Read Online Troubled Midnight by John Gardner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Gardner
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Superintendent if you don’t mind,” Cathy glared at the preening little manager, very much aware of DCS Livermore’s reputation for accuracy and his treatment of fools: Tommy Livermore, it was said, became riled more easily than a bull faced with a cardinal’s hat.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tommy, who would normally be furious, turned on the quiet charm, immediately angering both Cathy and Suzie.
“What can I do for you?” The terrible smile aimed straight at the manager and neatly at the two women detective sergeants at the same time, a trick performed with oily skill.
“Well, Detective Chief Superintendent…” he began and Suzie, now furious at her Chief’s decision to play things out of character, tried to score one for the girls by muttering, “Detective Chief Superintendent, the Honourable Tommy Livermore…”
Tommy shot her a glance containing several daggers as he unlocked his eyes from her’s and told the manager to speak up.
“It’s simply the ration books,” the man smiled a ludicrous smirk. “We don’t know how long you’re here for, sir, and we need the ration books.” Hands spread wide, like a man claiming to be at the mercy of petty bureaucracy – which of course he was.
Again they all waited, the pause laced with the hiss of a smouldering fuse.
“Think nothing of it,” the terrible smile again, then, for reasons of his own, Tommy lapsed into a kind of stage cockney, “Down the nick,” he grinned, eyes glittering. Darn the nick. “Down the bottom of Mill Street. That inspector down there, give him a bell, eh? Tinkle him and he’ll see to it, right? Got an entire office up the Yard to deal with the petty restrictions of wartime: ration books, identity cards, rail warrants all that bumf. That Inspector – Turnbull. He’ll see you right. Right?” Which was good coming from Tommy who, when in a hotel, was not above sending for provisions to be driven in from the Home Farm at Kingscote Grange, where his parents, the Earl and Countess of Kingscote, lived out their gilded country lives.
Tommy liked to disappear into characters of his own invention: west country folks who called you, ‘my dove’ or ‘my robin’; Geordies who sprinkled their conversation with ‘hinnies’; ‘bottles of beer’; and ‘why ayes’; and of course, the cheeky cockney sparrow they’d just heard. “Know what I mean?” He added now.
“Certainly, sir. Yes, sir.” The manager backed away, adding that there was a nice rabbit stew for tonight, as though hinting that Tommy Livermore would be served with the lion’s share of the rabbit which was a kind of mixed metaphor.
“Don’t worry about that,” Tommy called, a little loudly. “If it’s rabbits you need I’ll have some sent over from my father’s farm. Just say the word.” He turned towards Cathy and spoke in almost a whisper, “Remind me to give Billy a bell. He can call the farm and we’ll have a consignment of dead bunnies down here quicker than you can say ‘twelve bore’.”
Several people looked up from their food and scowled. The word had already got out of course. Mrs ‘Bunny’ Bascombe lay dead in her cellar and her husband, Bobby, the hero winner of the VC would be coming home from the desert to bury her. Not really done to joke about ‘dead bunnies’.
Billy was Billy Mulligan, Tommy’s executive sergeant, who dealt with the business and office side of the Reserve Squad. Like Brian, Billy had been familiar with the Kingscote estate long before Tommy Livermore even considered becoming a copper.
Lunch finally having been digested, with the aid of a cup of filthy coffee, they walked back down Mill Street, Suzie and Cathy pondering Tommy’s pronunciation of ‘darn’ for ‘down’ when he was in his cockney mode. “That was a real meal,” Suzie said. A reel meel, one of Jack Warner’s catch phrases, like Mind my bike and My bruvver Sid.
Cathy grinned and said, “Very tasty, very sweet.” Another catch
“Don’t worry about it,” Tommy, who would normally be furious, turned on the quiet charm, immediately angering both Cathy and Suzie.
“What can I do for you?” The terrible smile aimed straight at the manager and neatly at the two women detective sergeants at the same time, a trick performed with oily skill.
“Well, Detective Chief Superintendent…” he began and Suzie, now furious at her Chief’s decision to play things out of character, tried to score one for the girls by muttering, “Detective Chief Superintendent, the Honourable Tommy Livermore…”
Tommy shot her a glance containing several daggers as he unlocked his eyes from her’s and told the manager to speak up.
“It’s simply the ration books,” the man smiled a ludicrous smirk. “We don’t know how long you’re here for, sir, and we need the ration books.” Hands spread wide, like a man claiming to be at the mercy of petty bureaucracy – which of course he was.
Again they all waited, the pause laced with the hiss of a smouldering fuse.
“Think nothing of it,” the terrible smile again, then, for reasons of his own, Tommy lapsed into a kind of stage cockney, “Down the nick,” he grinned, eyes glittering. Darn the nick. “Down the bottom of Mill Street. That inspector down there, give him a bell, eh? Tinkle him and he’ll see to it, right? Got an entire office up the Yard to deal with the petty restrictions of wartime: ration books, identity cards, rail warrants all that bumf. That Inspector – Turnbull. He’ll see you right. Right?” Which was good coming from Tommy who, when in a hotel, was not above sending for provisions to be driven in from the Home Farm at Kingscote Grange, where his parents, the Earl and Countess of Kingscote, lived out their gilded country lives.
Tommy liked to disappear into characters of his own invention: west country folks who called you, ‘my dove’ or ‘my robin’; Geordies who sprinkled their conversation with ‘hinnies’; ‘bottles of beer’; and ‘why ayes’; and of course, the cheeky cockney sparrow they’d just heard. “Know what I mean?” He added now.
“Certainly, sir. Yes, sir.” The manager backed away, adding that there was a nice rabbit stew for tonight, as though hinting that Tommy Livermore would be served with the lion’s share of the rabbit which was a kind of mixed metaphor.
“Don’t worry about that,” Tommy called, a little loudly. “If it’s rabbits you need I’ll have some sent over from my father’s farm. Just say the word.” He turned towards Cathy and spoke in almost a whisper, “Remind me to give Billy a bell. He can call the farm and we’ll have a consignment of dead bunnies down here quicker than you can say ‘twelve bore’.”
Several people looked up from their food and scowled. The word had already got out of course. Mrs ‘Bunny’ Bascombe lay dead in her cellar and her husband, Bobby, the hero winner of the VC would be coming home from the desert to bury her. Not really done to joke about ‘dead bunnies’.
Billy was Billy Mulligan, Tommy’s executive sergeant, who dealt with the business and office side of the Reserve Squad. Like Brian, Billy had been familiar with the Kingscote estate long before Tommy Livermore even considered becoming a copper.
Lunch finally having been digested, with the aid of a cup of filthy coffee, they walked back down Mill Street, Suzie and Cathy pondering Tommy’s pronunciation of ‘darn’ for ‘down’ when he was in his cockney mode. “That was a real meal,” Suzie said. A reel meel, one of Jack Warner’s catch phrases, like Mind my bike and My bruvver Sid.
Cathy grinned and said, “Very tasty, very sweet.” Another catch
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