‘Vine Street come up with the goods then?’ Inspector Chappel asked in some surprise. ‘They took their time. We were all betting this pair would take their secrets to the gallows with them. You know what they’re like for the rule of silence, these Micks. Worse than the Eyeties. Should have thrown them to the Special boys to have a gnaw at.’
‘There’s a bit of a turf war going on that’s no business of ours, Inspector. Suffice it to say that the powers that be are of the conviction that there’s more than an element of civil interest in this affair.’ He paused to allow this to sink in and, having received the hard stares and splutters of disbelief he was expecting, went on: ‘Oh, yes, civil interest.’
The inspector took up the challenge. ‘I think I may be missing something here, sir. We’ve got the chief critic of Sinn Fein done to death by — guess who — two Irishmen still clutching hot guns. Most ordinary folk would be happy to draw the obvious conclusion and hand the whole can o’ worms over to an outfit better equipped to deal with an outbreak of politically motivated shootings. But not our boss. Oh, no. CID can have this one, he says. Am I getting this right, or what?’
‘To a point. What you seem to have missed, Inspector, is that the hush-hush boys we’re all so fond of aren’t technically military. Nor are they MI1b, MI1c or any of the rest of the alphabet. They report ultimately to his nibs — to our his nibs. Sandilands trumps their director. Whoever he may be. But let’s not forget that Sandilands isn’t the ultimate authority in the Met. And he’s saying what quite a few of the upper echelons want to hear. He’s sketching out a scenario that pleases the government more than a full-blown military situation. Nobody’s of a mind to sound the trumpet and slip the leash on those dogs at the Branch. It would be admitting CID can’t handle it — that the bloody Irish terrorists have opened up a front on the streets of London. That the capi-tal’s on a war footing.’ His audience winced and groaned. ‘But cheer up, lads. We seem to have won the latest round. Or at least Sandilands does. He was on the blower just a minute ago to say he wants to see us down the East End.’ He waved a piece of paper. ‘At this address. Little James Street. Anybody know it? Righto then, get your skates on — he’s going to be there waiting for us. Pawing the ground and breathing flames as usual no doubt.’
‘On site? Not again,’ the inspector growled. ‘Here, there and everywhere. Why can’t the man just sit still and stick to signing forms like he’s supposed to?’
‘Think on, man. One of those forms passing across his desk just might have your dismissal details above his signature. We’re being kept up to the mark, Inspector. It’s the New Policing. It’s why they’ve put him there — to be the stick of ginger up our arse. Smile and accept. Hope for everybody’s sake he’s got it right. He’s out on a limb and looking to us to prop him up. Now get a bloody move on!’
Joe had stopped the car outside the neat lodging house in Little James Street. He turned to Lily. ‘Look, I think it might be politic to leave the inspection of the premises to Superintendent Hopkirk and his men. I’ve trampled on more than my quota of toes today and it’s not yet teatime. We’ll sit here on watch until they can get here. I’ve advised a silent approach, no bells or hooters. Are you aware of our Hopkirk, Miss Wentworth?’
‘I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on the superintendent, sir.’
‘Sound man … dependable. He’s a dour Yorkshireman and a teetotaller to boot. Doesn’t smoke either.’
‘I wonder what he does for pleasure, sir,’ Lily commented unguardedly.