The Setting Sun by Bart Moore-Gilbert Page B

passes by. I’m instinctively wary. He’s about thirty, with a feeble moustache and shifty eyes. His formal white shirt, with black lacework patterning, gives him the air of a Mexican country-and-western singer. From time to time he passes through the annexe, gazing suspiciously about. Finally, he stops and asks what I’m doing. When I tell him I’m researching the Parallel Government, his face lights up.
    ‘A glorious chapter of our history,’ he enthuses.
    I feel we’ve broken the ice, and regret judging him so hastily. Towards the end of the afternoon, however, he approaches once again.
    ‘Who has given you permission to work here?’
    I’m startled. ‘Assistant Commissioner Poel.’
    It’s his turn to look surprised. ‘When?’
    ‘A couple of days ago.’
    ‘He is not here today.’
    ‘I know. He’s in Nagpur. He didn’t say I can only work here while he’s in the building.’
    The man’s nonplussed for a moment. ‘I cannot check your story.’
    ‘What about asking Mr Walawalkar?’
    ‘He leaves early on Friday. Then he is on holidays.’
    Why on earth didn’t Walawalkar mention his plans?
    ‘I’m in charge in the interim.’
    Oh no. I suspect no one’s looking for the ‘Terrorism’ files now. My interrogator disappears, returning a short while laterwith a thick orange file. Opening it, he shows me various letters addressed to the Assistant Chief Secretary, Home Department, copied to the SIB, from researchers requesting access to the old Special Branch archives. ‘Where is yours?’
    ‘I went to Mantrale. They told me to come here and ask,’ I lie.
    ‘Who told you?’
    ‘I didn’t get his name. On the seventh floor, I think.’
    ‘Where is the rule? Show me the rule.’
    I stare at him, perplexed. ‘Which rule?’
    ‘That says you can enter without permission.’
    I wonder if he’s related to the obstructive man at the Home Department. ‘Why not phone Mr Poel?’
    The man looks outraged at the suggestion.
    ‘Give me his number, I’ll call him,’ I backtrack placatingly.
    ‘Mobile is confidential,’ my tormentor says sternly. ‘Without written permission, no notes are to be taken away.’
    I’m flabbergasted. Who knows when Poel will be back? I’m in danger of wasting two full days of research. Exasperation generates my scheme.
    ‘OK, whatever you say. The attendant’s supposed to be bringing up “Strikes and Labour Unrest” before closing time. Can you call the stacks and tell him not to bother? I’ll get my notes in order for you.’
    He can’t resist the invitation to order someone else around. As soon as I hear him on the internal phone next door, I arrange some of my jottings from Shinde in a neat pile on my desk. I can always go back to the University library and retrieve the information I need. I hastily gather the notes I’ve taken here in the SIB and stick them in my bag. Then I scarper out the side door. Haring down the staircase, I half expect to hear police whistles. But I reach the gate, where I’m waved through by the affable constable, who seems disappointed I won’t be lingering for our usual chat about London. Out on the street, I congratulate myself on my quick thinking.
    Then I wonder if I’ve been so clever after all. Perhaps I’ve made trouble for Poel, and he won’t let me back in as a consequence.
    Returning to the hotel, I feel increasingly deflated. Fascinating though my researches have been, I haven’t made any progress in addressing the accusations against Bill. Nor have I found any evidence about his time in Sindh. Indeed, I’ve seen nothing which might account for the blank period in his History of Services record. The disappearance of the ‘Terrorism’ files is very disheartening, although it may explain why Professor Bhosle has not been able to find Bill’s secret Memorandum. Until Poel gets back, there’s no possibility of returning to the SIB. Given that I’ve largely drawn blanks at Elphinstone, Mantrale and Police HQ in