§ 85

He thought Jack was saying something very like ‘I told you so.’

‘Yes,’ said Troy. ‘I have got somewhere, as you put it. But I was trying to say that I think it’s a digression. And that’s not the same thing as a waste of time. Blood intimidated witnesses. He seems to have been hell-bent on convicting Fitz at any price.’

‘But that’s hardly murder, is it? It’s hardly rare either.’

‘No, Jack, I’d like to think it’s rare, I’d like to think . . .’

‘I know what you’d like to think, but I’m thinking of a time in 1944 when you dragged a corpse out of the mortuary cold cupboard and shoved it in front of your witness!’

Troy was thinking of it too. Sergeant Miller’s body, his face shot to pieces, the back of his head smashed like a conker. He’d done exactly what Jack was saying he’d done. He’d intimidated a witness with a brutality that had shocked even Onions. But there was one vital difference.

‘Not a witness, Jack, the killer. Diana Brack had killed that man.’

‘I know, but we neither of us knew that at the time. And to get back to the point, Blood bullied witnesses. I have little difficulty believing that. But he’d have to be mad to want to shoot one!’

Clark was waving at them from the other side of the room. ‘Eddie?’ said Troy. ‘I’ve been trying to show you this. I came across it yesterday.’ He shoved a single sheet of paper in front of Troy. ‘Came across’ – a Swift Eddie euphemism for whatever method he had really used to obtain it. It was a medical report from the Chief Police Surgeon, Scotland Yard. It was signed in a scrawl that Troy took to be the man’s signature, and it was addressed to Quint with the initials FYEO – For Your Eyes Only – and dated 19/9/63.

Subject:	Blood,Perceval Albert
	Detective Chief Inspector,
	Vice Squad

I saw DCI Blood after repeated and insistent calls from his wife. He was reluctant, but once ordered to report did so. Mrs Blood had been complaining to me of his violent – and I use that word literally – mood swings. After examining Blood over a period of two days, I found no physical complaint worse than dyspepsia and flatulence. However I consider that he is suffering in extremis from the strain of work – the minor physical discomforts I hold to be symptomatic of a larger mental problem – and have placed him on sick leave, with the strong recommendation to his GP that he be referred for psychiatric consultation. If Blood declines this course of voluntary action, I will consider imposing it. Initial period of sickleave – 1(one) month minimum.

Troy passed it to Jack.

‘Oh bugger. Oh bugger.’

‘You were saying . . . he’d have to be mad.’

‘I wasn’t aware I was being literal.’

‘Beggin’ your joint pardon, sirs,’ Clark said. ‘But if the two of you sat in the staff canteen a bit more often you’d know that most of Percy’s colleagues think he’s a bit mad.’

Troy said, ‘I know. Blood’s mad, I’m wild and Jack’s a flash bastard. Eddie, this is beyond gossip.’

‘So,’ Jack concluded, ‘it could be out of our hands altogether.’

‘How so?’

‘Procedure, Freddie. It’s A10’s job investigating coppers’ misdeeds, not ours.’

A10 was Scotland Yard’s internal investigations arm.

‘A10?’ said Troy. ‘I’m not letting A10 within a mile of Blood! Blood is in this so steeped—’

Jack leant forward in his chair. Fixed Troy with his gaze. ‘Freddie. Tell me truthfully. Do you in your wildest dreams think DCI Blood murdered Paddy Fitz?’

Troy pulled back a little. Jack was that bit too close.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not. But don’t tell me I’m clutching at straws. I’m not. Right now, Blood’s all I’ve got.’

Jack lowered, softened his voice, ‘Right now, Freddie, you’ve got irises as big as saucers. Whatever you’re on, don’t overdo it.’

When he had gone Clark remained.

‘Spit it out, Eddie.’

Clark handed him another sheet of paper.

It was a transfer order, signed by Quint, moving Blood from Special Branch to Vice, dated at the end of May.

‘You did ask,’ said Clark.

For the moment Troy could not remember that he had asked.

‘The date, sir,’ said Clark.

‘I was in the wilderness in May. You’ll have to remind me.’

‘It was the morning after Timothy Woodbridge made his denial in the House of Commons, sir.’

‘Surely you mean the morning after his admission?’

‘No. I mean what I said. Percy was transferred between Woodbridge’s statement of denial and his letter admitting the lot five days later. There was no Commons admission. This is Westminster. You stand firm in public, you capitulate quietly.’

Jack’s words came precisely to mind. ‘Oh bugger, oh bugger.’

‘I rather think I’ll want a word or two with Chief Inspector Blood before the day’s out.’

‘Exactly what I was thinking, sir. A word with our Percy. I’ve already checked. He’s taking it easy at home. And he lives south of the water. In Camberwell. I’ve jotted the address down for you.’

Clark handed Troy a third piece of paper. It was his day for pieces of paper. He handed them out as though rationed. Released them judiciously for full effect. Troy glanced at it and pocketed it. He held up the second, Quint’s memo.

‘Eddie?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Firstly, you’re a smug bastard, and secondly, we never saw this.’

Clark smiled a smile as smug as he could muster and went to answer the phone.

‘For you, sir. A woman. Won’t give her name.’

‘I want to see Blood. Put her off.’

‘Asked for you as “Troy”, sir. No rank.’

Troy took the telephone from him.

‘Troy? It’s Tara. Don’t talk. I’m in a phone box feeding in coppers at a rate of knots. Just jot this down. 44 St Simon Square, W11. Flat 1. And if you upset her or hurt her I’ll never, never, never forgive you. Capiche? And if we end up in court again, I’ll tell young Alex you spent the night here and rogered me rigid.’

‘Truth or dare?’ said Troy, but the pennies shot through the gate and the dialling tone was all he heard by way of answer.