‘A small one,’ said Harley, pulling up a chair.
‘To the Thirteenth Battalion!’
‘The Thirteenth!’
Swales savoured his mouthful of whisky, making his generous moustache dance a little, and then relaxed back into his chair.
‘I hear you went travelling after leaving the Service, George—Merchant Navy wasn’t it? Anywhere exotic?’
‘Oh, come on now, FW—you would have known exactly what I got up to.’
‘Oh, for the first few months maybe—but nobody ever really considered you a serious threat. Seven years, eh? I suppose it must be … That damned Zinoviev affair! We were sorry to lose you, you know—with your unique set of skills you were a perfect asset to the SIS.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But?’
‘Let’s just say I lost sight of what I was supposed to be doing there. It was easy at first, just after the war; but towards the end … well, as I said at the time, I started having trouble recognizing the Firm’s definition of the enemy. Anyway, there’s no need to go over old ground.’
‘No, quite … By the way, George, I heard about that dreadful business with your fiancée, Cynthia; my condolences, dear boy. How on earth that madman Morkens escaped the hangman’s noose is beyond me.’
‘Well, it’s no mystery to me, FW—he got to the judge. No way of proving it, of course. They all closed ranks, didn’t they? After all, he was one of their own; the old boys’ club—you know how it works.’
‘Well, George—maybe … But he was diagnosed psychopathic—a danger to the public, correct? He’s still in Broadmoor?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘No, of course … Although, surely there must be a way—’
‘I mean it, FW—I don’t wanna discuss it!’
‘Apologies, George—I understand completely.’
Harley took a drink. ‘But look at you—Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police? Christ on a bike! How did that happen?’
‘Steady now, Harley!’
‘No disrespect—what I mean is … well, you’re a man of action, FW. I can’t see you wading through all the endless committees and paperwork that must go with this kind of job. I take it you didn’t just volunteer—why on earth did you accept?’
‘I could hardly refuse,’ said Swales, relighting his pipe.
‘Higher authority, eh?’
‘The highest.’
‘The King? You’re joshing me! What’s His Majesty doing appointing the Police Commissioner? Isn’t that the Home Secretary’s job?’
‘Usually. However, it wouldn’t really be appropriate to—’
‘Come on, you can trust me, you know that—besides, I’m still bound by the Official Secrets Act, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, well, I suppose that’s true …’
Swales got up and opened the door, making sure nobody was within earshot. He returned to the desk and sat back down amid a small cloud of pipe smoke.
‘Well, let me start by saying that over the last few years His Majesty has become increasingly concerned about the political future of this country. Remember now—he saw a powerful empire fall to revolutionary forces in nineteen-seventeen … and one can only imagine the guilt he must still feel at refusing asylum to his cousin Tsar Nicholas. But, you understand, that difficult decision was made with the sole intention of ameliorating the frustrations of the British working man. Now, I don’t have to tell you George, that since then conditions for that working man have become a damn sight worse. Why, he’s even lucky if he’s a working man at all nowadays. This bally Depression—The General Strike, hunger marches, the unions flexing their muscles … our friend Quigg isn’t the only one checking for Bolsheviks under the bed, I can tell you. The fear, one might even call it paranoia, of a British revolution has spread to the very highest echelons.’
‘Of course it has—it’s those highest echelons that have the most to lose,’ said Harley, offering his glass up for a refill. ‘Including His Majesty.’
‘Hmm,’ said Swales, frowning again at Harley as he topped up his whisky. ‘Look, we all know your feelings on class, George; but I would argue that we would all have something to lose. And if we take Russia as an example, it might be that in the long run it’s our poor old British working man who loses the most.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘Just hear me out. I don’t know how closely you keep your eye on international affairs nowadays, but however misguided Comrade Lenin may have been—and for all the crimes committed in his name—once he’d opened the stable door at least he kept a firm hand on the reins. But, alas, I fear his death has helped reveal the true nature of the Soviet state—one with a thick Georgian moustache and a soul as black as pitch.’
‘Sounds like you’re swallowing your own propaganda.’
‘Nothing of the sort! From the intelligence I’ve seen, I’d say Mr. Stalin’s five year plan will have the sole conclusion of starving his own peasants!’ He gave a puff on his pipe by way of emphasis. ‘Now, some will tell you that Benito Mussolini has the right idea—that his new Roman Empire is forging a vanguard against the communist tide infecting Europe. Lord knows he has enough fans in the corridors of Westminster. But I’ve had the pleasure of being a guest at the Palazzo Venezia, and I can tell you, George, I don’t like the way that Il Duce is flexing his muscles—don’t like it at all. I’d say he has serious intentions of giving the cartographers a little overtime in the near future … And then, of course, we come to our old foe Germany—bitter and snarling in its cave, licking its wounds all these years since losing the big one. It’s looking like old President Hindenburg will regain his seat—but only just. I fear it’s only a matter of time before the old guard gives way to the new, and then we’ll be dealing with that jailbird Hitler and his nasty little band of SA thugs. And if that happens, then let me tell you—that’s when we throw the rulebook out of the window.’
‘You paint a depressing picture.’
‘Desperate times, George, desperate times. It’s as if the world is on a knife’s edge. And so, with this grim backdrop, you can imagine the panic caused by this recent spate of anarchist bombings.’
‘The Wild Cat International—you think they’re really responsible?’
‘It would seem so, yes.’
‘Never heard of them before I saw it in the paper.’
‘No, but that may not be significant—after all, these maniacs all have to start somewhere. It may be a splinter group; there are always schisms within these extremists’ ranks.’
‘It’s a little out of date though isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
‘Their rhetoric. I haven’t had chance to check the reference, I’ve been otherwise engaged—being bundled into the back of Q cars, that kind of thing—but I’m sure that their letter published in the Daily Oracle was quoting directly from Johan Most.’
‘Correct—I see that brain of yours is still as sharp as ever. Yes, it’s Most’s “The Propaganda of the Deed”. Annoying individual, Most; he would keep publishing instruction pamphlets on bomb-making and his delight at the latest assassinations—Tsar Alexander, President McKinley and so on.’
‘For which he did time, I seem to remember.’
‘Indeed—incarcerated in his native Germany, here in the Britain for a while, and finally in the United States.’
‘Still, that was almost half a century ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Died in nineteen-hundred-and-six, I believe.’
‘So why resurrect his theories now? There are many others that followed him—more sophisticated ideas, better new models for societies.’
‘I think you’re being a little naïve Harley, crediting these lunatics with such complex thought processes.’
‘Never underestimate your enemy—you taught me that. After all, we’re not talking about some mad loner working on his own, are we? From what I’ve read in the papers, it seems to me that
the bombings have all been well-planned—which would suggest a certain level of organisation.’
‘A fair assumption.’
‘Do you have any leads at all?’
‘None that haven’t led us up the garden path.’
‘So, hold on—I understand that the powers-that-be are getting their knickers in a twist about revolutionary forces at work on our depressed streets; but you still haven’t told me why they, sorry—why the King—has brought you in as Commissioner. Surely your skills would be better used elsewhere. Couldn’t SIS have just lent you to Special Branch for a few months?’
‘Well, between you and me, Harley.’ Swales lowered his voice. ‘It would appear that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’
‘Meaning, exactly?’
‘Corruption—a long, deep varicose vein of it running through the Met. It seems that the scandal with Sir Leo Money, and that Sergeant Goddard affair … well, they were just the tip of the iceberg, by all accounts. Commissioner Horwood’s handling of those two cases left a lot to be desired. And unfortunately my predecessor, Viscount Byng, merely scratched at the surface of the problem. Consequently His Majesty has lost a little faith in our somewhat overzealous Home Secretary—Ambrose Box-Hartnell.’
‘ABH.’
‘Indeed, “ABH”—a rather apposite sobriquet; one can always rely on the great British public to sniff out the true essence of a man.’
‘Really? I’m not so sure. How do you explain the popularity of Sir Pelham Saint Clair then? I personally don’t see much difference between him and your Signor Mussolini—or that thug Hitler, for that matter.’
‘Ah! But there’s a great difference. You must admit that Sir Pelham—and it’s pronounced Sinclair you know, Harley, he’d be mortified to hear you call him Saint Clair—Sir Pelham is a thoroughly British kind of fascist. He is a baronet after all.’
‘As if that makes any difference—all the more dangerous, if you ask me.’
‘Oh, come now, George—I’m pulling your leg! Couldn’t resist a little poke at that chip on your shoulder—you were always so easily riled. Rest assured—the relevant people are keeping a close eye on Sir Pelham and his British Brotherhood of Fascists.’
‘Yes, but who watches the watchmen, eh? … Anyway, come on—The King?’
‘Ah yes, well. Over the last few years—for reasons that I shan’t go into now—His Majesty has granted me the honour of inviting me into his close circle of advisers. And having lost a little faith in his Home Secretary, he, shall we say, “applied a little pressure” in having me appointed as Commissioner—with the explicit instruction of tackling the endemic corruption … and also dealing with the immediate threat posed by these anarchist bombings.’
‘Blimey, that’s some brief! Rather you than me. And the knighthood?’
‘Ah yes, well—comes with the job I’m afraid.’
‘Well, good luck Sir Frederic! I’d say you’re gonna need it.’
Harley finished off his whisky. ‘Alright then—so what about me?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Why did you have me brought in? I thought I was getting lumbered.’
‘Ah. Well, you see, I’ve already implemented some new tactics—techniques you’d recognize from the SIS. One of which is to try to get better cross-communication between the Borough Operational Command Units. You know the sort of thing—sharing relevant intelligence. I’ve brought a couple of my best chaps over with me from the Firm; we’re doing a whirlwind tour of the stations, bit of a “meet and greet” affair. One of the directives is for the station commanders to make a review of all the cases in the last six months and highlight any reports involving foreign nationals, to pick up anything that we may have missed regarding these anarchist johnnies, d’you see?’
‘How can you be so sure that this group are foreigners?’
‘We can’t be sure—but on review of the evidence so far, I’d say it’s a fair assumption; certainly a line of enquiry that needs following up. So we arrive here at Savile Row, the Chief Inspector shows me how the process is being carried out. I happen to flip open the file on top of the pile on his desk and scan through the details—suicide of a male prostitute, and so on … foreign national on the balcony, and so on … and then, there it is: owner of property—George Harley, private detective. Quite a coincidence, I think. And then it occurs to me: George Harley—just the man I need on board!’
Harley immediately stood up and grabbed his hat from the desk.
‘Oh no! Uh uh—no way! I’m long done with all that malarkey …’
‘Wait, George! Hear me out, at least!
Harley looked at his watch and then slumped back down in the seat with a sigh.
‘Go on then, you’ve got five minutes. But this had better be good.’
‘Give me your opinion on that young boy’s death in your house—murder or suicide?’
‘Murder.’
‘Detective Inspector Quigg thinks otherwise.’
‘Detective Inspector Quigg is a wrong-un.’
‘Ah.’
‘And by the way, before you go on, I’m not buying the old I just happened to be flicking through the files routine. What’s got you so excited about this case?’
Swales released another plume of smoke and smiled broadly.
‘Apologies, George—I can’t divulge that.’
‘Well then, it was nice seeing you again, FW—’
‘Sit down, won’t you! Blast it, man! You’re up and down like a whore’s bloomers! Alright now, listen! The deceased was a one …’ Swales referred to a piece of paper in front of him. ‘… Aubrey Phelps, aged nineteen—born in Bicester, Oxfordshire, to a Cecil and Eileen Phelps. At the time of his death he was actively engaged in male prostitution—’
‘And why exactly would the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police need to know so much about little Aubrey Phelps?’
‘Because, George, he was the third young male prostitute to be found dead in the past month; all as the result of a fatal wound to the wrist from a bladed instrument—probably a razor—and all investigated by our friend Quigg. And as dire as the present situation may be, murder is still—thankfully—a relatively rare occurrence in this fair city of ours.’
‘Christ! How have you managed to keep this out of the papers? The press usually lap this kind of stuff up.’
‘Because Quigg has recorded them all as suicides—case closed, no further action.’ Swales referred to his notes again. ‘Three victims: Aubrey Phelps; a John or Jack Brewster, seventeen, of no fixed abode; and a Billy Ray, also-known-as Billy Simmons—although it’s likely that neither was his real name—again of no fixed abode, age unknown.’
‘And no one else picked up on it?’
‘Not until I had my people review the cases. You see my problem—it’s not just Quigg who’s acting with irregularity, but his superiors as well.’
‘Acting with irregularity? It stinks FW! And you know it.’
‘God’s trousers man! Keep your voice down! Now, I’ll admit it certainly looks like that from the first glance; but I have a duty to investigate thoroughly and without prejudice. Once I have gathered all of the evidence I will do everything in my power to eradicate the rot in the service. Hopefully you can see now why I’m so keen to get you involved. You see, at the moment I’m not sure exactly who I can trust—and you’re already so close to the case. How did you get to know this boy Phelps?’
‘Exactly as I told Quigg—I found him in an alleyway, the victim of a serious assault.’
‘And that’s your only connection?’
‘Absolutely—I give you my word.’
‘Well, it’s an amazing coincidence, Harley, but if you give me your word that’s good enough for me. Very well then—this is what I’m proposing: we re-open the case and investigate it as suspected murder. You are engaged by the Metropolitan Police as a special consultant, reporting directly to me. You investigate the case alongside a detective from this police station—’
<
br /> ‘Can’t do that.’
‘Good grief! Why ever not?’
‘Because there’s no one in this nick’s CID that I could trust. They’re all rotten as far as I’m concerned, all contaminated by the big rotten apple himself—Quigg.’
‘Well, we shall be hopefully dealing with that in due course, but in the meantime you can work with the new boy—DC Pearson.’
‘What—Quigg’s sidekick?’
‘Hardly that, dear boy. The lad’s only been posted here for a week—up from the West Country. No time for him to become “contaminated” as you call it.’
‘And I’d get paid?’
‘Of course—your usual professional rate.’
‘Plus expenses?’
‘Within reason.’
‘I don’t know—can I sleep on it?’
‘What’s there to think about? It’s what you wanted isn’t it? To have the boy’s death investigated as a murder?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Well, that’s the impression you gave to PC Burns.’
‘Why do I get the feeling I’m being played like a fiddle here, FW? Tell me straight—do I have a choice?’
‘There are always choices, Harley.’
‘Hmm … the last time you told me that I ended up at sea for a year. And I’d be leading the investigation?’
‘Not officially, of course, but in effect—yes.’
‘And what’s in this for you?’
‘Ooh—let’s just say I’m keen to make use of those unique skills again.’
‘Oh, I get it now—who better to feed you back little titbits from the street, eh? Well, if it helps clean up this cesspool, why not? But let’s get this straight—I won’t be putting the squeak in on any of my pals, alright?’
‘The squeak?’
‘Informing on my associates.’
‘Oh—I’m afraid I’ve got much bigger fish to fry, George.’
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