John Lawton - Riptide

But the man was staring at the body, at what little was visible of the big man, the legs and feet protruding from beneath the map-the fingertips of one hand pointing down the alley like a contrived clue.

‘Eh?’

‘Stilton. S-T-I-L-T-O-N!’

The barman jerked into life.

‘O’ course,’ he said. ‘O’ course. The Yard, the Branch, Stilton.’ And ran back into the pub.

Troy waved the crowd back indoors, searched with his torch for a few cobblestones free of Stilton’s blood and sat down next to Cal.

‘How long?’ he asked simply.

Cal pulled at his sleeve, looked at his wristwatch. It was 10.55. It was fifteen minutes since he had groped his way up Coburn Place. It felt like hours.

‘I found him at… 10.40. I guess it was 10.40. I looked at my watch as I… as I got out of the cab. I was late. I was supposed to meet him here at 10.30.’

Troy looked at his own watch.

‘You’re running slow. It’s eleven now. I’d say poor old Walter’s been dead less than half an hour.’

Cal thought Troy meant something by this. He’d no idea what.

‘I… er…’

‘You just missed the killer, it seems.’

‘Jesus,’ said Cal softly.

‘You saw no-one?’

‘No. Of course not.’

Cal wondered why he had said ‘Of course not’. It just rattled around in his ears. It made no sense. But then, so little did. Why had Walter wanted to meet him here, in this black hole? Who had he met first?

‘Look. You’re absolutely covered in blood,’ said Troy. He took out his handkerchief and wiped away the blood from Cal’s chin, from his cheeks, where his tears had mixed with Walter’s blood. It was oddly maternal. The human touch. Cal began to feel that he was alive, that the shock of death was somehow less than total. His mind locked onto the idea of Troy-clung to him as to a floating leaf.

Troy asked him no more questions. Flashed his torch around occasionally, as though looking for something he couldn’t find. It seemed that he too was simply waiting. And a couple of minutes later the screech of brakes in the street confirmed the thought. Three big coppers, two in uniform, strode down the alley, torches swaying up and down the narrow space like searchlights.

‘Troy?’ said the plain-clothes copper.

Troy got to his feet.

‘Chief Inspector Nailer. Special Branch. I’ll take over now.’

Cal grabbed at Troy’s coat.

’I thought…’ he began, and Troy seemed to read his mind.

‘I can’t investigate. This is Branch business. I’m Murder.’

‘Somebody murdered Walter.’

‘Walter was Special Branch. They look after their own.’

‘When you’ve quite finished, thank you, Mr Troy!’ Nailer roared.

! Troy told Cal he was sorry and risked more wrath by saying goodbye and patting him on the shoulder. Nailer waited a few seconds, as Troy’s footsteps echoed down the alley, and then in a voice like brimstone said ‘Now who the fuck are you?’

It was past four in the morning at Scotland Yard before it dawned on Cal that he had been arrested.

He had let himself be driven to the Yard, sitting silently between the two uniformed bobbies. He’d let himself be led compliantly into a brown and cream interview room of intimidating plainness. He’d answered all their questions. At least, all those to which he had answers. And, of course, he would not name Stahl as the axis on which the whole mess pivoted. Maybe there were too many ‘I don’t knows’? And he had turned out his pockets-a few pounds in sterling, a few scraps of paper-nothing that could identify him clearly-Troy’s blood-stained linen handkerchief-and his gun, wedged between his back and the waistband of his pants. Cal looked apologetic as he hefted it out and laid it quietly on the table.

The first guy had been friendly. A young man. About his own age. A Detective Sergeant. Called him sir.

‘Do you have a licence for this, sir?’

‘I’m a serving army officer. It’s standard issue to have a sidearm.’

The sergeant took out his handkerchief and flipped out the magazine. The bobby in uniform sitting by the door stared as though he’d never seen a Smith and Wesson before-maybe he never had. Then he sniffed the barrel.

Everything Cal had was taken away, and then they said there’d be a wait.

They took him to what he assumed was going to be another interview room, and only when he found himself face to face with a cot, palliasse and seatless lavatory did the reality hit home. He turned, the faintest words of protest on his lips, but the door had already closed and all he heard was the key turning in the lock. He gave up instantly and almost gratefully. Fell face down on the straw mattress and slept.

They woke him at 8.30. A cup of gagging-sweet milky tea. Cal would have drunk pig’s piss if they stuck it in a tin cup and called it tea.

He had begun to smell. Worse, so had the dried blood on his clothes. A crisp brown stain covering most of his pants, the hem of his jacket, and the pockets where he’d wiped his hands.

‘I need to wash,’ he told the constable. The man came back five minutes later with a jug of cold water which he tipped into the enamelled iron basin bolted into one corner of the room.

‘Any chance of getting my suit cleaned?’

‘Where do you think you are, Hopalong? The bleedin’ Ritz?’

Cal drank the foul national drink and thought over the insult. Was that how they saw him? A national cliché?

Twenty minutes later they escorted him back to the interview room, washed, but unshaven and feeling he must look like a tramp. Nailer took over. Nailer was not friendly. Nailer was downright hostile. Nailer had not slept, grey bags under his eyes, a fuzz of grey bristle to his chin. Cal had slept the sleep of the dead.

‘From the top, if you would,’ Nailer said plainly.

From the top? Cal hesitated. He knew what he meant. He just could not quite believe they wanted him to say it all again. Nailer lit up a strong, untipped cigarette and blew smoke over Cal. He wasn’t Walter-not a man cut from the same cloth-a thin, angular man with bloodshot eyes and pinched nostrils. Not a mark of good humour or fellow-feeling upon him. A stringbean of a man, with lank, dirty grey hair and a lifetime of nicotine scorched into his fingertips.

Cal told him everything. And there his troubles began.

‘You were working with Walter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since…’ He could not quite remember. ‘It was after the big raid. Maybe the Thursday or the Friday after. The raid was the tenth wasn’t it?’

‘Why doesn’t Walter mention this in his notes?’

‘What notes?’

‘The ones he types up from his police notebook.’

‘I’ve no idea. I saw him scribble in his little black book from time to time. Surely…?’

Nailer was shaking his head.

‘His notebook’s missing.’

‘Missing from where?’

‘From the person of Chief Inspector Stilton.’

This baffled Cal.

‘What?’

‘His pocket, Mr Cormack. The folding notebook should have been in his pocket. We all carry them. At all times.’

‘Maybe the killer took it?’

‘We’re looking into that. In the meantime, who else could vouch for you? Who else knew about your work with Walter?’

‘Well… Walter’s man Dobbs, for a start.’

Nailer and his constable looked at one another quizzically.

‘”Walter”…’ Nailer had a way of putting inverted commas found a word as he uttered it. ‘Walter didn’t tell you then?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Bernard Dobbs had a stroke day before yesterday. He’s unconscious in hospital.’

‘Jesus,’ said Cal. ‘No. He didn’t tell me. But you’ll appreciate. An awful lot has happened lately. In fact… I don’t think I’ve seen Walter since the day before yesterday.’