Read Online Stone's Fall by Iain Pears - Free Book Online Page B

book round and let me look at the entries. Then I ask about anything which interests me, and they give me a summary. Simple enough. You know the routine.”
    I nodded.
    “Not that morning. It was the hairy beetroot on duty.”
    It was a good enough description. Sergeant Wilkins weighed considerably over twenty stone, and had a complexion that ranged from deep red on his cheeks to purple at the end of his nose. Even standing up made him wheeze with effort, and going out on the beat was so far beyond his abilities that he had long since been confined to the desk by sympathetic colleagues. According to the regulations he should have been dismissed as unfit for duty, but the police always look after their own. Wilkins was a sort of saint, universally liked even by the criminals whose cases he processed day after day. The sort who looked as though each crime was a personal disappointment. Normally a more helpful and accommodating person could not be found.
    But that day Wilkins had refused to let him see the book and merely read off a couple of entries. “Nothing else today,” he said heartily. When a very loud, violent, singing drunk was dragged in by the feet a few minutes later, Wilkins had wheezed over to the door to see what was going on, and Hozwicki had quickly spun the book round to have a look. He only had a few seconds, but it was enough: “2.45: 379 to St. James’s Square. Body found. Refer to Mr. Henry Cort FO.”
    “Refer what?”
    Hozwicki shrugged.
    “Henry Cort?”
    Another shrug.
    “FO?”
    He shrugged again. Annoying habit.
    “So why no story?”
    “I was curious, so I went to the morgue, and they confirmed it. A body had been brought from the Charing Cross Hospital, identified as Ravenscliff. I went back to the office, and started to write it up. Just a holding story, as I was going to get it to the desk then go out and get some more information. I also told the editor, so he could get the obituary ready.”
    “And?”
    “And nothing. I went back to St. James’s Square to start knocking on doors”—I wrinkled my nose here; Hozwicki was fond of this sort of vulgarity in reporting his stories—“but before I could get anywhere one of the runners found me, and told me I was wanted back in the office.”
    It happens; it had happened to me often. All newspapers then had their runners, a collection of lads who congregated in the main entrance waiting to earn a penny or two carrying messages. They were often remarkable boys, dirty and cheeky, but the best were exceptional and knew London like the backs of their hands. They would cross town at amazing speed, hanging on to the backs of buses, running; I even saw one going down Oxford Street on the roof of a taxi once, waving insolently to bystanders.
    “So back I went,” Hozwicki continued, “and was given a dressing down by the day editor. I was not to waste my time on the death of someone so stupid that he had fallen out of a window.”
    He paused and looked at me. I didn’t respond, so he went on. “How did he know he had fallen out of a window, eh? Someone had talked to him about it.”
    “Do you know who?”
    “All I could find out was that a very proper-looking man had arrived in the office a couple of hours previously, and talked to him for about half an hour. Even my short account of Ravenscliff’s death was then removed from the paper, and ten minutes after he left, the runner was sent off. The story was squashed, and when it did appear, it wasn’t written by me.”
    “Who did write it?”
    He shook his head. “Not someone who works for the Telegraph, ” he said. “I did ask the editor later, but he brushed it aside. ‘Sometimes you just do as you are told,’ he said. But I think he was referring to himself, as much as to me.”
    I finished my beer and thought about that. I was sure that Hozwicki was telling me the truth; he seemed positively pleased to share his indignation. Obviously editors are wayward people; everyone knows