‘Commander Sandilands? Glad to catch you at your desk for once!’ said Sir Nevil. Without preamble and without his usual bonhomie, he hurried on: ‘Now then, our Wren at the Ritz. Decisions to be made, conclusions to be arrived at. Look, why don’t you pop along to my rooms, shall we say in five minutes? Join me in a cup of coffee.’ There was the slightest of pauses. Was he conferring with someone? Receiving an order? ‘Oh, and it might be helpful if you brought your files on the case with you. Your complete files, Commander.’ Another pause and then, decisively, ‘I’m saying — clear the case off your desk. If you have any officers out in the field on duties related to the enquiry, then call them in at once.’
Joe guessed from the unnatural and strained phrasing that Sir Nevil was not alone in his office. The abrupt use of his rank and surname at the outset was signal enough to Joe that the conversation was being overheard. He would pick up the hint and reply in kind: formally and loudly. He managed to keep his voice level as he replied. ‘Of course, Sir Nevil. I’ll be right along. Oh, look — could we make that in fifteen minutes? I’m in the middle of a briefing here — a briefing which I shall now have to turn around.’
He put the phone down, grim-faced. Joe knew how to interpret this summons. He was being instructed to bury Dame Beatrice.
For a moment the soldier’s automatic reaction to a command had kicked in. His shoulders had squared on hearing the General’s clipped voice and he could have done nothing other than respond as he had. ‘Yessir. Yessir. Three bags full, sir!’ was still the formula. But instinct was warring with training. He’d played for time simply to give himself a chance to think. Dizzily, he stood at his desk gripping the smooth rolled edge but staring into a void before him.
He got his bearings.
He grabbed his briefcase and set it open on the desk. He reckoned he had ten minutes. Swiftly he cast a calculating eye over the Beatrice files and made his selection. Into the case went Cottingham’s scrawled interview notes on Donovan, the Dame’s diary and Westhorpe’s handwritten inventory. He carefully detached the paper-clipped flimsy copies of Cottingham’s typed-up reports, blessing the man for his thoroughness. He emptied the pile of photographs of the corpse and the murder room and selected two for his personal collection. Looking critically at what was left of the evidence files, he thought they looked substantial enough — an impressive coverage for the thirty-five hours that had elapsed since the murder. On a fresh sheet of foolscap he wrote out a quick summary of the depleted contents. He took the trouble to change pens halfway through and squeeze in a supposed omission in pencil. Deciding it looked convincing, he pinned it at the top. He packed the files back into the two cardboard folders in which Cottingham had carried them.
One last thing to do. He lifted the receiver and asked to be put through to the Fingerprint Section. He identified himself and requested the Head of Department. ‘Larry? Listen. In a bit of a rush here. . Yes! As you say!. . You’ll be getting a sample via Cottingham. Subject: Thomas Donovan. Process these as soon as you can and send the results by special messenger to my home address. You’ve got it? Good. Buy you a pint next week!’
He locked his briefcase, pushed it under the desk then tucked the files under his arm and set off upstairs.
Chapter Thirteen
Was there evasion behind the clever eyes? Joe thought so as he listened to Sir Nevil’s voice booming at him over the broad desk. ‘. . grateful as usual, Joe, for the speed and quality of your attack. Good team effort, I hear? And one which enables us to tie up the ends remarkably quickly. Let me know the names of officers who’ve impressed you, will you, my boy? No need to interview anyone else in connection with this sorry business. Did you have anyone else on your list?’
The question was casually put.
Joe replied carefully, reciting a selection of names, some of which he hadn’t the slightest intention of following up. He was watching for a reaction to the candidates on offer. No response to the names of family members, he decided, but he could have sworn he detected the slightest narrowing of the lips when he listed an admiral and a senior member of the Wrens. So that was it. Someone else was aware of the Dame’s colourful forays into bohemian life. If the lurid details got out, it would do nothing but damage to a revered service. Enemies of the state, and they seemed to be ever-increasing and coming from all sides of the political spectrum, might well use such a scandal to attack the country in its most sensitive part — its pride.
Sir Nevil spoke decisively: ‘Don’t bother. No need at all to disturb these people. Let it rest.’ His tone softened as he went on, ‘Look, Joe, there can be no possible question that the CID has pulled out all the stops to account for the death of a highly esteemed lady. The funeral is set for next Thursday at St Martin’s. The top military brass will all be there in support. I believe her mother wishes to keep the ceremony simple and short. In fact she has asked that no uniforms be worn. It’ll be homburgs rather than tricornes on parade. Quite proper in the circumstances — she did not, after all, die on active service. We’re preparing an announcement for the press to coincide with the release of ceremony details. We’ve been lucky — what with the royal birth and the impending strike, they haven’t needed to search about for headlines this week!’
He looked Joe straight in the eye. ‘They are to be told that she was killed while bravely attempting to repel a burglar who subsequently made off with an item of jewellery. Commander Sandilands of the Yard will be reported to be hot on his trail. Just the sort of lurid story the sensation-seeking public will smack its lips over. What do you say, Joe?’
Pitching perfectly the degree of bitterness in his tone, Joe said, ‘I notice you do not seek to know what I think, sir. I will say that I understand. I’ll leave you with the case notes and should it ever be thought appropriate to pursue it further, I hope the reports will be of use.’ He dropped his voice for emphasis. ‘I think you’ll find them well worth reading, sir.’
Sir Nevil’s eyes clouded with uncustomary indecision.
Joe decided he knew his boss well enough to risk an off-the-record remark. Again he spoke quietly, though they were alone in the room. ‘We jumped the gun, sir?’
Sir Nevil gave a fleeting smile. ‘You have it right, my boy!’ he growled. ‘You’ve no idea from how many directions I’ve been prodded since the powers in this land woke up to what had transpired.’ He whistled under his moustache. ‘Damned lucky you kept the lid on it! If you’d spilled all to that reporter on Saturday night, we’d both be for the high jump. Still — that’s what we pay you for — discretion. Can’t discuss it with you, of course, but the Foreign Office, the Home Office, Room 40, the wraiths at MI5 and the Special Branch thugs — they’ve all been holding a knife to my throat. No idea what’s been going on. . couldn’t tell you if I had.’
Joe replied lightly. ‘Probably all so busy watching each other they didn’t notice the Plod had made off with the case from under their noses.’
‘Must say, I can’t be doing with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ Sir Nevil’s candid old soldier’s face suddenly looked tired. ‘It’s all the go, I know, this shadow-boxing, but I prefer a target out there in front of me, in plain daylight and preferably in range. Old school, what! Time I was dead, I think!’
He added, in a brisker tone, ‘Look, Joe, now you’ve got this report off your hands, why don’t you take a few days’ leave? You’ll need to make an appearance for the funeral — that would be appreciated, I know — but why don’t you take the rest of the week off? Come back on Monday? And why don’t you give similar instructions to your staff, the ones who’ve been involved with all this? Tell them to go off to the country or the seaside — reward for zeal and effort — you can think of something, I’m sure.’