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Authors: Christopher Fowler
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under siege. As he groped his way home, the case file of a murdered dancer was making its circuitous way towards the unit.
10
COLD FEET AND ROASTED CHESTNUTS
‘Can’t you tell him I’ve already left, John?’ It was early on Tuesday morning, and Arthur Bryant had just been informed that Farley Davenport was on the telephone for him.
‘He knows you’re here. He says he can hear you in the room even when you’re not saying anything.’
‘For someone who appears to be deaf most of the time, he has very acute hearing when he needs it.’ Bryant searched his jacket pockets, looking for his pipe. He was forever losing it, especially when it was lit, and had a habit of setting fire to things. ‘Is he still holding on?’
May gingerly returned the heavy Bakelite receiver to his ear, then covered the mouthpiece. ‘I can hear him breathing.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake give it here.’ He held out his hand so that May could pass him the telephone before busying himself on the far side of the office. ‘What can I do for you, Davenport? I was just on my way out.’
‘Alvar Lidell mentioned that business with the Leicester Square Vampire on the wireless this morning, Mr Bryant.’
‘I know. I found his report fanciful in the extreme. He’s in danger of developing a sense of humour. One can’t help feeling it would be detrimental to the war effort.’
‘Be that as it may, I believe I had expressly instructed you not to attract any publicity to the matter. We shall have to issue denials.’
‘Someone from the
Daily Sketch
came creeping around asking questions. I told him the absolute bare minimum. I didn’t think for a moment that he’d pass the information on to anyone else. I can’t for the life of me imagine how the BBC got hold of it.’
May waved his hand at Bryant, requesting the receiver. ‘Ah, our Mr May would like a quick word with you.’ He threw it as though it was burning his fingers.
‘Mr Davenport? That account was treated as a jocular endpiece to the news. It couldn’t possibly be taken seriously, provided no further information is released. To refute the report now would only validate it.’
There was a pause on the line. ‘I didn’t realize you were an expert on the subject, Mr May.’
‘I’m not, sir, but a fire can’t burn without oxygen to feed it.’
Another pause. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Let me have another word with your colleague.’ May hastily passed the telephone back.
‘I’ll let the matter lie there, Mr Bryant, provided there are no further security breaches of this sort,’ warned Davenport. ‘These are the kind of propaganda victories Goebbels is praying for.’
‘Fair enough, point taken,’ said Bryant. ‘I’m in receipt of your new boy, by the way.’
‘Ah, Mr Biddle,’ said Davenport cagily. ‘Thought you could use an extra hand.’
‘I now have the perspicacious Mr May, for whom I thank you. Biddle is rather over-egging the pudding, don’t you think?’
‘Don’t push your luck, Mr Bryant. He’s there to keep an eye on things.’
‘I’ll make sure he spells our names correctly in the reports he prepares for you.’
There was a small, deathly silence on the other end of the line. ‘As long as you’re spending government money, you must be made accountable to the public.’
‘I wonder that they don’t have a right to know at least some of the things that go on.’ Bryant winked at May across the cluttered desks.
‘The news must be managed correctly if it is to have the right effect on the morale of the nation,’ barked Davenport. ‘You will not let this happen again.’
‘Righty-ho, message received and understood.’
There was a pop and the line went dead.
‘I say, thanks for getting me off the hook,’ said Bryant, replacing the receiver.
‘What’s Davenport like?’
‘He can be a bit of a stick. He’s incredibly old, of course, and I’ve seen a happier face on a pilchard. I hope I never get to be like that when I’m
10
COLD FEET AND ROASTED CHESTNUTS
‘Can’t you tell him I’ve already left, John?’ It was early on Tuesday morning, and Arthur Bryant had just been informed that Farley Davenport was on the telephone for him.
‘He knows you’re here. He says he can hear you in the room even when you’re not saying anything.’
‘For someone who appears to be deaf most of the time, he has very acute hearing when he needs it.’ Bryant searched his jacket pockets, looking for his pipe. He was forever losing it, especially when it was lit, and had a habit of setting fire to things. ‘Is he still holding on?’
May gingerly returned the heavy Bakelite receiver to his ear, then covered the mouthpiece. ‘I can hear him breathing.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake give it here.’ He held out his hand so that May could pass him the telephone before busying himself on the far side of the office. ‘What can I do for you, Davenport? I was just on my way out.’
‘Alvar Lidell mentioned that business with the Leicester Square Vampire on the wireless this morning, Mr Bryant.’
‘I know. I found his report fanciful in the extreme. He’s in danger of developing a sense of humour. One can’t help feeling it would be detrimental to the war effort.’
‘Be that as it may, I believe I had expressly instructed you not to attract any publicity to the matter. We shall have to issue denials.’
‘Someone from the
Daily Sketch
came creeping around asking questions. I told him the absolute bare minimum. I didn’t think for a moment that he’d pass the information on to anyone else. I can’t for the life of me imagine how the BBC got hold of it.’
May waved his hand at Bryant, requesting the receiver. ‘Ah, our Mr May would like a quick word with you.’ He threw it as though it was burning his fingers.
‘Mr Davenport? That account was treated as a jocular endpiece to the news. It couldn’t possibly be taken seriously, provided no further information is released. To refute the report now would only validate it.’
There was a pause on the line. ‘I didn’t realize you were an expert on the subject, Mr May.’
‘I’m not, sir, but a fire can’t burn without oxygen to feed it.’
Another pause. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Let me have another word with your colleague.’ May hastily passed the telephone back.
‘I’ll let the matter lie there, Mr Bryant, provided there are no further security breaches of this sort,’ warned Davenport. ‘These are the kind of propaganda victories Goebbels is praying for.’
‘Fair enough, point taken,’ said Bryant. ‘I’m in receipt of your new boy, by the way.’
‘Ah, Mr Biddle,’ said Davenport cagily. ‘Thought you could use an extra hand.’
‘I now have the perspicacious Mr May, for whom I thank you. Biddle is rather over-egging the pudding, don’t you think?’
‘Don’t push your luck, Mr Bryant. He’s there to keep an eye on things.’
‘I’ll make sure he spells our names correctly in the reports he prepares for you.’
There was a small, deathly silence on the other end of the line. ‘As long as you’re spending government money, you must be made accountable to the public.’
‘I wonder that they don’t have a right to know at least some of the things that go on.’ Bryant winked at May across the cluttered desks.
‘The news must be managed correctly if it is to have the right effect on the morale of the nation,’ barked Davenport. ‘You will not let this happen again.’
‘Righty-ho, message received and understood.’
There was a pop and the line went dead.
‘I say, thanks for getting me off the hook,’ said Bryant, replacing the receiver.
‘What’s Davenport like?’
‘He can be a bit of a stick. He’s incredibly old, of course, and I’ve seen a happier face on a pilchard. I hope I never get to be like that when I’m
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