“Be grateful. At times like this, celibacy is a blessing.”
“I didn’t say I was celibate.”
Kenneth Hurrell grinned. He was a wiry man of medium height with wavy black hair that was the envy of his colleagues. His immaculate suit made Minton’s tweed jacket look positively shabby. The Commander became businesslike. He snapped his fingers.
“How far have you got?”
“This far,” said Hurrell, moving to the large wall map. “The pins indicate the locations of the bombs. Twenty-one in all.”
“Twenty-one! What did they think it was – Bonfire Night?”
“Oh, no. They were very precise about the date.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s October 21st.”
“So?”
“The date of the Battle of Trafalgar.”
“But that was years ago, Ken.”
“A hundred and ninety-five years. October 21st, 1805.”
“Is that relevant?”
“Extremely, sir. Some people obviously have long memories. The pattern of bombing proves that.” He jabbed a finger at the map. “At first, I thought they were just random explosions to create a diversion and move every available officer well away from the vicinity of Nelson’s Column.”
“And they’re not?”
“No,” said Hurrell. “Take this one here, for instance,” he continued, touching one of the pins. “Old Bethnal Green Road. The bomb was very close to Nelson Gardens. Then there’s this one, sir.” He indicated another pin. “On the site of Greenwich Market. Close to Nelson Road.”
“Could just be a coincidence.”
“Not when it happens in every case,” argued Hurrell. “There was a bomb near Nelson Walk in Limehouse, another on Morden Road, close to the Nelson Industrial Estate and a third in Nelson Yard, off Mornington Crescent. So it goes on.”
“What about Oxford Street and Victoria Station?” asked Minton. “I don’t recall any Nelson Roads in those areas.”
“There aren’t any.”
“So the pattern is incomplete.”
“Far from it, Commander. The explosion in Oxford Street was less than forty yards from the ‘Admiral Nelson’ pub. The one in Victoria Station was directly opposite ‘The Trafalgar’. No question about it, I’m afraid. We’re dealing with a case of aggravated revenge.”
“Some militant Frogs?”
“All the signs point that way.”
“So it seems.”
“You can’t fault their timing.”
“Timing?”
“Yes, sir. Until last week, workmen were at the top of the column to give Nelson his habitual clean-up. The thieves didn’t just get away with the most famous statue in London. They waited until all the bird shit had been scraped off it. We’re up against pros.”
“No phone calls from them?”
“Just one, sir. In French.”
“What was the message?”
“Short and sweet. We were ordered to leave him where he is.”
“Who?”
“The Emperor Napoleon.”
“Ruling the roost in Trafalgar Square!” exclaimed Milton with an upsurge of patriotism. “We’ll see about that! Nobody gives me orders, especially in Frogtalk. Come on, Ken. Clap on full sail. We’re going straight over to Trafalgar Square. You can fill me in on the way. Leave him there indeed!” He gave a snort of defiance. “We’ll have the bugger down off that column before he can say ‘Not tonight, Josephine.’”
Napoleon Bonaparte had drawn a vast audience. Though the police had cordoned off Trafalgar Square itself, all the approach roads were heaving with sightseers. Every window which overlooked the column had its own private audience. Television cameras had prime positions and sent their pictures to the watching millions. Driven to the scene of the crime, Dick Milton was furious when he caught sight of a French television crew.
“What are
“Somebody must have tipped them off,” said Hurrell.
“They’re in on the conspiracy.”
“If that’s what it is, sir.”
When they got out of the car, Milton took his first proper look at the statue which had displaced Nelson. He craned his neck to get a good view, realizing how rarely he even noticed the usual occupant of the fluted Corinthian column. Nelson was such an essential part of the fabric of London that he could be taken for granted. Like St Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. In a sense, it was a compliment not to look at him, an acknowledgment of his status and permanence. Only foreign tourists actually stared at the column. Everyone was staring now. The new arrival compelled attention. Napoleon looked bigger, bolder, more authoritative. There was a mutinous rumble among the spectators.
Dick Milton shared their disgust. His faced reddened angrily.
“What, in God’s name, is he doing up there?”
“Making a statement, sir.”
“I’ll make a bloody statement myself in a minute.”
“Not when there are so many microphones about,” warned Hurrell. “We have to be diplomatic. Keep our own opinions private.”
“Well,
“No, sir.” Hurrell gave a signal and a detective walked briskly across to them. “Let’s see if we have any more leads. DS Williams was in charge of taking statements from witnesses.”
“Good.” He appraised the newcomer. “Well?”
“They all say the same, sir,” explained Williams, referring to his notebook. “There were over a dozen of them, sleeping here last night or sharing bottles of cheap booze. They saw very little.”
“They must have, man!”
“There was a total blackout, Commander.”
“Winos are nocturnal. They can see in the dark.”
“Not when they’re pissed out of their minds,” said Hurrell before turning back to Williams. “Sorry, Jim. Do go on.”
The Detective Sergeant nodded and ran a tongue nervously across his lips. Knowing all about Dick Milton’s hot temper, he had no wish to be on the receiving end of it. He consulted his notebook.
“They saw little but heard a lot,” he resumed. “The one thing they all agree on is the balloon. Not a hot-air balloon. The other kind. You know, like a Zeppelin.”
“A dirigible,” said Milton.
“They all called it a balloon.”
“Technically, it’s an airship. What else did they hear?”
“A strange noise.”
“Noise?”
“A sort of loud grinding,” said Williams, stooping to pick up a handful of
