not? Miss Peto I think you are acquainted with?”
Dorothy Peto, the newly appointed Superintendent of Women Police, was managing to sit to attention, spruce in her blue serge. No one had ever seen her in civilian clothes—indeed, the word was that she slept in her uniform. She dimpled at Sir James, acknowledging his gallantry, then nodded and smiled at Joe. One ally then at least in this company. Miss Peto and Joehad done a lot of agreeing over the employment of women in the force over the years, though he would never have had the gall to call this undeniably attractive but formidable woman “pretty.” Effective, clever, tough, principled, redoubtable—many adjectives would have sprung to Joe’s lips before “pretty.” But, by God, here she sat, turning a tender gaze on Sir James instead of a frosty set-down.
“And here you see, we have your boss, Lord Trenchard, and, on his right hand—for where else would you find him?—his Right Hand: Howgrave-Graham, whom you know.” Joe nodded with pleased recognition at the grey-suited Secretary of Scotland Yard. A civilian but much admired by the officers of the Met, he was known to be the trusty backstop for the Commissioner. “And Superintendent Cottingham, who issued the invitations.”
Ralph twitched his shoulders and grunted. Joe detected the signs of rising irritation in his normally equable colleague.
“And now for the non-police handout—the other chap armed with a notebook is my own private secretary Christopher Gledhill and, on his left—the man you really wanted to see—a minister in the Department of Education. A junior minister but word has it not junior for much longer: Aidan Anderson.”
Joe rose and reached over to shake the hands of the men he had not met before. As he murmured pleasantly, he cobbled together a swift inventory. This double quadrille seemed to him to consist of four specialists in their field (the head of the Met and the head of the women’s police plus two politicians), balanced on the other side by four work horses: two secretaries and two coppers.
“And our
convener
, Sandilands,” Trenchard’s dry voice broke in, “who assumes that everyone knows
him
, I will introduce myself. With proper regard for procedure. And to spare you, Truelove, the embarrassment of blowing your own trumpet. You wouldn’t want that! Sir James, may I present to you: JosephSandilands, one of my assistant commissioners? Sandilands, I’d like you to meet Sir James Truelove, the Secretary of State for Reform.”
Everyone was uneasily conscious of the set-down, with the exception of Truelove himself, who genially extended a hand. Joe was expecting the token squeeze dished out by an elegantly manicured politician and was surprised by a vigorous shake from a square and rather rugged hand. Joe had encountered similar callouses before. On men who handled oar, ax or spade. Truelove! Joe’s consternation grew. The rising star of the government by all accounts; next prime minister but one, it was whispered by those who claimed to know these things.
Joe had seen photographs of him in the newspapers but would not have recognised him from their evidence. The black and white prints gave emphasis to the smooth, lofty forehead, the neatly barbered, brilliantined hair, the commanding nose and the cold intellectual stare that brought reassuringly to mind the face of the young Duke of Wellington. The pressmen’s flash bulbs turned him into a sleek assembly of planes in light and shade, from any angle a challenging face, a modern face. A face often photographed above a white tie and stiff collar, leaving the Savoy or the Ritz. But the flesh and blood reality in front of Joe this chilly morning was less the impeccably groomed hero of a Hollywood movie, more the backwoodsman. He was much younger looking than his forty odd years. His hair had received only cursory attention; the rough jacket and trousers were more suited to a grouse moor than the city. A man who’d
Dorothy Peto, the newly appointed Superintendent of Women Police, was managing to sit to attention, spruce in her blue serge. No one had ever seen her in civilian clothes—indeed, the word was that she slept in her uniform. She dimpled at Sir James, acknowledging his gallantry, then nodded and smiled at Joe. One ally then at least in this company. Miss Peto and Joehad done a lot of agreeing over the employment of women in the force over the years, though he would never have had the gall to call this undeniably attractive but formidable woman “pretty.” Effective, clever, tough, principled, redoubtable—many adjectives would have sprung to Joe’s lips before “pretty.” But, by God, here she sat, turning a tender gaze on Sir James instead of a frosty set-down.
“And here you see, we have your boss, Lord Trenchard, and, on his right hand—for where else would you find him?—his Right Hand: Howgrave-Graham, whom you know.” Joe nodded with pleased recognition at the grey-suited Secretary of Scotland Yard. A civilian but much admired by the officers of the Met, he was known to be the trusty backstop for the Commissioner. “And Superintendent Cottingham, who issued the invitations.”
Ralph twitched his shoulders and grunted. Joe detected the signs of rising irritation in his normally equable colleague.
“And now for the non-police handout—the other chap armed with a notebook is my own private secretary Christopher Gledhill and, on his left—the man you really wanted to see—a minister in the Department of Education. A junior minister but word has it not junior for much longer: Aidan Anderson.”
Joe rose and reached over to shake the hands of the men he had not met before. As he murmured pleasantly, he cobbled together a swift inventory. This double quadrille seemed to him to consist of four specialists in their field (the head of the Met and the head of the women’s police plus two politicians), balanced on the other side by four work horses: two secretaries and two coppers.
“And our
convener
, Sandilands,” Trenchard’s dry voice broke in, “who assumes that everyone knows
him
, I will introduce myself. With proper regard for procedure. And to spare you, Truelove, the embarrassment of blowing your own trumpet. You wouldn’t want that! Sir James, may I present to you: JosephSandilands, one of my assistant commissioners? Sandilands, I’d like you to meet Sir James Truelove, the Secretary of State for Reform.”
Everyone was uneasily conscious of the set-down, with the exception of Truelove himself, who genially extended a hand. Joe was expecting the token squeeze dished out by an elegantly manicured politician and was surprised by a vigorous shake from a square and rather rugged hand. Joe had encountered similar callouses before. On men who handled oar, ax or spade. Truelove! Joe’s consternation grew. The rising star of the government by all accounts; next prime minister but one, it was whispered by those who claimed to know these things.
Joe had seen photographs of him in the newspapers but would not have recognised him from their evidence. The black and white prints gave emphasis to the smooth, lofty forehead, the neatly barbered, brilliantined hair, the commanding nose and the cold intellectual stare that brought reassuringly to mind the face of the young Duke of Wellington. The pressmen’s flash bulbs turned him into a sleek assembly of planes in light and shade, from any angle a challenging face, a modern face. A face often photographed above a white tie and stiff collar, leaving the Savoy or the Ritz. But the flesh and blood reality in front of Joe this chilly morning was less the impeccably groomed hero of a Hollywood movie, more the backwoodsman. He was much younger looking than his forty odd years. His hair had received only cursory attention; the rough jacket and trousers were more suited to a grouse moor than the city. A man who’d
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
