both of them knew that what they were joking about was a basic truth.
Their liaison went back several years. On an official level it was easy to justify on both sides. The Challenger got the news and the Force got the image. Everyone was happy.
But each of the men nursed other, longer-term motives.
For the present, Watmough relied on the paper to give him a good neutral press, giving offence to neither the Arcadian Squirearchy to the North of his area nor to the People's Republic to the South. But once the Chief's job was his, then he wouldn't care who he offended! He intended to become a national figure. Four or five years of pontificating on Law and Order via the media in general and the Challenger in particular would see him ready for the next big step - Westminster!
Ogilby didn't much mind how Watmough's career developed. To be going on with, there was a constant stream of inside information which could be more inside still if he made Chief Constable. And if he then ended up in Parliament, well, no journalist ever objected to have a close relationship with an ambitious MP. Even if his dreams came to nothing, Ogilby reckoned there'd still be a nice juicy series of memoirs for the Challenger to serialize. Top Cop Tells All. Watmough would have been surprised to know how closely documented were all the off-the-record juicy bits imparted to Ogilby over the years, ready as an aide-memoire for his chosen 'ghost'.
Meanwhile they consorted like lovers in a space-capsule, each certain he was on top.
'Good of you to come so far,' said Watmough.
'Not at all. It's only forty minutes and I wanted to pop into the Post anyway. Besides, I always enjoy eating here.'
Privately Ogilby regarded the Gents as something Dornford Yates might have invented on a bad day or P. G. Wodehouse on a good one, but he lied with the ease of occupational practice.
'Good. Let's go through, shall we? Bring your drink.'
They made their way out of the bar and into the long, rather chilly dining-room which had something of the smell of a school refectory.
Here Watmough halted so suddenly that Ogilby got jammed beside him in the doorway.
'Sorry,' said the DCC in the voice of one who has drunk and seen the spider. 'No, George, could we stay up at this end, please?'
This last was to the catering manager who was trying to usher Watmough to his usual privileged window table, but he had no desire whatsoever to sit there today, for at the next table along slumped the huge bulk of Andrew Dalziel.
He looked up now, saw Watmough and waved the lamb chop he had just impaled on his fork.
'I see the cabaret's arrived,' he said to Eden Thackeray.
Thackeray glanced towards Watmough and nodded his head, perhaps in greeting, perhaps in agreement. He was adept at such ambiguity, and he recognized the dangers of both alliance with and opposition to Dalziel.
The two men had known each other professionally for a long time and though superficially they were poles apart, they had discovered in each other a sound core of realism and common sense.
Dalziel emptied his wine glass, Thackeray emptied the bottle of Fleurie into it and waggled it at the caterer, who a moment later advanced with a new one.
'Right,' said Dalziel. 'Now we've established that I'm in profit even if I've got to tell you to sod off, what is it you want?'
'I have a problem,' said Thackeray. 'Does the name Huby mean anything to you? Gwendoline Huby.'
'Let's see,' said Dalziel. 'Weren't she that daft old bird who left her brass to a son who got killed in the war? I read about it in the papers.'
'That's the one. Now, the thing is, yesterday a chap actually turned up at my Chambers claiming to be the man.'
'Oh aye? How much brass is there?'
'Getting on for a million and a half, depending on the market.'
'Jesus!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'With that kind of money I'm surprised you haven't had queues like the January sales.'
'Yes. There have, of course, been several quite obviously crank letters. But the thing about this chap is
Their liaison went back several years. On an official level it was easy to justify on both sides. The Challenger got the news and the Force got the image. Everyone was happy.
But each of the men nursed other, longer-term motives.
For the present, Watmough relied on the paper to give him a good neutral press, giving offence to neither the Arcadian Squirearchy to the North of his area nor to the People's Republic to the South. But once the Chief's job was his, then he wouldn't care who he offended! He intended to become a national figure. Four or five years of pontificating on Law and Order via the media in general and the Challenger in particular would see him ready for the next big step - Westminster!
Ogilby didn't much mind how Watmough's career developed. To be going on with, there was a constant stream of inside information which could be more inside still if he made Chief Constable. And if he then ended up in Parliament, well, no journalist ever objected to have a close relationship with an ambitious MP. Even if his dreams came to nothing, Ogilby reckoned there'd still be a nice juicy series of memoirs for the Challenger to serialize. Top Cop Tells All. Watmough would have been surprised to know how closely documented were all the off-the-record juicy bits imparted to Ogilby over the years, ready as an aide-memoire for his chosen 'ghost'.
Meanwhile they consorted like lovers in a space-capsule, each certain he was on top.
'Good of you to come so far,' said Watmough.
'Not at all. It's only forty minutes and I wanted to pop into the Post anyway. Besides, I always enjoy eating here.'
Privately Ogilby regarded the Gents as something Dornford Yates might have invented on a bad day or P. G. Wodehouse on a good one, but he lied with the ease of occupational practice.
'Good. Let's go through, shall we? Bring your drink.'
They made their way out of the bar and into the long, rather chilly dining-room which had something of the smell of a school refectory.
Here Watmough halted so suddenly that Ogilby got jammed beside him in the doorway.
'Sorry,' said the DCC in the voice of one who has drunk and seen the spider. 'No, George, could we stay up at this end, please?'
This last was to the catering manager who was trying to usher Watmough to his usual privileged window table, but he had no desire whatsoever to sit there today, for at the next table along slumped the huge bulk of Andrew Dalziel.
He looked up now, saw Watmough and waved the lamb chop he had just impaled on his fork.
'I see the cabaret's arrived,' he said to Eden Thackeray.
Thackeray glanced towards Watmough and nodded his head, perhaps in greeting, perhaps in agreement. He was adept at such ambiguity, and he recognized the dangers of both alliance with and opposition to Dalziel.
The two men had known each other professionally for a long time and though superficially they were poles apart, they had discovered in each other a sound core of realism and common sense.
Dalziel emptied his wine glass, Thackeray emptied the bottle of Fleurie into it and waggled it at the caterer, who a moment later advanced with a new one.
'Right,' said Dalziel. 'Now we've established that I'm in profit even if I've got to tell you to sod off, what is it you want?'
'I have a problem,' said Thackeray. 'Does the name Huby mean anything to you? Gwendoline Huby.'
'Let's see,' said Dalziel. 'Weren't she that daft old bird who left her brass to a son who got killed in the war? I read about it in the papers.'
'That's the one. Now, the thing is, yesterday a chap actually turned up at my Chambers claiming to be the man.'
'Oh aye? How much brass is there?'
'Getting on for a million and a half, depending on the market.'
'Jesus!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'With that kind of money I'm surprised you haven't had queues like the January sales.'
'Yes. There have, of course, been several quite obviously crank letters. But the thing about this chap is
Similar Books
