“Tempting Fate, Joe? Finishing off Rapson’s work for him like that?” Dorcas’s voice was subdued. “I’m not sure I want to do this.”
“Superstitious nonsense-just get on!”
Dorcas supplied him with the cutout then searched for and found a motoring map in her bag. “It’s small scale, but it’ll do. How many hospitals can there be off the main London road? Not many, and if the chauffeur saw the sign with a drama going on in the back seat, I’m sure we can find it with three people looking out. I’ll find a suitable one and guide you there. Leave it to me.”
They listened as Gosling clattered down the staircase and Joe hastily began to collect up documents and put them away. Dorcas hurried to help him.
“Why did you lose your rag with that young man, Joe? Nasty scene. I’m sure he didn’t deserve it.”
“I don’t trust him. He works for the opposition. I wanted to shock an admission out of him, and if you hadn’t poked your nose in I might have got it. It’s a well-known technique. You’ll have noticed that he’s younger and stronger than I am and that he’s no stranger to the noble art, so-”
“So you used your other advantages? The low cunning and clunking fist I mentioned. But what really provoked you to violence?”
“His pretence of cooperation was irritating me. And I don’t forget it was Gosling we came upon shunting little Spielman off in a Daimler.”
“We’re getting closer.”
“What is this? How many layers of the onion have you peeled off me so far? You know I can’t be doing with any of that analysis nonsense.”
“I think it was the boys, wasn’t it? The sudden realisation that Jackie and Spielman might be in danger. That caused the eruption. The translation of pent-up feelings into physical action. Good. I’m relieved to find there’s still a heart beating under the stiff navy suiting and the gold frogging. I could phrase that in more scientific terms, half of them German, but I don’t want to annoy you.”
“No time to be annoyed. One more thing to do before we shoot off into the night. Pass me that note pad, will you?” Joe scribbled on a sheet of paper and tore it off, talking at the same time. “Look, while I get this delivered, I want you to send Jackie straight to Matron to tell her he’s staying the night.”
“I take it you’re thinking he’s not in danger anymore?”
Joe sighed. “To be honest, I think another poor lad is on his way to meet old Charon, two obols tucked under his tongue. It’s time to fight another bout with the Infernal Lord or whatever Gosling called him. And this is one I’m not certain we can win. Hercules, where are you?”
“No idea what you’re maundering on about, but buck up, Joe! I’ve seen you take on the devil before and win.”
“Right. That looks tidy. Nothing more we can do. I expect old Farman will be straight in here the moment our backs are turned, but-what the hell!” Joe tucked the black book into the pocket of his overcoat and grabbed his scarf.
Inspector Martin got the call just after 3:00 P.M. He pulled on the gumboots he kept by the door and questioned the breathless young constable who was hopping from foot to foot in excitement just outside.
“I said we got it, sir! In the melt. Right in the middle of the yard. The knife. Six inches. Meat knife. Still got blood traces on it. You can cancel the dogs.”
“Good lad. Who needs bloodhounds when he’s got you and Sergeant Savage on a lead, eh?”
The two men sploshed their way down the path towards the farm buildings and Martin looked up anxiously at the sky. Not much daylight left-an hour at best, he calculated. But it would do. He stopped at the sound of a car engine starting up in one of the old covered horse-stalls that served as the school garage and watched as the Scotland Yard man’s Morris belted out backwards, skidded into a three-point turn, and then proceeded more carefully down the route to the front of the school.
“Yard buggering off early,” he remarked to the constable. “Will that be London hours he’s keeping, do you think?”
The constable nodded and grinned. “Perhaps he’s had enough and he’s off back to the bright lights for good. Had his snoop around, seen nothing, tucked his swagger stick under his arm, and suddenly-‘Carry on, Inspector’ is what we hear.”
“ ‘Sod off, Inspector’ is what I’m hearing,” Martin grunted.
“Except we don’t hear. Gone without so much as a ta-very-much.”
This rapid exit was exactly what Martin had been hoping for. A clear run at a demanding task without the Fancy Pants Met officer breathing down his neck now lay before him. His departure was only to be expected, and the constable had it right. Of course. So why the dejection he was feeling? Deceived? Let down? Martin reviewed his vocabulary and selected: Fucked up! Always a man who could analyse his own feelings and motives, he further decided to condemn his own pride. He’d wanted to show off for this bird. To demonstrate to the Met that he could run a crime scene and come up with the goods. He’d looked forwards to conferring with the commissioner in the matey way the bloke had seemed to favour. All words. Slather. Veneer. Hadn’t even the manners to say he was taking off and wish him luck.
Martin sighed. Ah, well. Another entry in the book of experience.
“Sir! Sir!”
Martin turned to see a school steward slithering down the path in his indoor shoes, waving a bit of paper.
“What’s up, lad?”
“Message from that visitor. Sandilands. He said it was urgent.”
Martin took the folded sheet from him and read:
“Martin! Emergency. Boy missing. Another!
I leave in pursuit. Regroup your office, first light.
Good luck with the sniffers! J.S.”
Martin smiled at the crisp officer’s phrasing and tucked the note in his pocket. “All’s well, constable. And don’t fret about the Met. He’ll be back to bother us.”
CHAPTER 18
Ten miles north and the light was fading fast. The big car boomed on through the gloaming and Joe was glad of the powerful headlights. Glad also of the strong and confident young hands on the wheel. Gosling was a natural driver and-unusually for one his age and capability-silent on the subject. He didn’t refer to Joe’s modest, workmanlike motorcar as “she.” He didn’t bother Joe with questions he couldn’t answer on mileage, torque or the rattle under the near-side wheel arch. He managed even to avoid a sneering comparison with the Bentley most young men’s uncles seemed to own these days.
Dorcas was sitting next to him in the front passenger’s seat, a map in one hand and a police hand-torch in the other. She was alert and scanning both sides of the road.
“Not so cold now,” Gosling said. “That’s a soft southerly blowing in. The thaw’s well under way. This lot’ll be completely gone by morning.”
“Nasty underfoot?”
“Not bad. Slushy rather than slippery, and the gritters have passed this way. Thirty seems safe on this stretch. As long as I don’t do anything silly with the brake pedal, we’ll be all right. Miss Joliffe? Dorcas? Can you see anything on the map that might be a hospital?”
“No. A way to go yet. I’ve been studying the map, and I’ve got my eye on a likely place. Don’t worry-I’ll tell you in good time to make the turning off. Keep going.”
A few minutes later Gosling exclaimed, “There! A sign. Prince Albert’s Hospital. Half a mile.”
“That’s not marked on here,” Dorcas objected. “There’s no ‘H’ for hospital.” And added vaguely: “A capital ‘H’ does mean hospital, doesn’t it? Not hotel or hostelry?”
“Worth a look,” Joe decided. “Turn off, Gosling.”
Gosling eased the Morris off the main road and into a still snowbound side road.
“Not such good going, sir, but others have been up here before us, so we’ll manage.”
“I think you’re wasting your time. This has come up far too soon. It can’t be the one,” was Dorcas’s advice.