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!”