I’d received information that might or might not have been true, and I had to act on it fast.’
Then there was the small matter of his knife, which Vince claimed he’d picked up in the mêlée in Powis Square. It was his word against Tyrell Lightly’s and that of the Brothers X. But, with Lightly’s form as a known felon with a penchant for knives and cutting up coppers, Vince was home and dry on that one. As for the protests, whether Markham liked it or not, something was moving through the country . . . how unpleasant it might be was yet to be writ.
There was a knock on the door. Markham barked ‘Come in,’ and Mac entered the room.
‘We’ve just heard from Isabel Saxmore-Blaine’s lawyer,’ said Mac, who then nodded at one of the pictures immediately behind Markham, ‘who incidentally are the same firm that represents the Queen.’
‘I’m well aware of Miss Saxmore-Blaine’s connections, Mac.’
‘Well, she’s made a statement and wants to talk to us.’
Markham gave a solemn nod to this news. He liked the sound of it. She had not needed coercing, had not even been asked. It confirmed one of the many attributes that he ascribed to the upper classes, far too many of them to list and all fawningly positive, but here was one of them showing that, by God, they knew how to conduct themselves.
‘Good,’ said Markham, gripping the hem of his jacket and giving it a tug, as though he was about to go on parade. ‘This is another delicate situation and I have no need to inform you that Lord Saxmore-Blaine is a personal friend of the Commissioner, so this goes all the way to the top. Questions have been asked at Westminster, concerns expressed at the Palace. We shall need experienced and delicate hands in dealing with Miss Isabel Saxmore-Blaine.’
Mac looked at Vince. Vince looked back at Mac. This surreptitious and silent conference went unnoticed by Markham, who was still preening himself before putting his cap on. By the time he turned back to them, Mac and Vince had both wiped the smirks off their faces. Even the thoroughly professorial Mac was reduced to schoolboy mockery when it came to dealing with Markham. It wasn’t even that Markham was all that disliked, or not respected. On the contrary, at times he was very fair-minded, gave solid orders and stood up for his men. It was just his oleaginous attitude to his perceived ‘higher-ups and betters’ that struck everyone as so humourless and self-defeating.
‘Mac, you and I shall attend to Miss Saxmore-Blaine,’ resolutely declared Markham. ‘We shall take her statement, and we shall talk to her and assure her that—’
‘Sir, she doesn’t want to talk to us,’ interrupted Mac. Stopped, and then stalled, Markham’s face was a picture. ‘She wants to talk to, and I quote, “the handsome young detective who punched me in the face”.’
From the unacceptable face of policing to the handsome face of policing. Isabel Saxmore-Blaine had just saved Vince’s neck – and he knew it. But it didn’t stop him from wincing when he heard it. He’d never before hit a woman in his life, and, what with the big girl in the brothel, that made two in the space of a week. As if to compensate, he rubbed a thumb over his chin, which bore a murky bruise from the big girl’s punch.
Markham turned slowly to Vince. His beady, bespectacled eyes narrowed in suspicion, and his whole face bore a look of grinding resentment. It was as if the young detective had just stolen his ticket to the dance. Vince’s darkly lashed hazel eyes widened in innocence, and he gave a shrug that said: ‘I can explain everything, sir.’
CHAPTER 12
London was at its best this morning: cold and bright. Vince liked this time of year, for winter suited London; it was its natural setting. Summer in this city always felt like an intruder, creeping around the edges of the buildings, skulking in the parks, the squares and the public gathering places like it shouldn’t really be
Then there was the small matter of his knife, which Vince claimed he’d picked up in the mêlée in Powis Square. It was his word against Tyrell Lightly’s and that of the Brothers X. But, with Lightly’s form as a known felon with a penchant for knives and cutting up coppers, Vince was home and dry on that one. As for the protests, whether Markham liked it or not, something was moving through the country . . . how unpleasant it might be was yet to be writ.
There was a knock on the door. Markham barked ‘Come in,’ and Mac entered the room.
‘We’ve just heard from Isabel Saxmore-Blaine’s lawyer,’ said Mac, who then nodded at one of the pictures immediately behind Markham, ‘who incidentally are the same firm that represents the Queen.’
‘I’m well aware of Miss Saxmore-Blaine’s connections, Mac.’
‘Well, she’s made a statement and wants to talk to us.’
Markham gave a solemn nod to this news. He liked the sound of it. She had not needed coercing, had not even been asked. It confirmed one of the many attributes that he ascribed to the upper classes, far too many of them to list and all fawningly positive, but here was one of them showing that, by God, they knew how to conduct themselves.
‘Good,’ said Markham, gripping the hem of his jacket and giving it a tug, as though he was about to go on parade. ‘This is another delicate situation and I have no need to inform you that Lord Saxmore-Blaine is a personal friend of the Commissioner, so this goes all the way to the top. Questions have been asked at Westminster, concerns expressed at the Palace. We shall need experienced and delicate hands in dealing with Miss Isabel Saxmore-Blaine.’
Mac looked at Vince. Vince looked back at Mac. This surreptitious and silent conference went unnoticed by Markham, who was still preening himself before putting his cap on. By the time he turned back to them, Mac and Vince had both wiped the smirks off their faces. Even the thoroughly professorial Mac was reduced to schoolboy mockery when it came to dealing with Markham. It wasn’t even that Markham was all that disliked, or not respected. On the contrary, at times he was very fair-minded, gave solid orders and stood up for his men. It was just his oleaginous attitude to his perceived ‘higher-ups and betters’ that struck everyone as so humourless and self-defeating.
‘Mac, you and I shall attend to Miss Saxmore-Blaine,’ resolutely declared Markham. ‘We shall take her statement, and we shall talk to her and assure her that—’
‘Sir, she doesn’t want to talk to us,’ interrupted Mac. Stopped, and then stalled, Markham’s face was a picture. ‘She wants to talk to, and I quote, “the handsome young detective who punched me in the face”.’
From the unacceptable face of policing to the handsome face of policing. Isabel Saxmore-Blaine had just saved Vince’s neck – and he knew it. But it didn’t stop him from wincing when he heard it. He’d never before hit a woman in his life, and, what with the big girl in the brothel, that made two in the space of a week. As if to compensate, he rubbed a thumb over his chin, which bore a murky bruise from the big girl’s punch.
Markham turned slowly to Vince. His beady, bespectacled eyes narrowed in suspicion, and his whole face bore a look of grinding resentment. It was as if the young detective had just stolen his ticket to the dance. Vince’s darkly lashed hazel eyes widened in innocence, and he gave a shrug that said: ‘I can explain everything, sir.’
CHAPTER 12
London was at its best this morning: cold and bright. Vince liked this time of year, for winter suited London; it was its natural setting. Summer in this city always felt like an intruder, creeping around the edges of the buildings, skulking in the parks, the squares and the public gathering places like it shouldn’t really be
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