“Go and climb into bed, Jackie. I’ll be with you in a minute.… What are you on about, Joe?”
“Hector. You can give him Hector.” He frowned to hear her peal of laughter.
“Your disgusting old horse? He was declared unhygienic and mother threw him out years ago. Anyway,” she whispered, “the boy’s nearly ten. I don’t want to insult him.”
“Do it anyway, Lydia.”
Joe sat and listened for a while to the soft voices coming through from the box room, first Lydia then Jackie in reply. There was a shared laugh. Probably greeting Hector’s appearance. These were the most natural of sounds, friendly and domestic. Impossible to believe that there was a bloody background to these moments of peace, hard to believe that they sat in the outfall of manslaughter at the very least.
“Well, Joe,” said Lydia when she returned, “what now? Worked out your next move, have you?”
“Yes, my immediate next move, said Joe, “but beyond that I can’t see. My next move has to be to ring up this wretched school. I should have done it hours ago but this has been rather a precious moment for me and I didn’t want policemen clumping all over the place. Or headmasters. I didn’t want Jackie to be in any kind of trouble whatever and we can keep him safe and warm and fed here. I even had a sort of mad idea that he might go back home with you for a bit at least. Was that so daft?”
“Well I have to say I think it was a bit daft. Of course he’d be totally welcome and for as long as you can manage-you know that. But there are others involved, aren’t there?”
“Quite a few,” said Joe. “Quite a few.”
He picked up the phone and dialled directory enquiries. Lydia heard him say in a very police voice, “St. Magnus School, Sussex please.” And after the delay, “St. Magnus School? Please put me through to someone in authority.” And then, “My name is Sandilands. I’d like to know to whom I am speaking.… This is important and confidential. I would prefer to speak to the headmaster. You may tell him it concerns a boy of his. Jack Drummond.”
Almost at once a worried and angry voice: “Hullo? Hullo? You have something to tell me about Drummond? Do you know where he is? I say, do you know where he is? And, incidentally, who are you? Are you saying you’ve got Jack Drummond there? How did this happen?” The voice was anxious, hostile. “The police are looking for him you know.”
“I didn’t know but I thought it was possible. But I need to know who I’m speaking to-is that the headmaster?”
“Yes. Farman here. Where are you speaking from?”
Carefully and succinctly Joe gave his name, address and telephone number.
“London! How the hell did he get there?” said Farman, clearly not in any way reassured. “Who’s holding him?”
“No one’s holding him,” said Joe. “He’s in my care.”
“What’s it got to do with you? How did you get in on this?”
Patiently Joe explained. “Mr. and Mrs. Drummond gave Jackie my name and address as a contact if he was in any sort of trouble. I met him at Victoria Station and brought him back to my flat here. I’ve fed him and he’s now in bed. I do not want him disturbed or worried in any way tonight. He’s obviously been through an alarming experience. Now-you said the police were looking for him. Can you explain to me why?”
“There’s been a bit of … an accident here. It is apparent that Drummond was in some way involved. The police need to interview him. Perhaps you’d better speak to them. Come back to me when you’ve finished-we must arrange for Drummond’s return as soon as possible. I consider that of paramount importance. I am, after all, in loco parentis.”
“And, by the same token,” said Joe, “I find myself in loco patris.” He delivered the invention with all the gravitas of a lawyer. “Which is to say, the boy has been transferred to my care, in writing, by Andrew Drummond. I have the document to hand. I have assumed paternal responsibility for him.”
“I shall need to see your proof. I have a list here that his parents gave me of relations and friends he might contact and I don’t see your name on it.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like this man,” Joe thought. “Do I play my trump card now? Yes, I think I do.”
“Before we say any more or make any plans for the immediate future,” he said frostily, “I want to speak to the officer presently in charge of this case.”
And Farman’s voice distantly, “He wants to speak to you. Some interfering blighter called Sandilands. I’m not getting much sense out of him myself. Will you take this? That might be best.”
An efficient police voice took over. “Detective Inspector Martin.”
“Good evening, Martin,” said Joe. “My name is Sandilands. You may possibly have heard of me. Assistant Commissioner Sandilands, Scotland Yard.”
There was a grunt at the other end. “Would you mind saying that again?”
Joe did so.
“And may I ask what has been your involvement so far, sir? This is a complicated case, as you probably gather, but I wouldn’t have thought it warranted the full attention of.…”
In the background Joe heard Farman’s voice: “Go on, Martin, tell him to mind his own bloody business! Tell him to get off the line and bring the boy back here. Or can we send a car for him?”
Then Martin’s voice: “Just a minute, Mr. Farman. Now, say again-this has come to the attention of the Metropolitan Police? What, may I ask, is precisely your involvement, Assistant Commissioner?”
Joe smiled as he heard the emphasis, emphasis no doubt for Farman’s benefit.
“The boy was committed to my care by his parents. I expect you’re making notes? You may pencil in: ‘uncle’ and add: ‘Indian connections … diplomatic interest.…’ ”
“I don’t care if he’s the Mahatma’s grandson, we want him here as soon as possible.” Martin was clearly irritated by the suggestion of influence. Irritated to the point of rudeness. “He may be a witness in a murder enquiry. Do you know anything about this? Are you acting in an official capacity?”
“I know only what the boy’s told me. But may I make one thing quite clear? That boy is going nowhere tonight. If you want to interview him you can speak to him here in my presence or, if you can persuade me that it’s absolutely necessary, I will bring him down to you. Starting out tomorrow. It’s snowing heavily here in London and I expect it’s even worse down there in Sussex. It may not even be possible to undertake the journey. The best I can offer is to start out in the morning and spend the night at the boy’s aunt’s house in Surrey, thus breaking halfway what looks like being a difficult bit of motoring. In the meantime, believe me, I have no desire whatever to interfere, though I own to an interest.”
“Yes.…” said Martin more calmly. “It’s an interesting situation to say the least. Look here, sir-confidentially, the boy is a murder suspect and I’d sooner he was in police custody.”
“That,” said Joe, “is precisely what I am anxious to avoid. Would I be forcing a confidence if I were to ask what is the present situation of Mr. Rapson, master at St. Magnus School?”
There was a long pause at the other end. “I have no reason to doubt what you say but please recall that I have no proof of your identity. I release information in respect of Mr. Rapson only because it will very shortly become public knowledge. His present situation is not a happy one. He is, in fact, dead. He is the victim of multiple stab wounds. As far as we can see, the last person to see him alive was Jack Drummond. So we have this situation-at the very least, Jack Drummond is a material witness in a murder enquiry, or-and I’m sure I don’t have to spell this out-is a suspect. You will understand why I want to interview him, why I want him here, in Sussex, where the crime occurred and where it must be resolved.”