He turned to leave, paused and grumbled over his shoulder: “Oh, and thanks a bundle for handing me charge of the Crazy Gang! Yes, a hideous thought, but-I have to say-good tactics, Farman. I think I shall have to make a friend of young Drummond. Offer a sympathetic ear for his confidences. Listen to his adventures in the Big Smoke.… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll fix on a suitably chastised expression and nip off to-where is it they have their awful rookery? — room 10, is it? I’ll take the roll call and dodge the ink gobbets. Oh, and, this copper, call me when he gets here, will you? I’d like to meet him.”
CHAPTER 5
Joe paused on his way out into the still dark street, hesitated, then came to a decision. Better safe than sorry. With the boy’s sudden appearance last evening, there had gusted into his home an unease as menacing as the snow-bearing wind. Joe had learned over the years to conceal these presentiments under a cover of bluff normality, but he never disregarded them. He picked up the two bottles of milk from the step, smiling to see that the frozen liquid had forced its way up through the cap and was sitting like a penny-lick of ice cream at the neck. He stepped back into the hall and tapped on the door to his landlord’s ground floor apartment.
Alfred Jenkins didn’t keep him waiting. His door was flung open, revealing a stocky, shirt-sleeved figure against a glare of bright electric light. A blast of air lightly scented with smoke and coffee gushed out, and Joe heard in the background the friendly domestic sound of electric trains rattling their way around a circuit.
“You’re a bit late this morning, sir? Oh, thanks for that. Just in time. Glad you got to it before the sparrers! I’ll chisel a bit off the top for my cuppa. Join me?” The china mug of coffee raised invitingly at him and the sight of the morning’s Daily Mirror spread out over the kitchen table very nearly lured Joe inside to spend a happy half hour with Alfred setting the world to rights.
“Morning, Alfred. Something of an emergency on, I’m afraid. I have to go out for an hour or so. Look-I’m leaving my sister up there and she has someone with her. It’s my nine-year-old nephew from India. Name’s Jack. He’s in a spot of bother. They won’t be leaving until I come back to pick them up and-I feel a bit over-dramatic saying this.…” Joe shuffled his feet but, encouraged by an alert and enquiring face, hurried on: “Could you keep an eye out.… My nephew may possibly find himself the subject of unwanted attention. No one should be allowed in to visit them.” He grinned. “Especially not our flat-footed chums. It’s quite possible that a contingent of the provincial Plod may come calling and try to pick him up while my back’s turned. You’ll have no trouble identifying them-they’ll be a pair of florid six-footers with a Sussex accent. Oh-one exception-there’s a delivery expected in the name of Mrs. Dunsford. A Mr. Partridge of the outfitting department is sending out some things from Derry and Tom’s but no one else should go up. Just tell anyone showing an interest that the flat’s empty, will you? Not that I’m expecting anyone will call.” His rambling speech was betraying his anxiety and he stopped himself.
“The lady’s safe with me. And the young gent,” Jenkins replied briefly. “I’ve cleared the pavement out front, but watch your step. It’s come down thick in the night and it’s frozen over. Nasty.”
In his lonelier moments Alfred Jenkins, retired Metropolitan Police Inspector, told himself that he lived a full and rewarding life. His wife Mavis had died just after the war, but she’d left him with a good son. And now that son had sons himself, and Alfred was blessed with their frequent company. Their ma was a hard-working woman and left the lads with him while she got on with her jobs. Early severance from the Force due to injury some twelve years ago had left him a promising officer with a police medal for gallantry but with ambitions unfulfilled and a minuscule pension. Jenkins’ optimistic nature scorned to dwell on the disappointments. He reckoned he was a lucky bloke. Thank God he’d inherited his old uncle’s house at a dark moment. A bit of a ruin and out here in mucky old Chelsea down by Lots Road power station. All the advice had been: “Get rid of it, Fred. It’ll be a millstone round your neck. Shift it quick.” But he’d seen the possibilities. Georgian building. Good structure. Spacious. Just a bit faded. He’d taken a chance and spent his severance pay on refurbishing the top floor and having electricity put in. And a lift. In the end, he’d been able to pin a notice on the board at the Yard offering superior modern accommodation to a single professional gentleman. He’d been delighted when Sandilands had turned up holding the notice in his hand. His price and terms had been agreed without a quibble.
He hadn’t expected the young officer to spend many months under his roof. He was a professional all right, meticulous and driven you might say, but-single? Sandilands didn’t have the look of a bloke who’d stay unmarried for long. Yet twelve years down the road, and here he still was. Odd that, Jenkins always thought. It wasn’t as though he was uninterested in females. He never brought a floozie back, of course. The man was a gent, after all, but he did sometimes come rolling home late smelling of brandy and exotic perfume, collar melting and tie askew. Late? Sometimes early. Dumping the milk bottles at his door with a cheeky grin. Plenty of time though. Most men with a career to build waited until they were into their forties before they settled down. And the Captain, as his oldest mates who’d known him in the war years still called him, was on the right side of forty. Still looking around. Plenty of time.
Alfred decided he’d wait until ten o’clock before he went upstairs to check with Miss Lydia that all was well.
The Derry and Tom’s van passed his parlour window just after eleven, and Alfred made his way into the hall to greet the messenger.
The smart young man was holding a package and looking around him, getting his bearings. “Delivery. It’s for Sandilands. Top floor? I’ll take it up. That lift working is it?”
Cockney accent, Alfred noted. “Hold your horses, mate! Deliveries have to be recorded. Give me a minute to get the book, will you?” Alfred made his way back into his parlour, and found his record book on the sideboard. When he emerged, he found the man had followed him and was looking eagerly over his shoulder into the room. Pushy blighter.
“Train set is that? Electric? Cor! Gentleman’s hobby, would that be? Bet the kids love it!”
Alfred understood his interest and responded warmly to a fellow enthusiast. He smiled his pleasure and opened the door wider to allow the friendly young man a view of the room. “I keep it here for my three grandsons. Their ma leaves them with me every morning while she does her charring.”
Three small boys in check pinafores were squabbling gently over the train track. They all looked up on hearing the stranger’s voice at the door but turned back at once to the railway. A delivery man was no distraction from a derailed Flying Scotsman.
“Now then, Sid and Ian-you little ’uns better listen to your big brother,” Jenkins directed firmly. “Do what Andy says while I deal with this gentleman, will you? I don’t want to hear any quarreling when I’ve got my back turned. Or I’ll pull the plugs,” he finished with cheerful menace.
He waited for the automatic acknowledgements of “Yes, Grandpa” before turning back to the visitor. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind signing just here? Oh, and thank your Mr. Peacock for being so prompt with the order, will you? It is still old Peacock in outfitting, is it? Or has he retired by now?”
“Still there, sir. Bit doddery but he gets by.”