Who Guards a Prince?

by Reginald Hill

  Grossmith said, “Come and have a coffee, Doug. Let someone else sort this one out. You’re the victim, remember, not the investigating officer. Have you had any breakfast yet?”

  McHarg rose stiffly. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t fancy hospital food.”

  “You might wish you had,” said Grossmith. “Let’s see what the canteen can rustle up for you.”

  McHarg was surprised to discover how voracious his appetite was. As he was halfway through his second plate of bacon and eggs, Chief Superintendent Highfield, who was in charge of the Partington case, came in search of him, anxious for reassurance that he’d be fit enough to give evidence.

  “I’m fine,” said McHarg. “They’ll need to do more than that to stop me.”

  “You think it had something to do with the trial?” asked Highfield. “What happened exactly?”

  McHarg told him. When he got to the bit about the man called Phil, Highfield interrupted him excitedly. “Phil Wesson!” he said. “Pound to a penny!”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s one of the Wessons out of Lambeth. They got big in the property business back in the ’sixties; you know, the kind of property business you carried on with a pair of bruisers and a half-starved Alsatian. Buy a block of flats cheap with sitting tenants, then persuade them all to leave and redevelop.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s him?” demanded McHarg.

  “He’s a business associate of Partington’s, that’s what,” said Highfield. “He’s acted as a front man in half-a-dozen deals. His name turned up when we started our in-depth analysis of Partington’s affairs. At the really dirty end of things, where the blood and shit is, that’s where we kept on coming across dear Phyllis.”

  “Phyllis?”

  “Oh yes. Phil Wesson’s as queer as a rabbi’s Christmas,” said Highfield grimly. “But don’t let that fool you. He’s hard and he’s nasty.”

  “Any way you can get this into the trial?” wondered Commander Grossmith.

  “I doubt it, sir,” said Highfield gloomily. “I’d bet my pension that it was Wesson, but proving it’s another thing. He’ll have an alibi tighter than a duck’s arse. He hasn’t even got a record, would you believe it?”

  “No wonder I didn’t find his picture in Records,” said McHarg.

  “He’s in my files,” said Highfield. “We’ll get him one day, never you fear. Now we’d better be moving. Couldn’t you put your arm in a sling or something, Inspector? The more sympathy we can squeeze for the prosecution case, the better.”

  “You don’t sound very optimistic,” said Grossmith.

  “I’m not,” said Highfield. “The case is sound enough, on fifty percent of the counts at least. But he’s got good friends, has Partington. Everywhere. It’s going to be harder than getting the Royal Family done for speeding.”

  McHarg rose. “Thanks for the breakfast,” he said to Grossmith. “I’ll see you later, perhaps.”

  On their way out, they diverted to put the DI in charge of investigating the assault in the picture about Wesson.

  “You’ll get him at the Queen of Bohemia at lunchtime,” said Highfield. “It’s the bum-boys’ employment exchange south of the river. But you’ll have to box clever to make anything stick. Come on, Inspector. And try not to look so bloody healthy. The Prosecutor’s expecting a wounded hero!”

  He was just about right, and McHarg derived a certain cynical amusement from the Prosecutor’s solicitous enquiries as to his health, which went as close as he dared to suggesting a connection between the attackers and Partington.

  Defense counsel was no less sympathetic when his turn came in the afternoon and the time passed slowly if painlessly with gentle repetitious questions about the minutiae of McHarg’s evidence.

  Later back at the Yard, McHarg checked with the investigating DI.

  “Yes, we’ve seen Wesson. The Chief Super was right, we found him in the Queen of Bohemia. And he was right about him being a sharp boy too. He was alibi’d up to closing time by all the regulars in the Queen last night, and from then until five this morning by a little gang of the landlord’s special buddies who play cards after hours in the landlord’s parlor.”

  “You mean you take notice of a bunch of bent villains?” said McHarg disbelievingly.

  “Bent perhaps, but you’d better watch who you’re villaining,” said the DI. “Two titles and an MP for starters. No. Phyllis is safe, I reckon. Sorry, mate. I could get the local lads to check his tyres and road fund licence.”

  “Don’t bother,” said McHarg in disgust. “They’d probably end up giving him a tow.”

  On his way out of the building he ran into Elkin.

  The man seemed genuinely concerned and McHarg found he was grateful for some real sympathy.

  While they were talking, a message came through to McHarg that Superintendent Davison had been trying to ring him from Sanderton.

  “Use my phone,” offered Elkin.

  Davison sounded anxious. He had heard about the attack.

  “I’m all right,” assured McHarg.

  “I bet. And the trial? How’s it going?”

  “Sweetness and light all round today. Tomorrow the defense will put the boot in when I’m no longer the hero of the hour. I hope my part in the charade will be over by midafternoon.”

  “You sound ready for home, Douglas,” said Davison sympathetically.

  “Where’s that?” asked McHarg.

  “Hang on a mo,” said Davison. There was a pause, then: “Listen, Heather says if you’re driving home tomorrow evening, stop off here and have a meal with us. No, really. She won’t be happy till she sees for herself you’re all in one piece.”

  “I’ll see,” said McHarg.

  “Don’t see. Just come. That’s an order,” said Davison. “Any time after six.”

  “Tell her, thanks,” said McHarg. “Thanks a lot. I’ll be there.”

  He thanked Elkin and left the Yard. He found himself thinking of last night’s party at the BBC. The booze; his anger; Betty Woodstock in her wheelchair; Betty Woodstock naked and frustrated on her narrow bed.

  And the thought which had been with him all day suddenly surfaced.

  How had Phil Wesson known he was at Betty Woodstock’s flat?

  He had almost walked back to his hotel. A taxi was depositing a man outside it. On impulse, instead of following the man through the doors he climbed into the vacated cab and gave the driver Betty Woodstock’s address.

  Outside the block of flats another cab was parked with its flag down. In the cavernous interior McHarg glimpsed a woman as he went past towards the entrance. She looked vaguely familiar, but even more familiar was the high-pitched fluting voice which greeted him as he stepped inside.

  “Mr McHarg, isn’t it? How are you? I’m so pleased to see you are up and about after your ordeal. These are terrible times and may grow worse if we take no care of them.”

  It was Hunsingore, the evangelical lord, his narrow head fittingly haloed by his fluffy hair and his eyes agleam with missionary enthusiasm. He was standing by the porter’s desk and it was to the porter that McHarg, after a grunted response to Hunsingore’s greeting, addressed himself.

  “I’ve come to see Miss Woodstock,” he said.

  It was Hunsingore who replied.

  “I also,” he said. “But we’re out of luck. She’s not in, it seems, nor is likely to be.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the poor girl ever since I met her again last night. That dreadful accident! Such spirit she shows to be working again so soon, reconstructing her life. I felt I must talk to her, she could be such an example to many we have not yet been able to reach through New Vision. But when I rang her at the BBC, I was told she was ill. Now the porter here tells me she’s gone away, to convalesce I suppose. Scotland, the Cairngorms, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what Miss Woodstock said, sir,” answered the porter.

  “When did she go?” asked McHarg.


  “First thing this morning, very early on,” said the porter.

  “How did you know her address?” McHarg asked Hunsingore.

  “I didn’t. Mrs le Queux knows her quite well, though. We’ve been at a meeting this afternoon and, sharing a taxi back into town, I mentioned my interest and concern.”

  At that moment the doors opened and the woman from the cab whom McHarg now recognized as Rose le Queux from the BBC party entered.

  She said, “Willie, if you’re going to be much longer, I’ll have to take the taxi on by myself. I’m late already…”

  “She’s not here,” interrupted Hunsingore. “Gone off to Scotland.”

  “Then there’s nothing to keep you, is there?”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry. This is Superintendent McHarg, by the way. We met him last night.”

  “Inspector,” said McHarg.

  “I remember,” said the woman, though whether she was referring to his rank or his face was not quite clear.

  Hunsingore, eager to make up for keeping a lady waiting, now shot ahead through the door.

  Rose le Queux hesitated and said to McHarg, “You’re the one who got attacked. I read it in the papers. It was near here, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Had you been visiting Betty, by any chance?”

  “What if I had?”

  “God, you cops don’t give much change, do you?” she snapped. “It’s just that, well, I’ve seen her a couple of times since her accident. She did some research on a programme on prostitution once and we became quite friendly.”

  “Was that before or after you saw the light?” asked McHarg.

  “Oh forget it,” said the woman in disgust, turning to go. McHarg took her arm.

  “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. Carry on.”

  She looked at him uncertainly and said, “It’s nothing. Just that I’ve had the feeling when I’ve seen her since, which like I say has hardly been more than a couple of times, that she’s been in some trouble.”

  “Paralysis does trouble some people,” said McHarg.

  “No. More than that. Oh, I don’t know, I just thought you being a cop and all that, you might have been able to help if you got friendly.”

  “We didn’t get all that friendly,” said McHarg. “Besides, if she needs moral support, she’ll be OK now that your guru there has got himself interested.”

  “Willie?” She laughed lightly. “He’s a dear soul, almost saintly really, but I got the impression that what Betty needed was someone a little more down to earth. I didn’t really want him to descend on her like this.”

  “Is that why you skulked in the taxi?” he asked.

  She looked at him grimly. “Inspector, or sergeant, or whatever you are, get one thing straight. I believe in Willie Hunsingore and New Vision absolutely. Only I don’t want my friends to start avoiding me because they think I’m putting the hounds of heaven on the scent of their souls. I dare say that now and then even a policeman likes people to forget he’s a policeman.”

  “No,” said McHarg. “Not this policeman. But thanks all the same. This sudden departure of Miss Woodstock’s—does that surprise you?”

  “Why should it? If she wants to get up and go, she’s entitled.”

  “But it’s in character?”

  “Oh yes. From what I know of her, she’s a very decisive kind of girl.”

  The door opened once more. Hunsingore called plaintively, “I thought you were in a hurry, my dear?”

  “Just coming,” said Mrs le Queux. “Goodbye, Inspector.”

  “Goodbye. And thanks,” said McHarg.

  He stood for so long in thought that he found his muscles had begun to stiffen up again when he finally moved. But it was nothing that whisky and rest wouldn’t cure.

  CHAPTER 15

  By the time the court rose the following afternoon, McHarg’s part in the trial was over. As often happens, the physical and mental after effects of the attack had made themselves felt more strongly after twenty-four hours and he was aware that he had not cut a very good figure in the box. Defense had cleverly niggled away at great length, provoking a couple of irritated outbursts. Grossmith didn’t help by expressing doubts about the trial’s outcome when McHarg dropped in to say goodbye.

  “If he gets off, he gets off,” said McHarg, affecting indifference. “Our job’s catching ’em. The verdict’s nothing to do with us.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Grossmith equably. “Goodbye, Doug. Till next time. Take care.”

  In the outer office Elkin echoed the words.

  “Take care, pussycat. Don’t park on any yellow lines. And come back soon. Next time I’ll try to fix you up with a whole girl.”

  The face McHarg turned on him was so frightening in its lack of expression that Elkin raised his hands in not altogether mock defense.

  “All right, all right, you like your meals on wheels, that’s your business. Hey, McHarg. Something about you that interests me. I just thought it was a bit of the old mythology till I met you. Now I’m not so sure. Did you really get the bust for telling the Prince to fuck off?”

  McHarg paused with his hand on the doorknob and remembered. It had been in Italy. The young Prince had charmed everyone as always. Part of his charm was his willingness to fall in with his hosts’ plans, and when an unscheduled diversion was proposed after his last official function, he raised no objections, particularly as it involved a visit to a graveyard which housed many British dead from World War Two.

  The Prince laid a wreath. McHarg, uneasy at the change of plan, was keen to get him back in the car. Looking around, he could not see the usual plethora of Italian security men, and he suspected that the cemetery had not received the kind of blanket check made on the rest of the Prince’s route. When the Prince was invited to make a short diversion to examine an interesting, possibly Etruscan tomb, McHarg murmured, “No.”

  The Prince glanced at him in surprise, then said to the man who’d made the suggestion, “That would be most interesting.”

  McHarg gripped his wrist.

  “No,” he said. “Get in the car. Please, sir.”

  “Mr McHarg,” said the Prince in a low, angry voice. “I’m going to take a look at this tomb.”

  “You’ll do it with a broken wrist then,” said McHarg, increasing the pressure. “Why don’t you fucking well grow up? Just smile, get in the car and wave goodbye. Sir.”

  For a second an expression of sheer fury touched the Prince’s face. Then he turned abruptly, pulled his hand free and returned to the long black limousine with McHarg close behind.

  As the procession of cars drew away, Prince Arthur said coldly, “Mr McHarg.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Whatever the Prince had intended to say never got said. Behind them there was a loud blast. Bits of interesting, possibly Etruscan, monumental masonry rose high in the air. McHarg eased his gun from its holster.

  “Just drive on,” he said to the chauffeur. “Don’t stop for anything, not even little old ladies. Not unless you want to see them shot.”

  It was on his return from this trip that Flora had so savagely and directly accused him of accelerating her mother’s illness. Three weeks later McHarg was permitted to resign from the Royal Squad at his own request, while at the Yard the popular version of what he had said to the Prince soon reached unprintable proportions.

  McHarg did not care. But he remembered now his last exchange with Prince Arthur.

  “Mr McHarg, would you really have broken my wrist?” he had asked with genuine curiosity.

  “Yes, sir,” McHarg replied. “But with respect.” And they had laughed together.

  Now he smiled and said to Elkin, “What do you think, pussycat?”

  Outside McHarg stopped and looked back at the Yard. This had been his workplace for many years, in some ways the best years. Now it seemed strange, foreign, frightening almost. He suddenly felt on the outside, spiritually as well as phys
ically, and not just of the Yard but all kinds of things.

  He shook his head. Such feelings were all right on the Isle of Barra, but they had no place in a middle-aged policeman.

  He went back to his hotel to get packed.

  The journey out of London was slow and tedious. McHarg had left it late in the hope of missing the rush hour, but the rush hour seemed to embrace half the evening now.

  Once clear of the suburbs he made better time and his mind switched on the autopilot to take care of the driving while his thoughts ranged far and wide. Three thousand miles away, to be precise.

  America. What did America hold for him? Nothing, except perhaps a last chance. And perhaps only a fool took his last chance. A wise man should quit with enough in his pocket to show his contempt for the game.

  No, that was claiming too much dignity for what he felt. There was nothing dignified about weariness. He felt awash with indifference to his job, his friends, everything. He had a sense of turning his back on things he should be examining closely. The whisky he had drunk before leaving felt sour on his belly and probably smelt sour on his breath. It would be polite to swill the smell away before he saw Heather Davison.

  He brought his mind back to the road and saw without surprise how far he’d come. Not far ahead was the garage he’d stopped at on the way up to town. A beaker of their awful machine coffee would be as good a mouthwash as anything. And a chat with that vital old man, Mr Flint, might be a useful mind-wash.

  He pulled in.

  A long-haired girl in a green overall came out of the kiosk. She looked as if she might be on drugs.

  As she topped up the tank, he went to the machine and got himself some coffee. If anything, it had deteriorated since last time.

  “What time does Mr Flint come on?” he asked as he paid.

  The girl made her blank face look even blanker.

  “The old chap who does nights,” explained McHarg, speaking very slowly as though to a backward child.