But before they reached the charge room, the oppressive atmosphere of rage, pain, anger and despair had stopped even Sandilands in his tracks.
Chapter Eleven
The hubbub was punctuated by a top note of banshee screams of female outrage and a bass note of drunken singing. Somewhere a Scotsman was growling out the chorus of ‘Loch Lomond’. In the background, cell bells rang every few seconds and the heavy doors to the cell block creaked opened and clanged shut.
Sandilands presented himself to the elderly charge officer, who appeared insulated from the cacophony around him by three feet of shining mahogany counter. He waited for the sergeant to put down his mug of coffee and drop his newspaper to the floor.
‘Afternoon, sergeant. I’m surprised you can concentrate on the racing results with this hullabaloo going on. Stop it, will you?’
‘Sir! Yes, sir! I’d be only too glad to oblige, but, sorry, sir. I can’t, sir.’
There was steel in the commander’s tone as he responded to the affected servility. ‘You’re in charge here, are you not? If you have a superior officer about the place, produce him.’
The sergeant was not easily subdued. He’d seen commanders come and go. ‘Sorry, you’ve got me, sir. Best we can do for you this afternoon.’ His voice revealed a London man secure on his own patch and resenting the intruder. It was only just sufficiently deferential. ‘Nothing I’d like better than a bit o’ peace and quiet like what you ’ave at the Yard,’ he offered blandly. ‘But we’ve got our hands full today, what with the little bit of extra you sent us — those lads requiring a bit of special attention, like. The other prisoners have been backing up. We’re using the common space as an extra charge room.’ He pointed to a second room where a row of six young men sat disconsolately along the wall awaiting interrogation while a pair of constables filled in their details on forms at a large polished table, barking the occasional question at them.
All this was making an unfortunate impression on the commander. His spine straightened to an alarming degree, his height, already impressive, seeming to increase by a couple of inches. He had taken on a sinister stillness.
At last the sergeant became aware that he was running into danger and adjusted his tone. ‘Sorry about the din, sir. That caterwauling’s been going on since the constable arrested her.’ He pointed to a small and dishevelled prostitute who was attempting, between yells, to bite out the throat of the meaty lad holding her stolidly at arm’s length. ‘She’s gone bonkers. Name’s Doris. Tart. Has her beat along the Strand. Regular customer. Bit barmy, but this performance is unusual even for her.’