McGregor couldn’t help resenting Robinson, who was drinking tea and joking with one of the sergeants on the other side of the main office. At his desk, behind the glass, he tried to concentrate on George Forgie’s service record. The file was impressive. Quite besides the amount of missions he’d flown, in 1943 the Flight Lieutenant had been shot down in France and made it home in an impressive nine weeks. Between the lines, McGregor spotted references to heavy drinking and two occasions when Forgie had been absent without official leave. Once he had been found with a married woman in a local hotel and the second time he turned up at the Grand National where it transpired he had pawned a recently acquired medal in order to lay a bet, which he subsequently won. Like many pilots, Forgie had sundry car accidents, one of which, a doctor’s report revealed, he should not have survived. He’d been afforded a good deal of leeway – his skills were too valuable to the war effort to take a harsh line.
McGregor sat back. Robinson was reading the newspaper now. The superintendent clenched his teeth. He was about to go out and give the inspector something to do (though not what he should have been doing – clearing Phil Quinn’s name) when the figure of the chief constable appeared at his door. The chief hadn’t been down here in a long time. Not that the superintendent could remember anyway.
‘Alan.’ He shook McGregor’s hand and took a seat. ‘Flight Lieutenant Forgie? How are you getting on?’
‘There are unanswered questions, sir.’
‘Such as?’
‘Why the body was moved and where he killed himself.’
‘Do you know why he did it?’
McGregor’s hand sought out the file. ‘He was a daredevil, sir. High spirits and low spirits, I expect. He’s outdone the cat’s nine lives – dodged the bullet over several years. It was a matter of time, I expect, before he died one way or another.’
‘And it’s suicide?’
‘Seems that way. A bullet in the gullet and powder on his fingers.’
‘I see. Do you think the hotel where he was staying panicked?’
‘I doubt it. He’d been missing for thirty-six hours when he killed himself. Forgie was a gambler, sir. If he was in Brighton it’s probable he was playing cards for high stakes somewhere. That’s my real interest, I suppose.’
The chief rubbed his palms together. He licked his lips. ‘My feeling is that it doesn’t matter, if you get my drift.’
McGregor paused. ‘It doesn’t matter, sir?’
The chief’s eyes bulged very slightly. ‘No. The poor chap killed himself and it’s a tragedy – war hero and all that. But it doesn’t matter where he did it or what he was up to. In fact, I’m not sure it matters why his body was moved. Not really.’
McGregor nodded slowly. The chief had received a phone call, that much was clear. ‘But someone moved the body – I mean, they didn’t report it,’ he pointed out. ‘And if Forgie was gaming—’
‘A tragedy, as I said,’ the chief cut in. ‘But you’re going to close the case, McGregor. Mr Forgie’s profile requires discretion. He knew what he was doing. He made his choice. We must leave him in peace. Investigating what happened isn’t going to do anyone any good.’ The chief’s forehead was clammy now.
‘Right you are, sir,’ McGregor said. ‘I’ll send the file back to Whitehall.’
‘Capital.’ The old man got up to leave.
McGregor watched as the chief stopped to shake Robinson’s hand on his way out of the office. The snake. Keeping his eyes on their exchange, McGregor picked up the phone and dialled the typing pool. ‘Betty,’ he said, ‘I’m sending a file back to London, but I’d like you to copy it first.’