McGovern could tackle that. What he didn’t understand was why Kingdom was so interested. It wasn’t an interesting case. A body in the canal wasn’t unusual. Accident or foul play, it could be either. Even suicide, although someone bent on self-destruction would hardly choose a method that involved hitting himself on the head before jumping into the canal without weighing himself down. Slater might prefer to be able to put it down as an accident, but it ought to be treated as a suspicious death because of the head wound.
Back from the mortuary, McGovern called in at Gorch’s office.
‘It’s a tricky situation. Go carefully,’ advised the Detective Chief Superintendent. ‘Kingdom’s preoccupied with the Burgess-Maclean affair. Everyone’s tearing their hair out over there. I’m not too happy he’s dragged you into this business, but I suppose they’re so stretched …’
‘He wants me to keep an eye on this suspicious death. An old man’s body dredged up from the canal. Turns out it’s an old émigré scientist.’
‘Did Kingdom know that?’
McGovern shook his head.
‘Is there some sort of connection with this person of interest he’s got you shadowing? The whole thing’s tricky. I don’t like it. But there you are. We’ll just take it step by step. Easy as she goes.’
McGovern returned to his office and began to examine the contents of Konrad Eberhardt’s wallet, but he was interrupted.
DS Monkhouse was a tight-lipped young man. McGovern had him as one of the new postwar breed coming into the police force, but then reflected that he himself was more or less one of them too. ‘I’ve been sent to request the return of the dead man’s effects, sir. They shouldn’t have signed them off to you, sir, with respect. DI Slater wishes to remind you that they constitute evidence, which we need in pursuance of our investigation.’
McGovern leaned back in his chair, swivelling it round at the same time. He loved his swivel chair, a new acquisition. ‘You may not know this, but I also happen to be involved in the investigation.’
‘Yes, sir, but you are not authorised to be in possession of them.’
‘A wee stickler for protocol, I see, DS Monkhouse. Well, how can we arrange matters so that I can carry on going through them? I don’t need them for long. Twenty minutes will do.’
‘Sir, if you return them to me you can then report to the investigation room and sign for them there.’
‘That’s a waste of time.’
‘It’s the procedure, sir.’
‘I’d prefer you to go back and tell them I’ll be right over with the stuff, in half an hour at the outside.’
‘DI Slater says I’m to return with the material, sir.’
‘All right. Wait outside in the corridor and when I’ve gone through it, I’ll hand it over.’
‘It’s needed right away, sir.’
‘Yes. By me.’
‘It’s against protocol, sir.’
The man should have been a bank clerk. ‘There’s the door. Go. I’ll no be more than half an hour.’
‘I’ll have to file a report.’
‘Do so.’
McGovern immediately regretted his rudeness, but theinterruption had ruined his train of thought. Then again, he’d been pretty stuck anyway. He looked at the objects laid out on the table. The large black wallet was shabby, worn at the edges and the inner pockets coming away from their moorings. There were the two keys, one a Yale. There was the identity card, with Eberhardt’s address in Deal. There was a card advertising the Polish Club in South Kensington. There was a letter, folded tightly into four. He opened it out, and saw the writing was German. The paper was yellowed. He started reading and realised it was an old love letter. Nothing.
The door opened and McGovern looked up, expecting a further protest from Monkhouse, but it was Jarrell. ‘Who’s that bloke in the corridor? He looks cheesed off.’
‘He’s waiting for me to give him back the canal stuff, which he says we have no right to. CID don’t like
Back from the mortuary, McGovern called in at Gorch’s office.
‘It’s a tricky situation. Go carefully,’ advised the Detective Chief Superintendent. ‘Kingdom’s preoccupied with the Burgess-Maclean affair. Everyone’s tearing their hair out over there. I’m not too happy he’s dragged you into this business, but I suppose they’re so stretched …’
‘He wants me to keep an eye on this suspicious death. An old man’s body dredged up from the canal. Turns out it’s an old émigré scientist.’
‘Did Kingdom know that?’
McGovern shook his head.
‘Is there some sort of connection with this person of interest he’s got you shadowing? The whole thing’s tricky. I don’t like it. But there you are. We’ll just take it step by step. Easy as she goes.’
McGovern returned to his office and began to examine the contents of Konrad Eberhardt’s wallet, but he was interrupted.
DS Monkhouse was a tight-lipped young man. McGovern had him as one of the new postwar breed coming into the police force, but then reflected that he himself was more or less one of them too. ‘I’ve been sent to request the return of the dead man’s effects, sir. They shouldn’t have signed them off to you, sir, with respect. DI Slater wishes to remind you that they constitute evidence, which we need in pursuance of our investigation.’
McGovern leaned back in his chair, swivelling it round at the same time. He loved his swivel chair, a new acquisition. ‘You may not know this, but I also happen to be involved in the investigation.’
‘Yes, sir, but you are not authorised to be in possession of them.’
‘A wee stickler for protocol, I see, DS Monkhouse. Well, how can we arrange matters so that I can carry on going through them? I don’t need them for long. Twenty minutes will do.’
‘Sir, if you return them to me you can then report to the investigation room and sign for them there.’
‘That’s a waste of time.’
‘It’s the procedure, sir.’
‘I’d prefer you to go back and tell them I’ll be right over with the stuff, in half an hour at the outside.’
‘DI Slater says I’m to return with the material, sir.’
‘All right. Wait outside in the corridor and when I’ve gone through it, I’ll hand it over.’
‘It’s needed right away, sir.’
‘Yes. By me.’
‘It’s against protocol, sir.’
The man should have been a bank clerk. ‘There’s the door. Go. I’ll no be more than half an hour.’
‘I’ll have to file a report.’
‘Do so.’
McGovern immediately regretted his rudeness, but theinterruption had ruined his train of thought. Then again, he’d been pretty stuck anyway. He looked at the objects laid out on the table. The large black wallet was shabby, worn at the edges and the inner pockets coming away from their moorings. There were the two keys, one a Yale. There was the identity card, with Eberhardt’s address in Deal. There was a card advertising the Polish Club in South Kensington. There was a letter, folded tightly into four. He opened it out, and saw the writing was German. The paper was yellowed. He started reading and realised it was an old love letter. Nothing.
The door opened and McGovern looked up, expecting a further protest from Monkhouse, but it was Jarrell. ‘Who’s that bloke in the corridor? He looks cheesed off.’
‘He’s waiting for me to give him back the canal stuff, which he says we have no right to. CID don’t like
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