The sudden roar from the bandaged head took everyone by surprise. A torrent of abuse in Gaelic poured out. Joe couldn’t understand a word but every one was unmistakably a curse.

Kent put a hand on Lily’s arm and she started at the touch. ‘It’s all right, miss. But I’m afraid that’s all you’re going to get from him. Better come away now.’

The voice came again through the hole in the bandage. Louder. And, alarmingly, it was speaking in English. ‘Not quite all. I have something to offer the lady. Where are you, miss? Not seeing too well … my eyes have been pounded to a pulp.’

The padded head moved slowly from left to right, seeking her out, until she took a step forward and whispered, ‘I’m here.’

Joe’s hands clamped round her upper arms and jerked her backwards out of shot, as, with a spitting hiss, a broken tooth in a gobbet of blood landed at her feet.

Lily was still twitching with shock as Kent locked up the cell behind them. ‘Sorry, miss. Who’d ever have thought it? He must have been saving that up in his cheek. Little offering for the magistrate is probably what he had in mind.’

Joe, embarrassed and uncomfortable, gave her a moment to pull herself together and then asked, confident of her answer: ‘No need to take a look at the other one, I think, Wentworth? Just more of the same.’

‘No, sir, I’d like to see Sean number two if you wouldn’t mind.’

Kent sighed and shrugged and sought out the key for the second cell.

The same sorry spectacle presented itself in here. The same carefully arranged concealing bandages were in place. Sandilands judged they had been applied by the professional hand of a nurse or doctor following the police interrogation.

Kent performed the introductions.

‘Sean – I don’t know if you can see me? No? I’m a woman police officer. I’ve not come to take a statement.’ Her carefully prepared questions ran into the sand as she stared with pity at the small, battered body. ‘I just wondered if there was anything you’d like me to hear. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll go away and leave you in peace.’

The voice spoke in English. English with a London twang. ‘Peace? If only you could. I’m going to hang, aren’t I?’

‘It looks very much like that, Sean. You killed a very distinguished man and a London bobby and left a butler and a cab-driver wounded.’

After a pause: ‘The butler. I’m sorry about him. And the cabby. Wasn’t their business. Just doing their jobs. How are they, miss?’

‘They’re going to recover. It’ll take a week or two but they’ll be all right,’ Lily said.

‘Well that’s something. I’m glad of that. It’s a crumb of peace you’ve brought me. Now all I can do is stand up and take my punishment like a man.’

‘I must go now,’ Lily said and, unbearably moved by his dejection, she evaded Joe’s outstretched arm, ignored his shouted reprimand, and went to take hold of the boy’s hands. ‘God be with you, lad,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t call you by your given name. But I’m sure you’re known to God.’

He called to her as they reached the door. ‘Miss? My name. It’s Patrick. Can you find my mother and tell her how it is with me? Tell her they used me? Say I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused?’ Into their surprised silence he muttered: ‘She’s in Little James Street, number fifty-seven. Name of Dunne. They’d find out soon enough anyway. And I don’t want her waiting and wondering …’ He turned to the wall, sobbing.

Neither Sandilands nor Kent attempted to stop her when Lily walked back over to the boy, held his hand and waited for the storm of grief to subside. ‘My name’s Lily. I’ll see that your mother hears your message, Patrick.’

The duty staff gathered round the sergeant at the reception desk the moment the door swung to behind Sandilands and his assistant.

‘Cor, blast! What do we make of that then? Makes us look bloody fools! Especially you, Kent. How long were you working on that pair with nothing to show for it but an earful of Irish screaming and two false names? Miss waltzes in here and she’s got name and whereabouts out of one of ’em in …’ he looked at his pocket watch with heavy emphasis, ‘eight minutes flat. And now they’ve gone trotting off to pay a call on Mum! Won’t be long before they’ve rolled up the other one as well.’

His shoulders began to shake with laughter and his men took their lead from him, outrage turning to puzzlement and finally hilarity.

‘Well, look at it this way, sarge,’ offered one, ‘at least we got it done in house, so to speak. The lass is one of us if you think about it. This is her home nick. And we didn’t give way and hand the buggers over to Special Branch – if that’s who they were – when they came calling. We held the line. I reckon we can chalk this one up to the station.’

‘Right, Smithson. That’s how we’ll tell it, if anyone asks.’

‘Still – that’s a clever operator, sarge. Had you any idea?’

The sergeant looked thoughtful for a moment and said carefully: ‘Why is it everybody always coos over the monkey’s antics? When it’s the sodding organ-grinder they ought to be keeping their eye on?’

Chapter Twelve

The sodding organ-grinder sat thoughtfully at his desk, checked his wristwatch then rang for his secretary.

‘One letter, Jameson, before I dash off again. Got your pencil? Internal – and address it to the Commissioner himself, would you? His eyes only or whatever formula you use. Head it … Vine Street Police Station. Dear Commissioner, I visited today in pursuit of the Dedham case. My experiences there threw up some unsettling observations on the management of the station. I would welcome the opportunity to discuss these face to face as soon as possible.’

When she had left to type up his note he picked up the telephone. ‘Pass me Superintendent Hopkirk, will you?’

Superintendent Hopkirk raced into the inspectors’ room and peered through the cloud of tobacco smoke. ‘Chappel! Put that blasted pipe out. Bloody hell! What a puther. I’ve breathed fresher air downwind of Grimethorpe Coking Works. Get your team together, fast. We’ve got the buggers!’

‘Vine Street come up with the goods then?’ Inspector Chappel asked in some surprise. ‘They took their time. We were all betting this pair would take their secrets to the gallows with them. You know what they’re like for the rule of silence, these Micks. Worse than the Eyeties. Should have thrown them to the Special boys to have a gnaw at.’

‘There’s a bit of a turf war going on that’s no business of ours, Inspector. Suffice it to say that the powers that be are of the conviction that there’s more than an element of civil interest in this affair.’ He paused to allow this to sink in and, having received the hard stares and splutters of disbelief he was expecting, went on: ‘Oh, yes, civil interest.’

The inspector took up the challenge. ‘I think I may be missing something here, sir. We’ve got the chief critic of Sinn Fein done to death by – guess who – two Irishmen still clutching hot guns. Most ordinary folk would be happy to draw the obvious conclusion and hand the whole can o’ worms over to an outfit better equipped to deal with an outbreak of politically motivated shootings. But not our boss. Oh, no. CID can have this one, he says. Am I getting this right, or what?’

‘To a point. What you seem to have missed, Inspector, is that the hush-hush boys we’re all so fond of aren’t technically military. Nor are they MI1b, MI1c or any of the rest of the alphabet. They report ultimately to his nibs – to our his nibs. Sandilands trumps their director. Whoever he may be. But let’s not forget that Sandilands isn’t the ultimate authority in the Met. And he’s saying what quite a few of the upper echelons want to hear. He’s sketching out a scenario that pleases the government more than a full-blown military situation. Nobody’s of a mind to sound the trumpet and slip the leash on those dogs at the Branch. It would be admitting CID can’t handle it – that the bloody Irish terrorists have opened up a front on the streets of London. That the capi-tal’s on a war footing.’ His audience winced and groaned. ‘But cheer up, lads. We seem to have won the latest round. Or at least Sandilands does. He was on the blower just a minute ago to say he wants to see us down the East End.’ He waved a piece of paper. ‘At this address. Little James Street. Anybody know it? Righto then, get your skates on – he’s going to be there waiting for us. Pawing the ground and breathing flames as usual no doubt.’