‘Oh, sir! Everyone knows they’re holed up in that little wooden hut on the island in St James’s Park. Duck Island, I believe they call it. It’s just beyond Horse Guards — a minute or two away. I’d have gained access if I’d had to swim across their moat!’
He believed her.
For a moment he savoured the vision of Miss Jameson arising from the water, clad in white samite, mystic, wonderful — and crowned in duck weed — ready to challenge the doughty lads of the anti-terrorist squad and he smiled. He glanced across at the confident woman who thought nothing of taking on, single-handed, the Special Irish Branch. Should he tell her that her target had relocated some years ago? That ‘the Branch’ had moved into Whitehall and were even now beavering away not so very far from where she sat at her typewriter? No. She was happy with the folk story. And the élite squad were fanatical about preserving their anonymity. An anonymity that, in his recently acquired covert role at the Met, the commander was honour-bound to respect.
‘Just keep an eye on them for us, will you, Sandilands?’ He’d been briefed almost as an afterthought by a superior. And he’d realized, with a sinking heart, that he’d been handed a poisoned chalice. In addition to the CID role that went with his job, he’d been landed, since his return, with an ill-defined responsibility for this other clandestine and self-reliant branch of the British police force. Deliberately ill defined? Joe suspected as much.
‘They won’t give you the runaround, young man! Still full of beans and raring to go, I observe.’ This compliment, from a survivor of the Boer War with yellowing moustache and matching teeth, was never likely to turn Joe’s head. ‘Try to understand them,’ the advice flowed on, ‘with your background of skulduggery that shouldn’t be too hard. Takes one to handle one, eh, what? Make it your business to find out what these boys are up to. They’re on our side, of course — and we thank God for that mercy! — but an occasional reminder that they report ultimately to the Police Commissioner at the Yard mightn’t come amiss. They will try to ignore that.’
Sandilands had shrugged and smiled his acquiescence. His sister was right — he was never able to turn down a challenge. With the reins of the CID in one hand and the Branch in the other, however, he’d found himself in charge of a spirited and ill-matched pair. Steady hands, though. So far he’d avoided landing arsy-tarsy in the ditch. But his secretary would have been disturbed to know of the chain of command that ran from the political branch down below right up to his own desk. Chain? Thread would be more accurate, Sandilands thought. A fragile thread he’d already had to put a knot in twice since his appointment.
He rewarded his secretary with the response she best appreciated: a grin and ‘Attaboy, Jameson!’
A mistake.
Under cover of his approval, she was encouraged to slide in a supplementary question or two. ‘The latest attack in the West End, I take it? That’s what this is all about?’ She pointed to the file. ‘The shooting? Poor General Lansing. He’s a very old friend of Daddy’s. I do hope he wasn’t badly hurt?’
‘Lansing? No. Hide as tough as a cavalryman’s derrière. Er … bullets bounce off him, I should say.’