Not My Blood djs-10

by Barbara Cleverly

  Farman waved away his search for documentation. “All that is in order, I assure you. The boy’s mother will be here in a few weeks and will doubtless make her own arrangements at that time. Meanwhile, it’s you we have to deal with, your requirements and your decisions we have to hear.”

  At last a flash of irritation. Joe was glad to hear it. He never walked comfortably along a path too thickly strewn with rose petals. He smiled affably. “My first concern is for the boy’s well-being, Mr. Farman. I’m confident that, together, we can decide on a course of action that will ensure it.”

  Placated, the head was encouraged to play another card. “Continuity, that’s the key, Sandilands. Sure you’ll agree. Enough disruption in the boy’s life already, you know. He was bedding down nicely. Beginning to make friends. Scored a try at rugger the week before he bunked off. The other boys were noticing him and appreciating his qualities. Best I think for all concerned if he were to resume his place in school with the least possible fuss and bother.”

  “Is that option available to us?” Joe asked. “In the circumstances? Blood spilled and all that?”

  This was exactly the cue Farman had been waiting for. He sat back in his leather chair and a smile spread across his chubby features. “Ah, yes. Only good news on that front, Sandilands. We understand now that Drummond was the accidental witness of Rapson’s last seconds of life. Fingerprints establish that they met on the back stairs. The sight of his form master bleeding and expiring right in front of his eyes would have been enough to send any youngster into a tailspin. As a witness, he will, of course, be required to give his evidence to Detective Inspector Martin, who is in charge of the case.” His smile widened. “Evidence of academic interest only now, I may add. Now that Martin has established the boy’s innocence of any direct involvement with the killing. A stabbing occurred, Sandilands, no one’s denying it. But it didn’t occur on school premises.”

  “Not on school premises?” Joe repeated in surprise.

  “No. At least, not in the school buildings as far as we can ascertain. Martin’s men have tracked him back from the place where he-er-succumbed. Thanks to an overnight three-inch covering of snow, things have rather ground to a halt. But we’ll get there.”

  “You’re saying Rapson managed to travel some distance in his wounded condition before he fell dead down the back stairs?”

  “Exactly that.”

  “With a bit of luck and a long measuring tape, you may manage to track the unpleasantness all the way back to the chip shop in the High Street?”

  Farman weathered the sarcasm, smirked, and ran with it. “Ah, yes! An undignified spat with a townie? Some argument over the cod and mushy peas? We should have given it some thought perhaps.” His smile faded as he uncovered his big gun and fired his shot. “But no need for fancies of that nature. Inspector Martin, whom you will shortly meet, has the perpetrator under lock and key in the town jail.”

  “Enter the gypsy suspect?” Joe asked mildly.

  Farman frowned. “No. An itinerant workman, but not, it appears, a gypsy. ‘The usual gypsy suspect,’ I imagine you were thinking.”

  Again Joe had provoked a burst of antagonism. Farman heard it and adjusted his tone. “But this has little to do with me. It’s Martin’s business. Police business. You will be able to chew it over to your heart’s content with your colleague.” He got to his feet. “Two things to do before you set off back to the metropolis. So we’d better get on with it. It gets dark so early these days and the roads are very uncertain, don’t you find? You’ll want to see your nephew happily established in his routine, and you’ll want to confer with Martin. Shall we start with Martin?”

  Sensing that the curtain was about to go up on the second act of a well-choreographed performance, Joe tilted his head politely and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Well, here you are,” Farman announced. “Temporary police HQ. The old sports-kit storage room. Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but the best we can do. Martin’s already in there at work. Early bird. Good man. I’ll introduce you.”

  As he flung the door open and walked in, he said as an afterthought: “By the way, Commissioner, we’ll lay a place for you-and Miss Joliffe of course-at the top table for lunch. Twelve o’clock sharp. Martin shuns our company and chooses to bring his own sandwiches. Now, Sandilands, may I present-”

  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 w
ith 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?”

  His expression as he looked around the room gave the lie to his tone of distaste. Dust-laden, cramped, a deliberately insulting choice of working place it might be, but Joe was responding to it with a schoolboy eagerness that had not gone unnoticed by the sharp Inspector. It was a base in a hostile environment, police territory, a bivouac. He noted with approval the shining new telephone freshly installed on a table by the door, notebook and pencil lined up beside it, list of numbers taped onto the wall behind. He took in the row of cardboard boxes along one wall, each one labeled with a painted clue to its contents: Victim, Staff, Boys, General Evidence. The blackboard and easel commandeered from a classroom and bearing a hastily chalked message: Find the bloody weapon!

  “The stink? That could be my rough shag, sir.” Martin picked up a pipe from the windowsill and blew down it thoughtfully. “Or it could be a mélange of rotting leather, cat-gut and sweaty socks that’s built up over the years. Cuir de Russie it’s not, but you’ll get used to it.”

  “Will I, though?” Joe asked with a grin. “Not if old Farman has anything to do with it! The moment I swallow my last mouthful of rice pudding, he’ll hand me my car keys.”

  “In that case, better get on, sir. Oh, before we set off I’ll just try to get through to HQ in Brighton again. I want to fix up the sniffer dogs. They’ve got a good pair down there, and we’re going to need them if we’re to find the knife before the melt.”

  Joe waited until he replaced the receiver.

  “You got that?” Martin asked. “No joy! Damned dogs are out already on a job. Missing child down in Combe Haven. Blacksmith’s son wandered off from home last night. I suppose that takes precedence over a missing murder weapon.”

  “Ah, yes, the weapon,” Joe said. “I hear from an overtalkative member of staff that you know who and how. An itinerant knife-grinder seems to be in the frame?”

  “Well you heard wrong! He hasn’t been arrested. He’s a man of no fixed abode. The moment the cell door opens he’s off like a shot, and we’ll never find him again, so he’s in custody pending divulgence of information.”

  “Helping you with your enquires?”

  “Right. That’s the idea at any rate. Except he’s not being very helpful. Old Rory could have done it, but I’ll lay odds he didn’t. His contribution to the crime seems to be a peripheral one. He it was who’d just freshly sharpened the knife before a person unknown sank it between Rapson’s ribs. Inconveniently, he’s come over all shy in police custody and won’t utter a word. He’s not a gypsy-as far as he doesn’t live in a gypsy community-but he swears he doesn’t talk English, only Romany when he’s in a fix. May be true. I doubt it. He’s just waiting for us to get fed up with him and turn him loose.”

  “Can’t you call his bluff-get a local Romany to translate for you?”

  Martin put back his head and hooted. “Now I know you’re from the Met! A Romany help the police? They don’t recognise Old Rory as one of theirs, but they’d never shop him to us. We come last on their list of personae gratae … somewhere after Old Nick and Judas Iscariot.”

  Joe smiled. “In the matter of Old Rory’s reticence-I think I may just be able to help you. But tell me-if you haven’t got the weapon to hand, how on earth do you know it was one of Rory’s specials?”

  “Cutting edge of forensic science, you could say if you didn’t mind a pun, sir. Our Brighton boffins are rather good. The medic who did the PM on the body found some interesting traces around the wound entry point. They can work out how long and how wide the blade is from the profile, but they can also make some interesting deductions from the residue that piles up in front of the mouth of the gash. Too small to see with the naked eye, but they’ve put it under the microscope. Grinding powder. They’ve anal
ysed it. Corresponds exactly to the gunk Rory smears all over the blades before he applies them to his grinding wheel.”

  “So this one went straight from the wheel to the heart without passing through a steak or a cabbage?”

  “Exactly. And we know what we’re looking for. All the school’s kitchen knives were sharpened the day before. Happens every six months when Rory turns up. Does a good job, they say. One missing. Six-inch-blade, chef’s knife. Could have been picked up by anyone working in the kitchen or passing by out of hours. It’s out of bounds, of course. But it’s never locked.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Well, here we are, Miss Joliffe. It’s not grand, but it suits me well enough.” There was an edge of challenge in the voice as Miss Harriet Hughes, matron of St. Magnus School, ushered Dorcas and Jackie into her room.

  Mindful of the head’s briefing, Matron ran an eye over the odd pair. Drummond appeared to be smartly turned out. Fresh clothes, straight parting, handkerchief in pocket. She observed no sign of distress caused by his recent experiences but didn’t wonder at it. It would take a blast from Big Bertha to shake the confidence of some of these privileged little persons. He was just a boy who’d put himself by his arrogance into the wrong place at an inconvenient time. And who had heaped further inconvenience on them by running away for protection to-what had the head said? — “a well-connected uncle with a vast potential for trouble-making.”

  Matron had not been impressed by this. She’d crisply reminded Farman that almost all the boys in his school could claim such a relative-they weren’t running an orphanage in Wapping, after all. If you gathered together all the fathers and uncles of the current intake they could probably run an empire, she’d suggested. “Several empires, Matron,” Farman had corrected. “That’s exactly what they do. It keeps them busy and out of our hair. They entrust us with their offspring and expect to be relieved of all further paternal involvement. No-this uncle is a concern to us for the second of the qualities I mentioned: trouble-making. The man’s a policeman. Not one of our kind-old buffers shot in at a high level like Sir Renfrew or Lord Buntingforde to head a county force. Men who speak our language, share our patriotic values. I’ve made enquiries. This one’s risen through the ranks, you might say, on account of his record. Well-connected, as I say, but a professional bobby. Worst of both worlds.”