the case would be little more than a formality, wouldn’t it?”
“The law is the law, sir,” the Superintendent intoned the ancient lie obstinately.
“I’m well aware of the law.”
The danger signal was lost on the Superintendent. “Of course, you can promise the woman anything you like, sir. As far as I’m concerned you’re free to do whatever suits you.”
Richardson opened his mouth to protest—the double-crossing sod! —and then closed it instantly as he saw the light in Stocker’s eye. The Superintendent had made his final error.
“You are exactly right there,” said Stocker icily. “I can promise her anything I like and I am free to do what suits me—you are exactly right.”
The Brigadier had come to the Department from a missile command, but before that he had been an artilleryman: the words were like ranging shots bracketing the Superintendent’s position.
On target!
“And it suits me now to remind you that I am in charge here—“
Shoot!
“—and you are absolutely free to telephone your Chief Constable if you have any doubts about that.”
The two men stared across the hall at each other.
“You make yourself very clear, sir.”
Target destroyed ! No doubt about that, anyway: it was there in the droop of the tweed shoulders and the immobile facial muscles.
“It’s better that we understand each other.”
The Superintendent nodded slowly. “I take it you will be putting this in writing—that you have assumed responsibility?”
“Naturally,” Stocker nodded back equally slowly. Then he turned towards Richardson. “You can go ahead and make your deal, Peter.”
“Right—“ In the instant before Richardson’s gaze shifted from the Superintendent to the Brigadier he glimpsed a fleeting change of expression, a change so brief that it should have passed unnoticed “—sir.”
It was a look of profound satisfaction though, not defeat…
So that was the way of it after all: that target had been a false one, no more than an incitement of Stocker to take all the responsibility, and to take it over a formal protest and in black and white… Except for that momentary twitch of triumph it had been neatly done, too.
Not that it would worry the Brigadier, who was as accustomed to carrying the can as he was to breathing. It was simply a reminder that for him the Clarks and their victim were of very little significance.
What mattered was David Audley.
IV
“ HULLO, CLARKIE! ”
“Mr. Richardson!” Surprise, relief and then suspicion chased each other across Mrs. Clark’s face in quick succession. “Well I never!”
“Never what, Clarkie?” It pained him to see that shrewd, good-natured face so changed: the good nature had been driven out by fatigue, the pink cheeks were pale and the shrewdness had been sharpened into wariness. Standing up to the Superintendent and the Brigadier had not taken the stuffing out of her, but it had pushed her hard nevertheless.
“I never expected to see you, Mr. Richardson, sir. Not just now.”
“”Never expected to be here, and that’s a fact.” He turned to the uniformed policeman who stood like a monstrous statue beside the grandfather clock, out of place and out of proportion among the shining brass and polished oak of the dining room. “Very good, officer— you can leave us.”
The policeman stared at him doubtfully.
“Out!” commanded Richardson, irritation suddenly welling up inside him. “Go on with you!”
But as the door closed behind the policeman he pinned down the spasm of anger for what it was and took warning from it: either way this thing was hateful, but it was not that which was fraying his nerves. It was that caution and instinct were pulling him in opposite directions.
Something of this must have shown on his face, because there was regret in Mrs. Clark’s voice when she spoke.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I still can’t say anything to you. Not unless Sir Laurie Deacon says I can.”
“Sir Laurie
“The law is the law, sir,” the Superintendent intoned the ancient lie obstinately.
“I’m well aware of the law.”
The danger signal was lost on the Superintendent. “Of course, you can promise the woman anything you like, sir. As far as I’m concerned you’re free to do whatever suits you.”
Richardson opened his mouth to protest—the double-crossing sod! —and then closed it instantly as he saw the light in Stocker’s eye. The Superintendent had made his final error.
“You are exactly right there,” said Stocker icily. “I can promise her anything I like and I am free to do what suits me—you are exactly right.”
The Brigadier had come to the Department from a missile command, but before that he had been an artilleryman: the words were like ranging shots bracketing the Superintendent’s position.
On target!
“And it suits me now to remind you that I am in charge here—“
Shoot!
“—and you are absolutely free to telephone your Chief Constable if you have any doubts about that.”
The two men stared across the hall at each other.
“You make yourself very clear, sir.”
Target destroyed ! No doubt about that, anyway: it was there in the droop of the tweed shoulders and the immobile facial muscles.
“It’s better that we understand each other.”
The Superintendent nodded slowly. “I take it you will be putting this in writing—that you have assumed responsibility?”
“Naturally,” Stocker nodded back equally slowly. Then he turned towards Richardson. “You can go ahead and make your deal, Peter.”
“Right—“ In the instant before Richardson’s gaze shifted from the Superintendent to the Brigadier he glimpsed a fleeting change of expression, a change so brief that it should have passed unnoticed “—sir.”
It was a look of profound satisfaction though, not defeat…
So that was the way of it after all: that target had been a false one, no more than an incitement of Stocker to take all the responsibility, and to take it over a formal protest and in black and white… Except for that momentary twitch of triumph it had been neatly done, too.
Not that it would worry the Brigadier, who was as accustomed to carrying the can as he was to breathing. It was simply a reminder that for him the Clarks and their victim were of very little significance.
What mattered was David Audley.
IV
“ HULLO, CLARKIE! ”
“Mr. Richardson!” Surprise, relief and then suspicion chased each other across Mrs. Clark’s face in quick succession. “Well I never!”
“Never what, Clarkie?” It pained him to see that shrewd, good-natured face so changed: the good nature had been driven out by fatigue, the pink cheeks were pale and the shrewdness had been sharpened into wariness. Standing up to the Superintendent and the Brigadier had not taken the stuffing out of her, but it had pushed her hard nevertheless.
“I never expected to see you, Mr. Richardson, sir. Not just now.”
“”Never expected to be here, and that’s a fact.” He turned to the uniformed policeman who stood like a monstrous statue beside the grandfather clock, out of place and out of proportion among the shining brass and polished oak of the dining room. “Very good, officer— you can leave us.”
The policeman stared at him doubtfully.
“Out!” commanded Richardson, irritation suddenly welling up inside him. “Go on with you!”
But as the door closed behind the policeman he pinned down the spasm of anger for what it was and took warning from it: either way this thing was hateful, but it was not that which was fraying his nerves. It was that caution and instinct were pulling him in opposite directions.
Something of this must have shown on his face, because there was regret in Mrs. Clark’s voice when she spoke.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I still can’t say anything to you. Not unless Sir Laurie Deacon says I can.”
“Sir Laurie
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