I stand, it was bad enough to send Leeminster to arrest and charge him without being sure he was guilty, but why in hell you persisted in the charge, and then committed contempt of court with that crack about him and the witnesses I shall never understand.”
Roger said in a thin voice, “Won’t you, sir?”
“No. What the hell got into you?”
Very slowly and deliberately Roger pushed his swivel chair into position behind his desk and sat down. He had known what he was doing, and Coppell must realise that; to adopt this attitude was to condemn him before he had been heard. For a few moments he was too angry to speak, but losing his temper would serve no purpose. He looked straight into Coppell’s eyes, and schooled his voice to carry a tone of cool respect.
“I might understandably ask you the same question: what has got into you?”
As he spoke, he knew that it had been the wrong moment; that instead of pulling Coppell up sharply into a more reasonable mood it had put him high on his dignity. Out of the blue, as it were, another crisis was upon him; you didn’t force a quarrel with your superior if you wanted to concentrate on the job in hand. And Coppell had a lot of influence in high places, could present him favourably if he wished and nearly damn him if he chose to be malicious.
Just now, he looked as if he hated Roger, and he actually took a long step forward, as if to sweep the younger man aside.
Chapter Three
CONFLICT
Coppell paused.
That he was genuinely angry showed in the glitter in his eyes and the swarthy flush in his cheeks. Roger wondered what was going on in his mind. Was he thinking much as he, Roger, was thinking: that, angry and resentful though he felt, there was no point in pushing a quarrel? They were mature men, very senior officials, and they should have sufficient self-respect and respect for each other to avoid open conflict. His own anger began to fade but Coppell’s apparently remained. Suddenly it dawned on him that Coppell was now in such a towering rage that he could hardly control himself.
So, he made himself say, “I’m sorry, sir.”
Coppell glowered and growled, “What’s that?”
“I said I was sorry, sir.”
Coppell was only five years Roger’s senior in age and service. Everyone who was anyone at the Yard knew that he had been appointed commander because there had been no one else of sufficient experience for the job. Only the discipline of the Yard, the absolute rule that on duty no officer called a senior in rank by his Christian name, and always used the “sir” held Roger steady now, but his heart was thumping and some of his nerves began to quiver. He couldn’t do more.
Oh, grow up, he thought: and he was thinking of himself, not Coppell. He was suddenly aware that in one way Coppell would never grow up, would probably never know true magnanimity. But at least the “sorry” mollified him and his eyes lost their glitter.
Would Coppell rub his nose in the apology?
If he says I should damn well think so, thought Roger in another surge of emotion, I’ll give him my resignation.
Coppell opened his mouth to speak, but before he uttered a word the door of the communicating room with Danizon opened and Danizon himself came in, pushing the door open with his rump. A tray rattled in his hand. Coppell, nearer the door, acted almost mechanically, and held it for the detective sergeant to come through. Danizon must have known that someone was there but not who it was. He grunted “ta” and placed the laden tray on a corner of Roger’s desk. There was tea, hot water, milk, sandwiches thick with meat, bread and butter and some jam.
“Best I could do, sir,” said Danizon, then for the first time saw Roger’s face. He broke off, his expression asking, “What have I done wrong?” Then he glanced round and saw who had held the door open for him.
Out of the blue, Roger had a thought that was almost inspired, and he said, “Fetch another cup for the commander, sergeant.”
“Er—yes sir!” Danizon could not get out of the room quickly enough, and he shot one agonised glance over his shoulder as the door closed on him.
Coppell gave a kind of grin.
“Training him for the canteen?” he asked.
“I missed lunch,” Roger replied, and wondered whether the incident would restore Coppell to a reasonable mood.
“Doing what?” asked Coppell, and then he snorted. “Looking for those other two who were in bed with Rapelli?”
That appealed to him; if he, Roger, went carefully they would be over the worst, although the conflict between them would probably never fade entirely.
Before he could answer, Coppell snorted again.
“Well, let’s hear more. You wouldn’t stick your neck out unless you had a reason, even if a bloody bad reason. The Home Office is on the warpath, so your explanation had better be good.”
Roger’s heart dropped.
“There’s been a lot of cannabis and some heroin pushed in and around Doons Way, which is a short street with some small clubs and a lot of noise,” he stated. “I thought that the man Rapelli was involved. I was afraid that if Rapelli was out on bail he himself might be attacked next.”
“You just thought,” breathed Coppell.
“I also knew that some of the clubs stage occasional sex orgies in the upper rooms and that this witness—Dunster —runs around with some pretty funny people. All-in all, I decided it was worth letting the witness and her counsel and the court know what I knew. And I gambled on Gunn letting it pass with an apology.”
“Just as you gambled on quietening me down with one,” Coppell said.
Then Danizon came in with a cup and saucer, looking almost pleadingly at Roger for approbation. Roger took the cup and saucer.
“Thanks. Oh, sergeant—has Mid-Western Division called?”
“Not—not lately, sir.”
“If anyone calls from there, put the call through to me.”
“Right, sir !” Danizon backed out with obvious relief, and Roger began to pour tea. At least he knew that Coppell liked his strong, with plenty of sugar.
“We’ve so much drug pushing going on I think the gamble was worth it. But I can’t see Rachel Warrender defending anyone involved in drugs. I think the alibi was a phoney,” he went on, “but I’m not sure drugs are the trouble. I am sure Rapelli’s terrified.”
“There are orgies,” Coppell pointed out. “The alibi could be genuine.”
“Yes, indeed.” Roger handed him a cup of tea and held out the sugar bowl. “But if the Dunster girl is telling the truth, then two witnesses that I have, who swear they saw Rapelli’s attack on Verdi, are lying. And I don’t think they are.”
“Now I begin to see daylight,” breathed Coppell. “You think the defence was trying to discredit police witnesses in advance?”
“I haven’t the slightest reason to think our witnesses are lying,” Roger replied. “I’ve seen them both after the court hearing. Had to go to a cabinet-making factory in Wandsworth for one and a bakery in Bethnal Green for the other, but their evidence will be all we need. I had to make sure of that, in view of what I’d done in court.”
Coppell gulped down his tea.
“So you’ve some sense. And we’ve two witnesses against Rapelli’s three,” he went on, musingly.
“I can’t imagine any jury believing the sex-party evidence,” said Roger. “The Dunster girl is perfectly capable of that sort of thing, as I said, all the same—” He paused.
Coppell looked at him intently.
“Carry on.”
“Well, sir—” Roger paused again. “The whole thing’s too slick, too convenient for Rapelli, for my liking. The girl’s a thorough bad lot all right, and more than capable of perjuring herself, which was what I meant to show the court when I said what I did. But even though I myself gave it to her on a plate—” Roger smiled ruefully “—I’m just not happy about this alibi.”