Predictably Onions had every nagging phone call redirected to Troy’s office. Every half-hour or so Mary McDiarmuid would ring him with the Mail or the Standard – for whom Troy had a standard line. The press did not dictate the investigations of the Metropolitan Police Force. If they had evidence they should bring it forward now or risk a charge of obstructing the course of justice. If they did not have evidence and wished to publish items on the Ryan twins, then that was between them, the Ryans and the laws of libel. This shut no one up, occasionally produced laughter, and, from a reporter on his family’s Evening Herald, produced a knowing snigger.
But there were also the politicians. The bigwigs had had their say to Onions. It was the also-sat, the back-bench green-leather arse-polishers who now phoned Troy. Most East London MPs sought some form of reassurance, banging on about ‘descent of the area into lawlessness’, ‘mob rule’, ‘the bobby on the beat’ and so on. Troy resorted to the meaningless brush-off as practised by the royals, ‘Something will be done.’ Then a Conservative MP, Sir Albert Stokes: Marylebone South, telephoned. Troy was thinking that he’d seen enough knights lately to last a lifetime and was wondering what this might have to do with Sir Albert when it dawned on him. The Empress club was in his constituency. He heard Troy’s platitudes with good grace and, just when Troy thought he was about to ring off, said, ‘You’re not related to the other Troy, are you?’
‘What other Troy?’ said Troy.
Then Les Gidney called. Les was the Labour MP for Stepney. Watney Street, the Ryans’ home and garage were all in his constituency. He was, de facto, the MP to whom the Ryans should complain if their boast to Onions had meant anything. Troy wasn’t at all sure they had -not that that meant they wouldn’t. Troy knew Les slightly. Another 1945 man, elected straight from khaki. A plain, working-class bloke, not at all easy with the likes of Rod and Gaitskell and their public-school socialism, but, Troy thought, one of the good guys.
‘I’ll get them, Les.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But it is baffling.’
‘What is?’
‘It’s a sort of circle game. Wheels within wheels, that sort of thing. It’s only a few weeks back that Mo White was wanting me to meet them to talk about what he called “development opportunities around Watney Market”. And then just a few days ago Rod suggested I come to a meeting with him and Mo and Ted Steele. I said no to both.’
‘The Ryans’ reputation preceded them?’
‘No, Freddie. Not all. Truth to tell I’d never even heard of them. That alone is worrying. And, needless to say, I’ve heard from them rather too much lately. If it were left to them I’d spend the rest of my time in Parliament writing outraged letters to the commissioner. But, no, I turned down both meetings because I know Mo White, known him all my life. And I trust him about as far as I could chuck him.’
‘Les, Stepney has a new detective inspector.’
‘I heard. Has this anything to do with anything? I knew Paddy Milligan. I thought he was all right.’
‘He is. Family troubles. He wanted a transfer back to Lancashire. The new chap’s called Ray Godbehere. Why don’t you introduce yourself? See he meets the people a new DDI should meet?’
When Mary McDiarmuid announced a Dick Goldblatt, Troy called a halt to it. ‘Isn’t he the Tory for Golders Green?’
‘I think it’s Neasden, boss. And I rather think that’s Goldfarb. This chap said Goldblatt.’
‘What’s the difference? Get a number and tell him I’ll call him back.’
‘Will you?’
‘No.’