by W H Oxley
The long fingers of mist were creeping along the yellow brick wall surrounding the barracks and swirling round the chromium plated headlamps of the car as Brightwell sat in the driver’s seat watching the bowler hatted figure pace up and down in the gloom. He knew the symptoms: Hawker was on to something but couldn’t quite work it out. He may not have had the words do-not-disturb written on his bowler but Brightwell knew there was nothing to do but wait. After fumbling around in the car, he located a packet of cigarettes, extracted one with his mouth and lit it.
Once a Bobby always a Bobby, and Hawker’s early years spent as young policeman on the beat made the rhythm of his pace unmistakeable. The two undesirables loitering by the barrack gate had no difficulty in recognising him for what he was, a copper in plainclothes, and slunk away into the gathering fog. Brightwell finished his cigarette, crushed it in the astray, picked up the book he’d been reading and left Hawker to his plodding…
He had almost reached the end of the story when there was a sharp rap on the window. He wound it down.
‘I need to talk to young Purvis as soon as possible. What’s the latest on his condition?’
‘How would I know, sir?’
‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Brightwell. I know exactly why you parked the car here while I was in the guardhouse.’ Hawker pointed to the bright red telephone box. ‘So would you please be so good as to let me have Nurse Williams’s latest report on the condition of the patient.’
‘He’s out of the operating theatre, sir, and they’re hoping for the best, but it doesn’t look too good.’
‘That’s all we need.’ Hawker looked grim. ‘If he snuffs it, then it becomes murder, and we’ll have the press on us like a pack of wolves. They’ll forget all about Hitler and train their guns on us.’
‘Any luck with the soldier, sir?’
‘Not really, though I can’t pretend I was expecting much. There is one small point he mentioned that I wanted to check with Purvis, but that’s about it…’
‘I thought you were on to something, sir. The way you were walking up and down.’
‘So did I. There’s something at the back of my mind, but I just can’t bring it to the front.’
‘You mean you want to be back-to-front?’
Hawker frowned.
‘Sorry, sir. I keep forgetting that you have no sense of humour.’
Hawker shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever found a use for one, but there is one thing I could definitely find a use for right now…’
‘And what is that, sir?’
‘A pint of good strong ale!’
‘The pubs won’t be open for another twenty minutes.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘Where to then, sir?’
‘I assume you’re in a hurry to get away?’ Hawker sighed.
‘Not really, sir. Jessie’s on night duty.’
‘In that case, take me to the nearest pub. We’re just going to have to sit outside and twiddle our thumbs until they ruddy well open.’
As Hawker flopped into the passenger seat, Brightwell started the engine and slipped into gear. ‘We could go over the case while we’re waiting, sir.’
‘Good Lord no! I’m sick of the bloody case,’ Hawker muttered, pushing a wad of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Let’s change the subject. What was that book you were reading?’
‘The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Ah that’s more like it! Purvis’s copy I take it?’
‘Just borrowing it, sir.’
‘Which story?’
‘The Sussex Vampire.’
‘Ah yes, one of my favourites. Holmes demonstrates his deductive powers by actually solving the case before he leaves Baker Street. When he gets to Sussex he merely ticks off the points to confirm his deduction. I wonder which one Purvis was reading?’
‘The Problem of Thor Bridge if his bookmarker is anything to go by.’
‘Mmm, another good one, Holmes is totally stumped until he has a flash of blinding inspiration and he…’
Hawker said nothing for the rest of the short drive, but as Brightwell pulled up outside a pub on the Finchley Road he suddenly came to life and bellowed, ‘Where the bloody hell are we?’
‘Outside a pub, sir. You asked–’
‘To hell with the pub! Take me to the pawnshop!’
Chapter 7