His probing fingers triggered the hidden spring catch more by accident than design. When the panel slid open, he was so startled he squealed.
“Not the most manly sound I’ve ever heard,” Mal called out from the kitchen.
“Boss,” Aaronson said, in as gruff a voice as he could manage, “you should take a look at this.”
Mal went straight to the commissioner with her findings. She all but barged into his office, oblivious to the protestations of his secretary. She had come to settle things once and for all. The cloud of execution hung over her, shadowing her every step, and she was fed up. She wanted it gone. Failing that, she wanted it confirmed. She needed to know her fate either way.
Commissioner Brockenhurst was a distinguished-looking man with white hair, grey eyes, and a way of talking that some found kindly and others patronising. He had been a friend of His Very Holiness Seldon Whitaker since boyhood, pursuing parallel paths from Eton and Harrow to Oxford and Cambridge and from there into the priesthood and policing. They maintained a close working relationship and often weekended at each other’s country retreat with their families. To be in the same room as Brockenhurst was to be a heartbeat away from the very highest power in the land.
Brockenhurst, though irritated by Mal’s intrusion, heard her out. He told her he was impressed by her discovery of the armour and weapons cache at Reston’s, and also by her persistence. Most officers, having let a prominent felon slip through their fingers not once but twice, would retreat to a dark corner and await the inevitable disciplining. Her pluck and grit were to be commended.
However…
And it was a deep-breath, long-drawn-out, sighing “however.”
“His Very Holiness,” Brockenhurst said, “has asked for a line to be drawn under the whole Conquistador affair.”
“I’m sorry, sir, what did you just say?”
“You heard, chief inspector. The case goes on the back burner, with a lid on.”
Mal was stunned. “May I ask why?”
“I’m under no compunction to explain to you if I don’t want to, but I think you deserve it. The Conquistador has fled, who knows where to. I very much doubt he’ll be coming back. How can he? His identity has been compromised. His face is all over the newspapers and TV. As Stuart Reston, he can’t go anywhere, be seen anywhere, for fear of being recognised. He can never show himself in public again. His life as a British citizen is over. Therefore the danger from him as a masked vigilante is also over, at least to us. If he’s abroad, then he’s someone else’s problem.”
“But… but…” Mal stammered. “With all due respect, sir, how do we know that? How do we know he and his Mayan friends aren’t planning some new atrocity even as we speak, here, on British soil? While Reston is at large he remains a threat. You can’t expect him to give up this crusade of his. He’s an obsessive. He has an axe to grind with the Empire, and he won’t rest until it’s ground completely, or whatever it is people are supposed to do with axes.”
“Are you trying to be funny, Vaughn?”
“No, sir. I’m flabbergasted, that’s all. You’re telling me we’re just going to forget about the whole thing? All those priests and Jaguars dead, civilians too, and we’re going to carry on as if nothing happened?”
“The High Priest believes it would be easiest that way, and I’m minded to agree with him. If we keep harping on about Reston, keep worrying at the man and his actions, we run the risk of perpetuating what he did. His deeds will dominate the headlines long after they ought to. Whereas if we quietly let the matter drop, the Conquistador will soon be history. All anyone will remember about him is his ignominious, cowardly departure. His final act wasn’t to go down in a blaze of glory but to skulk away like a whipped dog, helped by others. We feed his reputation, and diminish ours, if we make a big show of continuing to chase him. This way the Conquistador slips quickly and quietly from the limelight, and life can carry on as before.”
“I’m having real trouble with this,” Mal said. “What about the Jaguar oath? ‘Never back down, never pull out.’ That means nothing?”
“I’d advise you not to take that tone with me, chief inspector. Your life already hangs by a very thin thread. What you must consider here, above all, is your own position, precarious as it is. The only reason you’re still breathing at this moment is because you were right about Reston. You fingered him as the Conquistador’s alter ego and you acted on your suspicions and you were damned unfortunate he got away from you. In the event, you achieved the next best result after catching him, and that’s scaring him off and making it impossible for him to return. Which is a win in my book. Don’t now jeopardise it all by pushing any further. Accept what you’re being handed, which amounts to a complete, unconditional pardon and the opportunity to start over with a clean slate. Few get a chance like this, especially after making such a godawful hash of things.”
“In other words, shut up and be grateful.”
“I wouldn’t put it so crudely myself, but yes. Perhaps you should also bear in mind that a senior position lies vacant and in dire need of being filled. The appointment of a new chief superintendent is entirely in my gift, and I would look favourably on a candidate who not only excels as a Jaguar but understands, too, how there are certain unavoidable compromises that must be made on the road to promotion.”
It was quite clear what the commissioner was offering, and just as clear that he was confident his words would mollify and appease.
Instead, Mal’s festering indignation simply grew. She knew she should keep it in check, but she just couldn’t. In a way she’d have preferred punishment — a good, honest death — to the prize that was being dangled in front of her, with its faint polluting whiff of bribery.
“So this has nothing to do with the fact that Reston’s one of your own?” she said in a steely hiss.
Brockenhurst’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon? Just what are you implying?”
“Posh boy. Society type. Right background. But for a twist of fate, could have been you, or even the High Priest.”
“Vaughn, I would strongly suggest you stop right there.”
“I bet you ran into him from time to time. At those fancy functions your lot go to. Maybe had a nice polite chat about the weather or the stock market while knocking back the champagne and canapes.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve never met Stuart Reston socially even once.”
“Still, he’s like you. Top of the heap. Cream of the crop. One of the cosy, gilded elite. Only, he went wrong, didn’t he? Snapped. Flipped out. And it scares you how easily he did. It makes you fear for your own loyalty to the Empire. His Very Holiness’s too.”
“Another word and I’ll have you on report.”
She should have heeded the warning, but she couldn’t, just couldn’t. Brockenhurst had asked her to do the one thing she was unable to: be less than the perfect Jaguar Warrior. It had cost her so much, in personal terms, to buy into the Jaguar ethos. The life of her own brother, indeed. If she doubted even for one second that the price had not been worth paying, then everything was lost. Ix’s death had been in vain.
“So let’s just sweep it under the carpet. Pretend it doesn’t matter. So what if Reston’s a mass murderer? If he’d been part of the hoi polloi, like me, then we’d stop at nothing to exterminate him like the scum he is. But because he’s establishment, he deserves special treatment.”
“How dare you — ”
“He deserves leniency, like all prodigals.”
“Out!” Brockenhurst roared. “Get out!”
“Don’t worry, I’m going,” Mal said.
“You are suspended,” the commissioner said, bent across his desk, finger jabbing as though he was trying to poke a hole in the fabric of space. “Effective immediately. And that is me being lenient on you, chief inspector. Very lenient. By every right, a subordinate who spoke to me like you just have ought at least to be sacked, if not worse. Go home, stay there, and come back only when I say so. Your pay will be suspended, of course. And the chief superintendent’s job? I think we can safely say you’ve kissed that goodbye.”