DI Leversedge stood on the embankment and watched as the Model-T with the governor in the back was driven away by Macadam. He gave a small salute, which he may or may not have meant to be ironic, he couldn’t decide. He didn’t think so. Not ironic exactly. More sardonic; expressive, he hoped, of a shared cynicism. The grim cynicism of the professional police detective. A gesture of respect, perhaps, but one that asked for that respect to be reciprocated.
Leversedge accepted it was a lot of meaning to invest in a simple movement of the hand.
There was a sound like a gun discharging causing the car to swerve uncertainly. It was just the engine backfiring, but it had clearly been enough to throw Macadam off his stride. That was understandable. They were all jumpy, what with young Willoughby getting gunned down like that.
What would he have to do to prove his loyalty to Quinn? Obviously it would help if he could be the one to crack the Fonthill case and bring in Willoughby’s killer. Yesterday he had felt sure that he was on to something with his theory about the Russian dancer. But now he was not so sure. Quinn’s reaction had been discouraging.
Leversedge felt a kindling of resentment. No matter what he did, Quinn would never trust him. Nothing he could do would be good enough.
That was clear from the way he was being sidelined from the main investigation. What made it worse – and what made him hate Quinn even more – was that deep down he knew that he had brought all this on himself.
Naturally, they had to go through the list of suspects, eliminating those who had an alibi, or were otherwise in the clear, as Inchball had by all accounts done with that fellow Masters. But Inchball was a plodding brute, a foot soldier without ambition. He was even talking about leaving the force to join the army.
It wouldn’t do for Leversedge to get caught in the same trap. That kind of methodical policing had its place, of course, same as house-to-house enquiries, and combing waste ground for clues. But Leversedge saw himself more as your brilliant detective, using deductive reasoning and a heightened understanding of human nature – dare he say psychology? – to make inspired leaps of the imagination to work out who the perpetrator was. Of course, he knew that there were dangers in this approach. One man’s startling insights could be another’s wild guesswork. And if you weren’t careful it led to the kinds of shortcuts that his old boss Coddington had taken.
Coddington had been a great one for hunches. Never doubted his hunches. And if the evidence wasn’t there to back them up, well, he’d make sure that it was, one way or another.
That wasn’t Leversedge’s way, never had been, though he was sure Quinn suspected him of shady practices. He found himself tarred with the same brush, through no fault of his own. Guilt by association, it was, and it wasn’t fair.
The sensible thing would be to show him how he too could be the loyal foot soldier when required. Talk to the Russians and the Belgian and the opera singer, like he’d said he would. Maybe it would turn up something. Or maybe it would turn out to be a complete waste of time, and if so, who would that help?
He’d found out from Macadam and Inchball that Quinn had gone off to talk to Kell. He’d given nothing away when he’d come back, just ordered Macadam to get the car. But something had rattled him, Leversedge could see that.
Something to do with the case, too, he shouldn’t wonder.
He knew Kell and his second in command, Irons, by sight. You could always tell when Kell entered the room from the pong of his medicinal cigarettes. And Irons could often be found propping up the saloon bar of the Red Lion at lunchtime, invariably drinking alone, downing a pint in resolute silence.
Leversedge consulted his pocket watch. Time he was heading over to the Ritz Hotel, where he had discovered from newspaper accounts that the Russians were staying.
If he played his cards right, there might be time to stop for a pint himself later on.