The two officers fixed each other with a calm police stare. They went through the ritual of introduction, waiting for Farman to leave, each taking the other’s measure. As Joe had feared, the Sussex Detective Inspector looked unfriendly, irritated at being disturbed earlier than anticipated. He was as tall as Joe and handsome in the fair, corpulent way of Sussex men. Large parts of his ruddy cheeks were covered by a luxuriant mustache to rival that of Ramsay MacDonald. Smartly suited, wedding ring. A pipe smoker, judging by the thick atmosphere.
It was Martin who jumped in first to break the silence that followed the welcome closing of the door behind Farman’s billowing black gown. “I don’t know if you’re a man who takes advice when it’s given with good intent, sir, but I have some to offer.”
Portentous. Unsmiling. Joe braced himself for the ritual clearing of the decks, the assigning of roles, the growling warnings about territory.
“Avoid the meat pie. The pastry’s made with lard, and the meat’s made with something I’ll swear never mooed.”
“I always listen to advice,” Joe replied carefully. “Sometimes I take it. I’ll fill up on the rice pudding,” he finished with a grin.
“Sensible course, sir. That’s actually good. They keep a couple of Jersey milk cows somewhere in the vicinity and likewise ponies for drawing the grass-cutter and the snowplough. They’ve got chickens and such-like. A sort of school farm or menagerie. Out the back. I’ll show you when we go on our mystery tour—the Last Reeling Steps of Rapson. Any idea, sir, how far a man who’s just been stabbed in the heart can travel? You’re going to be surprised!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Joe said. “In London our record’s a hundred yards. Knife still in the wound. But then we breed them tough in The Smoke.”
Martin stepped forwards to pull up a chair for Joe on the other side, the visitor’s side of the desk. “Sorry, sir, for the accommodation. What space I could make I’ve already filled, I’m afraid. And there’s as much again down at the station.” He moved a few files and piles of paper around on the dust-covered desktop and settled himself again. “Do sit down, and don’t worry, sir. I’ve chucked out the field mice and the spiders.”
It was more than Joe could bear to sit with his back to a door. It was a phobia, he supposed, one he shared with other fighting men, and, like a fear of snakes, there was no reasoning it away. But he’d learned to live with it. He took the chair that had been set for him and moved it, placing it at one side of the desk, angled towards the doorway. He sat down casually and slipped one leg over the other, relaxed and friendly. “Not taking up residence, Inspector. Quite happy to perch here. And if some fiend bursts through the door wielding a cricket bat, I’ll ’ave ’im!”
Martin smiled, understanding the reason behind the defensive stance. “Ah!” he said and looked more closely at Joe’s face. “The commissioner had a Good War?”
“No such thing as a good war, Martin!”
“You were clearly in the war, and you survived,” Martin commented drily. “As good as it gets, wouldn’t you say?”
Joe nodded. “Yourself?” he ventured. To talk about the war and one’s part in it was bad form, but he sensed that Detective Inspector Martin was set on discovering or revealing information—or perhaps prejudices—that had to be taken out of the way. He would have guessed that the Sussex man was about his own age—late thirties, early forties at a stretch. Certainly a young age to have reached his current position in a county force where promotion tended to go by years of service and not on ability or social contacts. A bright man, Joe guessed, but one with a chip on his shoulder most probably, when faced with a rising star in the Metropolitan force. The barely concealed resentment betrayed by the war comment indicated as much. For years, Joe had dealt with the suspicion and criticism that came his way at each promotion, bad feeling largely spilling over from the continuous appointments of retired military grandees to the all-powerful position of commissioner: Field Marshal Lord This. General Sir That. Marshal Viscount The Other. Aristocratic old warriors, sent in to bat at the end of the day, to play out the over as twilight fell. The Nightwatchmen.
With a quiet show of spirit and acuity, the Nightwatchmen, one after another, had calmly seen what was required, had listened to good advice and implemented improvements before hanging up their bats. Each had valued and rewarded the input of an officer like Sandilands. “Clever man. Effective. A patriot (something of a war hero) but watch it—he has his bolshy side,” seemed to be the opinion passed from commissioner to commissioner.
“Oh, nothing so glamorous as yourself, I’m sure, sir.”
Joe waited, one eyebrow raised.
“PC Plod before the war. Joined up when war was declared. Recruited in Brighton.”
“One of Lowther’s Lambs?”
“That’s right. Royal Sussex Regiment. Eleventh Battalion.”
“Lucky to have survived. Not many of the Lambs did.”
“Call it luck if you like!” Martin snorted. “We were in that life-wasting diversionary show before the Somme. Richebourg.”
“Ouch!” Joe flinched at the name of the bloody encounter.
“I was wounded and sent home. So—I missed Passchendaele. Yes, you could say I was lucky.”
“And you recovered sufficiently to step back into your old job.” Joe hoped he was feeding Martin the right lines.
“Well, they were desperate. With all good, fit men out at the war, they’d take anything in those days. I worked hard. Jumped into dead men’s shoes and kicked about a bit. Drew a veil over certain injuries. Fought my way up through the ranks.”
“I expect that, compared with a confrontation with the Sussex promotions board, Richebourg was a doddle?”
Martin gave him a sharp look. “It’s been slow and hard going.”
“But it won’t always be the same, Martin. Lessons have been learned. Wild angry voices have been heard and listened to. One of them mine. No comfort to you at this stage of your career but the police college at Hendon, so long talked of, will open next year. The very best, the sharpest and most dedicated, whatever their backgrounds, will be recruited. We’re moving forwards. You may not profit from that but your son, if you have a son, could well—”
“I have three daughters and a son. He’s called Edmund, like me. No police force for him, Hendon or otherwise. No. All he can think about is aeroplanes. Daft ’apeth wants to be a fighter pilot!” The moustache twitched, signalling a smile, and the solid face dissolved into indulgent affection.
Joe’s objection was heartfelt: “Martin, you must speak to him firmly. Dissuade him at all costs! I’ve never met a flyer yet who was compos mentis.”
“I’ll tell him, sir. But you know what they’re like. Have you got a lad yourself then?”
“Sadly no,” Joe said. “Not married. Unless we count young Jackie, your escaper. I’ve been officially assigned care and control until his mother gets here from India. Not quite sure what’s expected of me, but I think I ought to start by ensuring you’re not planning to put him in manacles or on a treadmill or whatever medieval retribution you still exact down here in the sticks.” He smiled while he said it.
“Oh, we’ve been making progress, sir. Thumbscrews rusting away in the town museum. I think I can say the worst he has to undergo is having his fingerprints taken. Just to confirm the little smudges found on the bannister alongside Rapson’s are his. We took samples from a book by the lad’s bed but, just to be sure. Now, where would you like to start? I can offer you a view of the body. It’s still in the morgue.”
Joe silently reminded himself that he was appearing as a concerned uncle. Martin was making it all too easy to fall straight into a professional pattern of behaviour. “What about that tour of the premises you promised? The Rapson Ramble?” he said lightly. “Anything to get out of here! How can you stand it, man? What’s that awful stink?”