Troy was standing on one of the many half-landings on the south staircase, in front of one of Norman Shaw’s vast windows, watching the river flow. He saw Coyn reflected in the glass – the dark mass of his uniform, dotted with the brightness of buttons and his insignia of rank – as he came up the staircase towards him. This was one more reason why he’d never be Commissioner – he did not much want a title, but he certainly did not want to wear the uniform again. He could never be a chocolate-creme soldier. He could never be that neat in blue and silver. Sir Wilfrid Coyn never had a hair out of place. He was the sort of man whose moustache could be measured with a micrometer, whose fingertips were little arcs of perfection, buffed nicotine-clean with lemon juice and pumice stone, the sort of man whose wife regularly trimmed the hairs in his nose and ears. They stood side by side. The briefest exchange of looks and then Coyn too stared at the river.
‘Do you not think you’re a bit close to this one, Freddie?’
The best lies are always couched in the vocabulary of the lied to.
‘It’s because I’m close to it that I can handle it. It’s not just any crime. It’s a matter of Met pride. Onions will be unrelenting if we don’t handle this properly.’
‘Mr Quint considered it wrapped, I believe.’
‘No disrespect to Mr Quint, but I’ve spent my entire career in murder. I deemed this worth a second look.’
‘Should you be out in the field so soon? Couldn’t one of your chaps handle it?’
‘After five months away I need a practical case to work on. This was simply the top of the pile.’
He could believe this if he liked.
‘But you won’t overdo it, will you?’
Troy said nothing. What was it Jack had said? Eyes as big as saucers? Every cell in his body was overdoing it.