Troy’s first morning back in his office would be telling. Stan was unpredictable at the best of times. Troy wasn’t sure which way he’d jump—or how much he knew.
He had half listened to Eddie …
“Mr. Wildeve’s in High Wycombe. A poisoning. The Hoxton Boys go on trial at the Bailey on Wednesday. He’ll be back for that. Mostly it’s just a mountain of paperwork.”
“A small mountain?”
“No, an alp. Mont soddin’ Blanc. You’ve been gone three weeks.”
… but all of him listened out for Stan.
Just after ten, he appeared in Troy’s office.
Closed the door behind him.
“We’re in a pickle.”
“We are?”
“Branch want to see you.”
“In which case, your immediate use of the plural personal pronoun has me somewhat baffled.”
“Eh?”
“I’m in a pickle, apparently. Not you.”
“When one of my officers is under investigation by …”
“OK. I get it. Who, when, and where?”
“Jim Westcott.”
Troy faked the raising of one eyebrow.
“I’m flattered, the last Branch man to try and turn me over was Charlie Walsh in 1940. Suddenly I’m playing in the First Division.”
“For God’s sake, Freddie, take this seriously. This could be where your chickens come home to roost.”
Troy stared at Stan. Above the chalk-stripe suit, the rumpled collar, and the decidedly non-school tie was the face of an implacable man.
“Chickens?”
“The whole fuckin’ hen house.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve told you repeatedly—”
“To have nothing to do with the Branch. Yet in 1944, you told me to investigate the murder of a Branch detective sergeant against the express wishes of the Branch itself. Two years ago, you assigned me to a Special Branch squad guarding Khrushchev. Need I say more?”
“I should knock your block off for cheek like that, but if you think about what you just said, it makes perfect sense of ‘we.’ We’re both in this.”
Troy kicked himself. He should have known better than to antagonise Stan.
“Sorry, Stan. When and where do you want me to meet Westcott?”
“He’s on his way down now. Set up a meeting with him and clear off.”
“Clear off.”
“Take leave until this is over.”
“I’ve just had three weeks leave.”
“I’ll not have the Branch questioning one of my serving officers. They want you on leave and so do I.”
“Agreeing to that … putting me on leave is telling them I’m guilty of something.”
“No—it’s not. It’s telling them we play by the rules. It’s a neutral condition. If an officer is under suspicion, it’s right that he has no cases until he’s cleared.”
“No cases? I’ve just got back to three weeks of fucking paperwork!”
“Leave it. It’s why you hired Eddie Clark, isn’t it?”
Troy looked out of the window. Anything not to have to look at Stan. What he said next needed the most careful phrasing he could manage.
He turned back.
“It is also something else. Something that might not be obvious.”
“Fine. I’ve not had me breakfast yet. Give me an egg to suck.”
“Stan, please. It’s a tactic on the part of MI5. Suppose I were whatever it is they might suspect me to be … a secret agent … a spy … to suspend me is to tip me off … and that might give me cause to contact my handlers. They want me to break protocol … they want me to run … just like Donald Maclean.”
“Then you’ve nothing to be afraid of, have you? First off, you’re not a bloody spy, and second, if they keep tabs on you the way they did on Maclean you’ll be in Moscow by Thursday lunchtime!”
The faintest flicker of a smile on the grim Lancashire face. Troy wished he’d opened their conversation with that small vote of confidence, but he hadn’t.