Jeremy Simmonds’ Story
Sunday morning. Jeremy Simmonds sat at his desk in his office and re-read an unsigned letter. He finished it. Sighed. Looked up. It was his letter of resignation from his role within British Intelligence, but he felt far from resigned to signing it. He had his own office that overlooked the Thames, an assistant who was over thirty who didn’t take it as a personal slight when he requested her assistance. His job title was long and vague, which always, in his mind, conferred a degree of status.
But, in truth, Jeremy Simmonds felt that life was passing him by. When his previous manager’s position had come up for grabs, he’d assumed it would be handed to him without fuss.
All, ‘There was really no other chap for the role . . .’ and ‘It’ll mean a considerable boost to your salary, Simmonds, yet, after all your years of service, we feel it’s richly deserved . . .’
But no.
The woman they had ushered in was new to the department and carried, in Simmonds’ admittedly jaundiced eyes, all the poise and professionalism of a drunken go-go dancer.
His pen hovered over the bottom of the letter.
He heard a light tap on his door.
‘Yes?’ He paused. ‘Come in!’
‘Sorry to bother you, sir . . .’ His assistant, Beryl, bobbed her head around his door. ‘You’ve got a call coming through on the old Apex line.’
‘Apex line? Who is it?’
‘He won’t give his name. But he says it’s urgent.’
‘Tell him I’m busy. Take a message.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Beryl went on her way but reappeared in the doorway a few seconds later. ‘He asked me to stress it’s very urgent. And pressing.’
‘But he still won’t give his name?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Dammit! Tell him I’ve asked you to find out what’s so urgent and pressing.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Beryl returned to her phone. Simmonds returned to his letter. He laid it on his desk, picked up his pen and—
‘He’s told me what it’s about, sir.’ Beryl was back in his doorway.
‘And?’
‘He says he’s just murdered a priest.’
‘Just murdered . . .’
‘A priest.’
‘Did he sound serious?’
‘Deadly serious. Oh!’ Her hand shot to her mouth. ‘I wasn’t meaning to make a joke.’
‘That’s all right, Beryl. Better put him through.’
‘Yes, sir. Shall I ask him for his name, again?’
‘Don’t bother!’ Simmonds gave the kind of sigh usually reserved for reacting to a bill that’s unexpectedly hefty. ‘I know exactly who it’ll be . . . Will no one rid me of this turbulent detective?’ He gave his assistant a half-smile. ‘Thank you, Beryl.’
‘Very good, sir.’
She retreated and, a moment later, Simmonds’ phone rang. He put down his pen and lifted the receiver. ‘My God, Novak! What the hell have you done this time?’