon in town probably, by himself, to see whatever flick they were projecting. Yet there was no denying that the appearance of this Scotland Yard man was making Farman twitch.

But it was the detective’s female companion whom Matron found more intriguing. The Joliffe woman was billed simply as “an associate and representative of the Minister.” That fire-cracker, Truelove. If Farman had a crumb of worldly common sense, he’d be keeping an eye on this one.

Perhaps it had occurred to him—“Liaise with her, Matron,” he’d advised. “Reassure, soothe, ch—” Matron was quite sure he’d been about to say: “charm” but had hastily edited out this fanciful demand and replaced it with: “chat—er—establish a female relationship. Bear in mind that this lady’s eyes and ears could well be in the service of a government minister.”

Matron wondered saltily if any other parts of this lady’s
anatomy were engaged in ministerial service. It was difficult to imagine any involvement with
political
shenanigans. No, Matron would have guessed that any influence or exploitation in this quarter sprang from a motivation less honourable than whatever the unworldly Farman could conceive of. She was unarguably a pretty little thing. If you liked dark-haired, foreign-looking women. Some men did. With her slim figure, know-it-all dark eyes, and superior air, this one could have managed the Chanel boutique in Regent Street.

Harriet Hughes ran a smoothing hand over her own rich red hair. She might be “matron” by title and she might be approaching forty, but she was not remotely matronly. Her tightly belted navy uniform dress with its white collar and cuffs emphasised a neat waist and bountiful bosom; the dark chestnut hair waved in a controlled way about her head, giving off an intriguing waft of Amami setting lotion. Her features, in contrast, were disappointing, quenched by the glory of the hair. She wore no makeup, as required by an educational establishment, but had taken the trouble to pluck her eyebrows into a fashionable arch.

“I expect you could be doing with a cup of tea after your morning on the road? I have the facilities.” Matron pointed to a kettle sitting on a gas ring by the hearth.

“How very pleasant this is,” said her guest politely, looking around the room. “I should love to have a cup of tea if it’s really no trouble.”

Matron lit the gas and reached for the pot and tea caddy.

The boy Drummond sighed and shuffled his feet.

Miss Joliffe launched into a conversation. “We’re on the ground floor, here, aren’t we? Don’t you find that a little inconvenient when your charges are two floors above your head?”