Not My Blood (7 page)

“Now then, Sid and Ian—you little ’uns better listen to your big brother,” Jenkins directed firmly. “Do what Andy says while I deal with this gentleman, will you? I don’t want to hear any quarreling when I’ve got my back turned. Or I’ll pull the plugs,” he finished with cheerful menace.

He waited for the automatic acknowledgements of “Yes, Grandpa” before turning back to the visitor. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind signing just here? Oh, and thank your Mr. Peacock for being so prompt with the order, will you? It
is
still old Peacock in outfitting, is it? Or has he retired by now?”

“Still there, sir. Bit doddery but he gets by.”

“Know the feeling! You can leave it down here with me, if you like.”

“Naw! Thanks, but I have to make sure it’s got into the right hands. I’ll use the lift.”

“Right-oh, then. Oh, Sandilands has nipped out, but it’s all right—his sister’s up there. She’ll see to you. Watch out for the lift—it can be a bit temperamental. Well, if you’re sure.…” And, as the Derry and Tom’s man walked off with jaunty stride towards the lift, he called after him helpfully: “Just press button 3, mate.”

J
oe took a taxi to the government offices at Whitehall. He got out on King Charles Street and turned in to a courtyard lined by architecture of an Italianate flavour. Sir Gilbert Scott was responsible for the ornate Victorian grandeur, Joe remembered, and he paused to get his bearings and admire. There could be no doubt that he was approaching a temple to Britannia.

Chilly and echoing, the building Joe entered had the feeling of a busy space suddenly deserted. Without the animation of the usual swarms of bowler-hatted men jousting about with briefcase and brolly, he was feeling more keenly conscious of the grandeur of the surroundings. And more out of place. He looked down at his feet. Gumboots had seemed the obvious choice this snowy morning, looking purposeful and proper with the ancient tweed suit he’d put on, mindful of the journey into the country.

Lydia had thought to question his choice of get-up. “Is that going to be quite right for Whitehall, Joe? Will they let you in or hand you a spade and send you off to clear the pavement?” The kind of comment that roused a growling contrariness in Joe. Now he watched regretfully as dirty gobbets of melting snow oozed from the runnels of his boots and settled on the Minton tiles. Gold fleurs-de-lis, he noted, on a background of magenta and
blue. Tiles so sumptuously heraldic deserved to be dripped on by nothing less than a pair of Lobb’s best, he thought guiltily.

The civil servant in attendance cut short his anxiety. He was expecting Joe and with one stately finger directed a footman to take his hat and overcoat. Joe was reassured to be greeted by title. “Assistant Commissioner? We’ll go straight up. Sir James fought his way through from Albany half an hour ago and is waiting. Commissioner Trenchard is with him. And one or two others. This way.”

Sir James? The Commissioner? One or two others?

Joe kept his surprise to himself and followed his guide in silence. In his flurry of calls and returned calls after breakfast he’d simply tried to set up an informal meeting with his chief superintendent, Ralph Cottingham, and one other: “any bright bloke from the Department of Education, if that’s not an impossible request … and if there’s anyone at home.…” he remembered saying. The final message had come through an hour ago, fixing “a meeting with interested parties” in one of the government offices in Whitehall. A courtesy to the Education bloke, Joe surmised. Statesmen of any rank in the rumour-mill that was Whitehall preferred to avoid the indignity and possible stigma of a trip down the corridors of Scotland Yard. But why such a gathering? Early in February grandees of this political type ought to be away holed up on their wide country acres or skiing in Zermatt. Had Ralph overreacted?

Mind racing, Joe was chilled by the thought that the series of phone calls he’d instigated must have got out of hand, rolling along gathering substance like a snowball. And who the hell was Sir James, anyway? He could think of at least five Sir Jameses in the upper ranks of public life.

He was ushered into a carpeted and well-lit first floor reception room that was already occupied by some half dozen people sitting, it seemed casually, around a low table. His first glance took
in a preponderance of sober grey pinstripe and even a uniform. All eyes lifted to him as he approached.

“Thank you, Spencer. That’ll be all.” The voice that dismissed Joe’s guide was unknown to him. It was low, authoritative. The speaker rose to greet Joe, indicating with a crisp movement of the hand that the others were to remain seated. “We’ve kept you a place over there at the end opposite me, Sandilands. Help yourself to coffee, will you? We’re all enjoying a certain informality this morning, you see. No clerks, no tea-ladies. Glad to note you’ve dressed—like me—in keeping with the weather. Harris tweed and galoshes! The only possible riposte to an unscheduled summons to the work place in the middle of a blizzard. Good man!” His voice dropped to a level of confidence: “Now, your boss will never admit it, but I do believe Trenchard still has his pyjamas on under that Savile Row outer layer.”

This must be “Sir James,” Joe guessed. Talking lightly to put him at his ease? Disturbing, perhaps, to think that he needed to be put at ease, but Joe rather liked the aplomb with which the man dared to tease the austere Lord Trenchard. The Commissioner appeared less diverted, and Joe avoided meeting the basilisk stare.

Alarmingly, they all waited until Joe had settled and taken his first sip of coffee before his host continued. “Now, we all know who
you
are, Sandilands—indeed, your ears must have been burning for the last half hour as we all heard your praises sung—but you may not know all of
us
. I’ll go round the table. Where shall I start? With the prettiest … why not? Miss Peto I think you are acquainted with?”

Dorothy Peto, the newly appointed Superintendent of Women Police, was managing to sit to attention, spruce in her blue serge. No one had ever seen her in civilian clothes—indeed, the word was that she slept in her uniform. She dimpled at Sir James, acknowledging his gallantry, then nodded and smiled at Joe. One ally then at least in this company. Miss Peto and Joe
had done a lot of agreeing over the employment of women in the force over the years, though he would never have had the gall to call this undeniably attractive but formidable woman “pretty.” Effective, clever, tough, principled, redoubtable—many adjectives would have sprung to Joe’s lips before “pretty.” But, by God, here she sat, turning a tender gaze on Sir James instead of a frosty set-down.

“And here you see, we have your boss, Lord Trenchard, and, on his right hand—for where else would you find him?—his Right Hand: Howgrave-Graham, whom you know.” Joe nodded with pleased recognition at the grey-suited Secretary of Scotland Yard. A civilian but much admired by the officers of the Met, he was known to be the trusty backstop for the Commissioner. “And Superintendent Cottingham, who issued the invitations.”

Ralph twitched his shoulders and grunted. Joe detected the signs of rising irritation in his normally equable colleague.

“And now for the non-police handout—the other chap armed with a notebook is my own private secretary Christopher Gledhill and, on his left—the man you really wanted to see—a minister in the Department of Education. A junior minister but word has it not junior for much longer: Aidan Anderson.”

Joe rose and reached over to shake the hands of the men he had not met before. As he murmured pleasantly, he cobbled together a swift inventory. This double quadrille seemed to him to consist of four specialists in their field (the head of the Met and the head of the women’s police plus two politicians), balanced on the other side by four work horses: two secretaries and two coppers.

“And our
convener
, Sandilands,” Trenchard’s dry voice broke in, “who assumes that everyone knows
him
, I will introduce myself. With proper regard for procedure. And to spare you, Truelove, the embarrassment of blowing your own trumpet. You wouldn’t want that! Sir James, may I present to you: Joseph
Sandilands, one of my assistant commissioners? Sandilands, I’d like you to meet Sir James Truelove, the Secretary of State for Reform.”

Everyone was uneasily conscious of the set-down, with the exception of Truelove himself, who genially extended a hand. Joe was expecting the token squeeze dished out by an elegantly manicured politician and was surprised by a vigorous shake from a square and rather rugged hand. Joe had encountered similar callouses before. On men who handled oar, ax or spade. Truelove! Joe’s consternation grew. The rising star of the government by all accounts; next prime minister but one, it was whispered by those who claimed to know these things.

Joe had seen photographs of him in the newspapers but would not have recognised him from their evidence. The black and white prints gave emphasis to the smooth, lofty forehead, the neatly barbered, brilliantined hair, the commanding nose and the cold intellectual stare that brought reassuringly to mind the face of the young Duke of Wellington. The pressmen’s flash bulbs turned him into a sleek assembly of planes in light and shade, from any angle a challenging face, a modern face. A face often photographed above a white tie and stiff collar, leaving the Savoy or the Ritz. But the flesh and blood reality in front of Joe this chilly morning was less the impeccably groomed hero of a Hollywood movie, more the backwoodsman. He was much younger looking than his forty odd years. His hair had received only cursory attention; the rough jacket and trousers were more suited to a grouse moor than the city. A man who’d dodged the attentions of his valet this morning, Joe thought with approval.

The minister smiled at the group and the smile reached his dark eyes, sparking them with complicitous humour. An intelligent man, Joe knew that much. Details from his Special Branch record were coming swiftly to mind. Eton and Cambridge. Rowing blue. Stroke in a winning pre-war Boat Race eight.
Scientific and philanthropic family background. Wealthy. And—a progressive.

The best England had to offer had dashed out in tweeds on a chill morning to attend a meeting with him. Why?

Joe swallowed. “I’m honoured to meet you, sir,” he managed and resumed his seat.

“The honour is all ours, Sandilands, if we’re to believe what we hear.” The minister stopped short and looked at him expectantly. All eyes turned on Joe.

So, there it was: The first exploratory ball had been bowled. The crowd was waiting to see how he dispatched it.

“Honoured, sir,” Joe repeated, “but puzzled! My message to Cottingham was simplicity itself, I had thought.”

Ralph Cottingham looked down and examined his cuff-links.

“What’s been going on? Shall I tell you what I
think’s
been going on?”

The concentrated attention of his audience fed the performer in Joe. He decided to go for a boundary shot. He leaned forwards and caught each questioning face in a conspiratorial glance. “You’ve all been playing the Telephone Game!” His tone was one of playful accusation. “Or ‘Chinese Whispers’ as we used to call it in the trenches. I ring Cottingham at six this morning with a swift plea for access to certain files:
Arrange for an expert to be on hand
. It passes down the line and comes out at ten as:
A range of four experts and a brass band
.”

It was Trenchard, notorious for his lack of humour, who gave a snort of laughter. The rest eyed each other uncertainly. Shoulders still shaking with amusement, the Commissioner took up the tale. “Rest assured, Sandilands, there’s nothing wrong with Cottingham’s ears or the brain between them. It was I who intercepted your message and took the matter out of his hands. Your request hoisted a signal, d’you see? Or do I mean, sprang a trap? It was Cottingham who, questing about, unwittingly got
his fingers chopped off. Anyhow, the name of this school you’re interested in—St. Magnus—its file is stickered.” He sat back, content with his announcement.

The questioning lift of eyebrows directed at him by Cottingham encouraged Joe to ask: “Stickered, sir?”

“That’s what I said. A purple sticker. Anyone enquiring would be finding himself looked at carefully. It signifies that the contents are currently of interest at the highest level. MI5 would designate such material ‘Top Secret’ in their dramatic way. In fact—there’s not much to catch the attention in there. The interest lies in who precisely wishes to avail himself of it. What a surprise to find we’ve caught two of our own with sticky fingers—the Assistant Commissioner and his assistant!”

“May I ask, sir, at whose request the file was stickered? By the department itself?”

“No. As a matter of fact, by Military Intelligence initially.” Truelove admitted this reluctantly and added swiftly, “Though they had the sense to realise it had little to do with military or state security. Just for once, they agreed to pass it on to the Met.”

Trenchard stepped in to clear up Joe’s evident mystification. “Your predecessor it was, Sandilands, who picked this up and decided there was nothing to it. Rumours passing between armchairs in clubs … yarning over the whisky … hysterical women demanding favours—you know the sort of thing.”

Joe frowned and waited for more clarity. It was his experience that if you left a puzzled silence the commissioner often obligingly filled it.

Trenchard went on: “Upshot was—the Met had the file marked. With much grumbling from the Education Department, if I remember correctly, hey, what, Anderson?”

The education man winced and smiled politely. He directed a glance full of meaning at Joe and sighed. Joe did not respond. He might disagree with his boss occasionally, but he would always
support him in public. “You resisted an application, minister?” he asked. “I’m wondering why?”

Put on the spot, Anderson shrugged. “Nothing whatsoever in the allegations. St. Magnus is an excellent educational establishment. Its boys go on to the very best public schools and then on to Oxford or Cambridge as like as not. I ought to declare an interest—I was a boy myself there. My own sons have been pupils and speak highly of it. Malicious gossip—no more than that. But—harmful, I agree. And, no doubt, a stop must be put to it.”