Troy had finished his paperwork. Later than he had hoped. He looked at his watch. Eight thirty. He opened the centre drawer of his desk and, as was his habit, dumped the day’s work into it in a single sweep of his arm. It would stop Onions reading what was on the pile if he happened to stroll in unannounced – exactly as he did now.
He parked himself by the unlit gas fire, a man who could never shake off the habit of winter, struck a match on the sole of one shoe and lit up a Woodbine.
‘Well,’ he said through a waft of cheap tobacco.
‘Well? said Troy.
‘You did it. The American walks. The Major read your report and told Enoch to turn him loose. It’s not over, mind. We’ll want to know a thing or two from the Americans, when they get round to answering questions.’
‘Good,’ said Troy, hoping that was that and that he could just go home. But Stan was musing, drawing slowly on his fag and musing.
‘How do you see your career panning out, Freddie?’
It struck Troy as an odd enquiry. Untypical of Stan. Stan had picked Troy up from the Divisions, transferred him from Stepney to the Yard, made him a Sergeant at the age of twenty-four. He had every reason to be grateful to Stan. Stan was his career.
‘Dunno. I never think about it. I’m happy with you, if that’s what you mean? Happy in Murder.’
‘Happy in Murder,’ Onions mused. ‘I don’t think I’ve read that one.’
Troy smiled. Stan was right. He had inadvertently invented a very likely title for a whodunnit by one of those lady novelists who seemed to dominate the genre in the thirties.
‘I meant,’ he said, ‘that I’ve no desire to move.’
‘You don’t fancy a job in the Branch then?’
‘That’s the last thing I want.’
‘Just as well. You made several enemies today.’
Troy got the message. It wasn’t an enquiry, it wasn’t a ticking off, it wasn’t even a warning. It was a statement.
‘And I get the feeling they’ll not be the last you make on your way up.’
‘You’re unhappy with that?’
‘No. No. I backed you today. And I’ll back you when I think you’re right.’
Onions paused. The clincher could not now be far away.
‘But I’d be happier still if I thought you were telling me all you knew.’