it?’ and so on-and implied that the detective force had better things to do, and he was entirely free to pursue it on his own. So that put a different light on it, do you see? It’s his case now, not theirs.”
Gideon pondered. “Look, Constable, did he tell you to ask me to come in again?”
“No, I can’t say that he did, but-”
“Then I don’t see the point. I’m not going to go barging in where I’m not wanted.” He realized as he said it how pompous it sounded and tacked on a gentler addendum. “Of course, if he does ask me, I’d be happy to.”
“I’m sure he will ask you, but, knowing him, it’ll take a few days for him to get around to it. And inasmuch as you said you’d only be here a few days, I was afraid it might be too late by then. Thought I should strike while the iron’s hot.”
Their waiter came by with Robb’s check and more coffee for Julie and Gideon. Gideon sipped and considered. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I just don’t feel comfortable-”
“Oh, go ahead,” Julie said. “You know you want to. If someone’s really been murdered, you’re not going to be happy walking away from it when you probably could be of some help.”
Gideon shook his head. “Nope, I don’t think so.” Being pressed from both sides was making him more stubborn than he might have been otherwise.
“Dr. Oliver,” Robb said.
“Gideon.”
“And I’m Kyle,” Robb said with his sweet smile. “Look, may I tell you a little about the sergeant? Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Gideon said, curious in spite of himself. Julie, always interested in what promised to be a human interest story, nodded as well, although it was likely to make her late for the consortium’s afternoon session.
Robb pushed aside the last quarter of his sandwich, drained his lemonade, and collected his thoughts.
“Well, you have to understand…” But he decided he needed another beginning and started again. “This is hardly the sort of thing I’d ordinarily tell anyone, you see, let alone a relative stranger, but…” Another false start. He thought for a moment more before hitting on the opening he wanted.
“Sergeant Clapper,” he said, “is not what he seems.”
That was putting it mildly.
Harry Michael Clapper had had quite a life before becoming a policeman. The son of a London liquor wholesaler, he had joined the army at an underage seventeen, spending over twenty years in the service. He had been wounded and twice decorated for bravery during the Falklands War and had retired in 1988 as regimental sergeant-major, about as high as a non-commissioned officer could go. He had knocked around for a while after that, and then, in 1990, at the advanced age of 40, he had submitted an application to the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary to become a police officer. To his own surprise he was accepted. He breezed through the local training program in Exeter, came in first in his class at the fifteen-week residential course at the National Police Training Centre in Bramshill, and was assigned to Torquay as a traffic constable.
While still in his two-year probationary period, he had gotten a rare chief constable commendation-the first one that had ever been given to a probationer-for actions over and above the requirements of the service. Off-duty, out of uniform, alone, and weaponless, he had broken up an armed robbery, subduing the two perpetrators and sitting on them (literally) until a couple of police cars, summoned by the Australian victim, could arrive.
On completion of his probation he was transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department and posted to Plymouth as a detective constable. There, he not only completed university but compiled an extraordinary record of cases successfully closed that made him the only person in the department’s long history to earn Officer of the Year honors three times. He was the subject of several Sunday magazine articles and was part of a BBC television
Gideon pondered. “Look, Constable, did he tell you to ask me to come in again?”
“No, I can’t say that he did, but-”
“Then I don’t see the point. I’m not going to go barging in where I’m not wanted.” He realized as he said it how pompous it sounded and tacked on a gentler addendum. “Of course, if he does ask me, I’d be happy to.”
“I’m sure he will ask you, but, knowing him, it’ll take a few days for him to get around to it. And inasmuch as you said you’d only be here a few days, I was afraid it might be too late by then. Thought I should strike while the iron’s hot.”
Their waiter came by with Robb’s check and more coffee for Julie and Gideon. Gideon sipped and considered. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I just don’t feel comfortable-”
“Oh, go ahead,” Julie said. “You know you want to. If someone’s really been murdered, you’re not going to be happy walking away from it when you probably could be of some help.”
Gideon shook his head. “Nope, I don’t think so.” Being pressed from both sides was making him more stubborn than he might have been otherwise.
“Dr. Oliver,” Robb said.
“Gideon.”
“And I’m Kyle,” Robb said with his sweet smile. “Look, may I tell you a little about the sergeant? Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Gideon said, curious in spite of himself. Julie, always interested in what promised to be a human interest story, nodded as well, although it was likely to make her late for the consortium’s afternoon session.
Robb pushed aside the last quarter of his sandwich, drained his lemonade, and collected his thoughts.
“Well, you have to understand…” But he decided he needed another beginning and started again. “This is hardly the sort of thing I’d ordinarily tell anyone, you see, let alone a relative stranger, but…” Another false start. He thought for a moment more before hitting on the opening he wanted.
“Sergeant Clapper,” he said, “is not what he seems.”
That was putting it mildly.
Harry Michael Clapper had had quite a life before becoming a policeman. The son of a London liquor wholesaler, he had joined the army at an underage seventeen, spending over twenty years in the service. He had been wounded and twice decorated for bravery during the Falklands War and had retired in 1988 as regimental sergeant-major, about as high as a non-commissioned officer could go. He had knocked around for a while after that, and then, in 1990, at the advanced age of 40, he had submitted an application to the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary to become a police officer. To his own surprise he was accepted. He breezed through the local training program in Exeter, came in first in his class at the fifteen-week residential course at the National Police Training Centre in Bramshill, and was assigned to Torquay as a traffic constable.
While still in his two-year probationary period, he had gotten a rare chief constable commendation-the first one that had ever been given to a probationer-for actions over and above the requirements of the service. Off-duty, out of uniform, alone, and weaponless, he had broken up an armed robbery, subduing the two perpetrators and sitting on them (literally) until a couple of police cars, summoned by the Australian victim, could arrive.
On completion of his probation he was transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department and posted to Plymouth as a detective constable. There, he not only completed university but compiled an extraordinary record of cases successfully closed that made him the only person in the department’s long history to earn Officer of the Year honors three times. He was the subject of several Sunday magazine articles and was part of a BBC television
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