This was not good.
Lieutenant Roach had been summoned from a Handel concert, which was no great loss to him since the number of notes made his head dizzy, and lurked remonstratively at the station desk along with a strangely, but a little late in the day, alert Sergeant Murdoch.
Mulholland, having worshipped in song God and the buxom blue-eyed daughter of the manse, had been intercepted on his way home and already taken out a body of men to scour the streets.
The circumstances, with which the good lieutenant was eager to acquaint his inspector, were as follows.
Constable Ballantyne, the station being quiet, had visited the cells to give Hercules Dunbar his supper, a tin can of kale broth to be passed through the bars.
He found the man convulsed upon the floor, slavering, apparently in the grip of some noxious seizure.
A kind heart can get ripped to pieces in this harsh world.
Ballantyne quickly unlocked the cell door and leant over the poor suffering soul. The man was face down on the floor but as the constable turned him over as gently as possible, the fellow made a miraculous recovery and hauled the young man over so violently that his shoulder snapped, then crashed four or five blows into him.
While Ballantyne lay semi-conscious, a piece of torn blanket was stuffed in his mouth and another savage blow rendered him sufficiently comatose to take no further part in proceedings.
Which were that Hercules Dunbar, taking advantage of the fact that the night shift had just changed over so the station was empty except for Sergeant Murdoch dozing over the evening newspaper, slipped away and vanished into the darkness of night.
Mulholland, who had assumed the mantle of the man of the moment as Roach took great pleasure in telling the aggrieved inspector, was directing pursuit through the nooks and crannies of Leith and would no doubt return triumphant.
The inspector wasn’t so sure about that; Dunbar would now be forewarned and not easily taken. If the bugger had any sense, and he wasn’t entirely bereft, he would get out of the city as fast as his legs could take him.
Nor would he be festooned with harlots.
McLevy had the two thieves slammed behind bars, and then drew a deep breath.
‘Where’s Ballantyne?’ he asked.
‘In my office,’ replied Roach. ‘His shoulder has been severely dislocated. I have sent for Doctor Jarvis.’
‘He’ll be at his club, knee deep in claret,’ grunted the inspector. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Are you qualified?’ Roach enquired.
‘I’ve broken enough bones in my time,’ was the uncompromising response.
Now it was the lieutenant’s turn to grunt. The two men looked at each other, neither wishing to state the obvious fact that this was a dreadful smack in the lugs and a loss of honour; once the word got round, especially to Haymarket station, the Edinburgh City police would be laughing till the tears ran down their ugly faces.
And the blame could only be laid at the one door. Even if the prisoner was hanging from a homemade gallows, or had cut his throat with a rusty spike, you never went into a cell alone.
‘It might transpire that Ballantyne is not fitted for a life in the force,’ remarked Roach soberly.
‘We can keep him in the station,’ McLevy muttered.
‘That’s what we have already tried. And see the result.’
‘He’ll learn. Experience teaches the unwary.’
‘I have never,’ the lieutenant rejoined grimly, ‘in my life, ever come across evidence to support that assertion.’
On that nihilistic note, they turned as one for a change, and headed toward the lieutenant’s lair.
Ballantyne was nursing his bad shoulder as they entered, the birthmark side of his face turned away to hide his shame and embarrassment.
The inspector took a passably white handkerchief from his pocket and twirled it round so that it formed into the shape of a twist of rope.
‘Bite down on this,’ he said gruffly.
The constable accepted the offering without a word and, as he had sunk his teeth unwillingly into the dirty shred of blanket, did the same with trust to the handkerchief.
McLevy stood behind the young man where he sat, took firm hold of the shoulder and then suddenly jerked it back into position.
A muffled yelp of pain followed the action but the bone was now back in its socket though Ballantyne carried that shoulder high till the end of his days.
The inspector held forth his hand and Ballantyne looked blankly at him before remembering the hankie in his mouth which he removed, shook out, thought to wipe it dry upon his trousers, changed his mind, thought to wipe it on his tunic, changed his mind again and, in dire frustration and pain, clenched tight his eyes then offered the cloth up blindly, like a hostage to fortune.
As McLevy retrieved the handkerchief, Roach shook his head gloomily; his crown of thorns had just acquired another barb. The chief constable, Sandy Grant, would see this as an opportunity to wield authority.
A deep bunker of condemnation awaited the errant driver, the ball already in the air.
Ballantyne finally opened his eyes.
‘I’ve let ye down, have I not sir?’
He had addressed this remark to McLevy but it was Roach who answered.
‘I am afraid, constable, that cannot be denied, or ignored.’
For a moment the young man’s lip quivered, but then he pulled himself together and tried to disregard the jagging pain from his previously displaced, now rejointed, limb.
‘I’ll clear out my desk if that is your wish, sir.’
Again he spoke to McLevy who slowly shook his head.
‘I’ve looked at your desk,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in it but dead flies and broken pen nibs.’
The inspector glanced over at his lieutenant who sighed then nodded reluctant assent to the unspoken request.
‘Away ye go home, Ballantyne,’ McLevy pronounced sombrely. ‘You’ve suffered sufficient for the day.’
The constable rose and made his way gingerly towards the door but, on reaching it, was struck by a sudden and unwelcome memory.
‘Jist before he hit a last time, Dunbar – he spat something in my ear.’
‘Surely not saliva?’
To this question delivered with finicky distaste by Lieutenant Roach, the young man shook his head.
‘No. It was words. He said. Dunbar. He said. “Tell McLevy, I’ll see him in hell.” It was words.’
The door closed and the constable was gone. Roach looked up at the portrait of Queen Victoria and wondered if she had really attended a seance to search out ectoplasmic evidence of her beloved Albert.
McLevy indulged in no such displaced activity. Dunbar’s words rang true.
