Tallis’s face darkened. ‘Where is all this leading?’
‘To the present situation – it’s comparable to the two cases I’ve just mentioned. When you trust my judgement, I secure arrests. When you block my initiatives, guilty men go free.’
‘The cases bear no resemblance to each other,’ Tallis said, waving a hand. ‘The murder victim at the Sankey Viaduct was a Parisian. There was a reasonable argument for moving the inquiry to France. As for the other victim, he was so closely linked to an execution at Maidstone Prison that I encouraged you to go to Kent.’
Colbeck’s memories were very different. In both instances, Tallis had hampered him at every stage of the investigation and only the inspector’s single-mindedness had enabled him to solve the respective crimes. The superintendent had deliberately rewritten history.
‘We have no proof whatsoever,’ Tallis continued, ‘that the murder victim discovered at Crewe has any discernible link with Ireland. You might just as well charge off to the Hebrides.’
‘I’d not find many racehorses there, sir.’
‘What?’
‘This crime is somehow connected to the Turf,’ said Colbeck with obvious conviction. ‘I feel it in my bones, Superintendent.’
‘Sciatica.’
‘It’s no accident that the hatbox in question was one purchased by Lord Hendry. He owns the favourite for the Derby.’
‘That information is irrelevant. I’m not a betting man.’
‘It might be advantageous for you to take an interest in this year’s race, sir. Three horses stand out from the listed starters – Odysseus, Merry Legs and – the one that fascinates me – Limerick Lad, an Irish horse.’
‘I abhor gambling in all its forms,’ said Tallis coldly, ‘and that’s not the only thing I have against the Derby. It’s a magnet for every criminal within a hundred miles. Year after year, pickpockets, prostitutes, fraudsters, ruffians and villains of every kind flock to Epsom Downs in search of rich pickings. Only a veritable army of policemen could keep them under control and we do not, alas, have such an army at our disposal. Don’t mention the Derby to me, Inspector,’ he went on, curling his lip. ‘If it was left to me, I’d cancel the whole disgraceful event.’
‘You’d cancel most things that people enjoy, sir.’
‘Large crowds mean constant crime.’
‘Abide by that argument and you’d stop every circus, fair and public celebration in London – not to mention royal processions.’
‘You’re being facetious.’
‘I’m questioning your prejudice against racing.’
‘I have no prejudice – I just oppose it wholeheartedly.’
‘Then I beg you to assign this case to someone else,’ said Colbeck abruptly. ‘Find someone who doesn’t have wild impulses like mine. Someone who believes that the crime has nothing whatsoever to do with the forthcoming Derby and who would therefore never imagine in a million years that a severed head found in Cheshire might be destined for Brian Dowd in Ireland.’
‘Who?’
‘Brian Dowd is the owner of Limerick Lad, sir. Unlike the vast majority of owners – Lord Hendry among them – he is also the horse’s trainer. However,’ he went on, getting to his feet, ‘none of this is germane to the investigation. The person who replaces me will conduct his enquiries exclusively on English soil.’
Edward Tallis glowered at him. Resisting the temptation to reach for a cigar, he weighed up the implications of what Colbeck had said. To replace the inspector would be as rash as it was foolish. Nobody commanded the respect of the London and North West Railway in the way that Colbeck did. He was revered and his knowledge of railway lore was unmatched. But that did not make him infallible. Colbeck had made mistakes in the past and Tallis was convinced that he was making the biggest of all now. He flung out a challenge.
‘Give me one good reason why I should send you to Ireland.’
‘Look at my copy of Bradshaw,’ suggested Colbeck.
‘Why?’
‘You’d see the choice of trains confronting the person who travelled with that stolen hatbox. One destination would catch your eye, sir – Holyhead. Fifteen minutes after leaving the train at Crewe, the man could have caught another to North Wales.’
‘This is idle supposition.’
‘Humour me, Superintendent.’
‘I’ve made that mistake before.’
‘Let me go to Ireland.’
‘It’s an unwarranted use of police money.’
‘Then I’ll pay for the trip myself,’ said Colbeck earnestly. ‘As long as you reimburse me when you discover that idle supposition can sometimes produce benefits.’
‘Not in this case,’ Tallis promised, asserting his authority. ‘Sound, solid, unrelenting detective work is the only way to achieve a good result and it must be done here in England where the crime occurred.’ When Colbeck tried to speak, he was silenced with a peremptory gesture. ‘I’ll hear no more, Inspector. Get out there and find me a killer – and don’t you dare mention Ireland to me again.’
There was a tap on the door. In response to a barked command from the superintendent, a young detective constable came in with a letter. After giving Colbeck a deferential smile, the newcomer handed the letter to Tallis.
‘This came from the coroner, sir,’ he said. ‘Marked urgent.’
‘Thank you.’
While the messenger went out, Tallis tore open the letter and took out the missive. His eyes widened with interest.
‘A headless body was hauled out of the Thames this morning,’ he explained, still reading it. ‘From its condition, it appears that it was in the water for a couple of days at least. Although it was hideously bloated, the coroner is certain that the body and the severed head belong to the same person.’
‘May I hazard a guess, Superintendent?’ asked Colbeck.
‘If you must.’
‘Is the man’s height given?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Then I guarantee that he’ll be no taller than five feet.’
Tallis blinked. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I suspect that he might be a jockey.’
‘His height is approximately four foot ten.’
After studying the letter again, Tallis put it aside and reached for a cigar. Deep in thought, he did not light it but rolled it slowly between his palms. He was reluctant to change his mind at the best of times, particularly where Robert Colbeck was involved, but he came to see that he had no choice. His voice dripped with rancour.
‘You did say you’d pay your own fare to Ireland, didn’t you?’
Colbeck beamed. ‘There and back, Superintendent.’
‘I’m still not persuaded, however,’ warned Tallis.
‘Then I’d better find the evidence that will bring you around to my point of view. Thank you, superintendent,’ he went on, moving happily to the door. ‘You won’t regret this decision.’
‘I wasn’t aware that I’d made one,’ grumbled the other.
Then he lit his cigar and puffed on it with a vengeance.
Victor Leeming surprised himself. For the first time in his life, he almost enjoyed a train journey. Though he was travelling away from London, he had the comfort of knowing that he would be able to return to his family that night and shake off the memory of his two unsought trips on the railway. Cambridge was within comparatively easy reach of the capital and he realised how beautiful the scenery was on the way there. As the train maintained a steady speed through open country, Leeming observed how effortlessly it overtook coaches and carts rumbling along roads that, from time to time, ran parallel with the line. By the time he reached his destination, he was compelled to admit that the railway did, after all, have its advantages.
Renowned for its university, Cambridge was also a thriving market town that brought people in from a wide area. While students inhabited the cloistered calm of the colleges or sought more boisterous pleasures on the playing fields, the narrow streets were thronged with local residents, visitors and the occasional beggar soliciting money from both. Having no inclination in that direction himself, Leeming had always been daunted by Cambridge’s reputation for scholarship. In reality, it was not at all intimidating. To his relief, he found it a warm, welcoming, friendly place filled with what he deemed were refreshingly ordinary people.