Detective Chief Inspector Silas Quinn returned the telephone earpiece to its base and looked across his desk at the man who was standing before him. Detective Sergeant Inchball held himself slightly stooped beneath the sharply sloping ceiling. When it had been decided by the powers that be – most notably, Lieutenant-Colonel Kell of MO5 (g) section – that the Special Crimes Department should be reinstated with essentially double the manpower, no provision was made for finding them a larger office. Admittedly, this doubling of resource only meant an increase from two officers serving under Quinn to four. But the room in the attic of New Scotland Yard which was SCD headquarters had already been cramped when there had just been the three of them in it – Quinn, Inchball and DS Macadam. Now there were five men crammed in like sardines around three desks. It was impossible to move around without having to climb over a colleague, or to get him to pull his chair in so tightly that the edge of the desk dug into his abdomen. Tempers were often frayed.
Being policemen, they were not on the whole small men. And Inchball was the biggest of the lot. His imposing physique was useful for certain kinds of interrogation techniques. Quinn did not generally value evidence extracted by physical violence, but he recognized that the threat of force sometimes had the effect of focusing a suspect’s mind and encouraging cooperation. A fair number of the villains they had to deal with were bullies, and so he had no compunction about treating them to a taste of their own medicine.
The stoop that Inchball was forced to adopt gave him a hangdog expression, which was curiously appropriate to the bombshell he had just dropped, right at the moment that Quinn’s telephone had rung.
‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Quinn said now.
Inchball’s brows came together in a deep frown. He shook his head in frustration. The sergeant had never been good at hiding his emotions. ‘There’s nothing to talk about, guv. I’ve made up my mind. That’s all there is to it.’
Quinn glanced across quickly at DI Leversedge, who was pretending to be engrossed in reading through a case file, but it was obvious that he had been listening attentively to the conversation between Quinn and Inchball. Quinn suspected that Inchball’s unhappiness was due to the addition of an extra layer of command above him. The original team had worked as a tight unit, the skills of each individual officer complementing his fellows’. Inchball had brought brute force and energy. But more than that, he had a directness of approach that often cut through confusing complications. His impatience could be a liability, but Quinn had learnt not to underestimate the man’s detecting instincts. To dismiss him as the hired muscle was a mistake – and one which DI Leversedge had been quick to make. The thing was that although Quinn had clearly been the commanding officer, he had both trusted and respected his men. Often it had felt as though they were three equals working together in a common endeavour. If he could at all help it, he would rarely fall back on simply pulling rank. He preferred to win their cooperation because they understood and agreed with his directions. And besides, their contributions often played a part in shaping his strategy, Macadam, the autodidact, with his fund of idiosyncratic knowledge and Inchball with his bluntness and instinct. And Quinn, of course, with whatever it was he brought to the team. Although they were at times hard-pressed and overstretched, they had achieved a certain balance, which the addition of the new members threatened to throw out of kilter. DC Willoughby wasn’t so much of a problem, being as he was the junior party, subordinate to everyone. That said, he had succeeded in putting Macadam’s nose out of joint by driving the department’s vehicle, the Ford Model T that had until now been Macadam’s sole prerogative, as well as his pride and joy. Unfortunately, Macadam’s recent injury, a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty, meant that he was not as quick at responding to the command to ‘bring the car round’ as young Willoughby was. Sometimes Quinn even directly charged Willoughby with driving, having got into the habit during Macadam’s period of convalescence.
But surely none of this was grounds for the decision that Inchball had just announced?
Quinn could not help giving voice to his sentiments. ‘I cannot allow it.’
‘There’s nothing you can do about it.’
Quinn sensed Leversedge bristle on his behalf at Inchball’s insubordinate tone.
‘I’m a free man. And I answer to my own conscience, nobody else’s.’
‘I simply don’t see why you would wish to do this.’
‘We’re at war!’
‘Yes. And you would serve your country better by remaining in your post as a police officer.’
Inchball shook his head. ‘You don’t see the way they look at me.’
‘Who?’
‘People.’
‘And how are they looking at you?’
‘Like I’m a coward! Am I a coward?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘One bitch even gave me one of those bloody white feathers! The nerve.’
Quinn had a vague memory of Inchball mentioning this once before. ‘But that was months ago. You haven’t been fretting over it all this time?’
‘I don’t fret. If I don’t like something, I do something about it. And I’m doing something about it now.’
Quinn shook his head impatiently. He really didn’t have time to go into this now, but neither did he want to lose his sergeant. ‘There’s no need for that. Just wear the war service badge. Then people will know you’re doing your duty.’
‘I do wear it. But people still think you’re a shirker.’
‘Look, all I ask is you wait. That call … we have a new case. A murder. I need you with me on this, Inchball.’
‘I’ve made my decision. I’m leaving the force. I’m going to join the Military Police.’
‘Just so that you can wear khaki?’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Because … don’t you see? That is more of an act of cowardice than staying here.’
Quinn could see immediately that he had blundered. Inchball’s face darkened in fury. ‘So you do think I’m a coward?’
‘No!’ But Quinn found himself shouting at Inchball’s back as he pushed his way through the obstacles formed by his colleagues. ‘Wait!’
Inchball hesitated at the door, head bowed, fists clenched. Quinn could see that he was trembling with rage. The whole room waited on what he would do next.
He turned slowly to face Quinn. ‘If that’s what you think of me, then you’ll be better off without me.’
Quinn winced his eyes shut as Inchball took the final few steps of his storming out. ‘Bloody fool,’ he said. What the men watching him did not know was that he was addressing that remark to himself, not Inchball.
After a moment, he scratched an imaginary itch in his left eyebrow and sighed. ‘Willoughby, bring the Ford round, will you.’
He caught Macadam’s eye just as Willoughby rushed from the room. His remaining sergeant’s expression was hurt rather than angry. Quinn gave a small shake of his head, which was somewhere between discouraging and apologetic.
‘What’s the case, sir?’ The eagerness that Leversedge injected into the question seemed a little overdone.
‘There’s been a murder,’ said Quinn. After a moment, he added: ‘In Hampstead.’
Leversedge nodded briskly, as if this were exactly what he had been expecting. And Macadam, Quinn sensed, seemed to revive at the announcement. There was something about investigating a murder that could compensate a man for any disappointment.