Fall From Grace

hole, and blurted out, ‘I may have some of that.’

There was a silence then both of his superiors turned round as if seeing him for the first time.

This was not quite how Mulholland had imagined it; he had hoped for a quiet word with his lieutenant, a gentle rap on the knuckles plus unspoken appreciation of his investigative talents, then McLevy apprised of the facts in a manner to let the inspector know that although a breach of etiquette might have occurred, talented youth must be given its head.

‘Some of what?’ the inspector asked finally.

‘Hard evidence.’

The McLevy jaw dropped a considerable distance.

‘Eh?’

A smile spread across the saurian features of Roach; this was a rare moment.

‘Has the constable been to the well before you, McLevy?’ he asked benignly.

‘He said nothing to me!’ was the indignant retort.

‘I couldn’t get a word in,’ muttered Mulholland.

‘Well you have now! What evidence? What are you talking about, man?’

The unhappy constable stood to his feet like a schoolboy in class and related the events of the night before, Stinky D’Oros et al.; at times as regards frilly peignoirs, swelling and dilation the detail was somewhat truncated but other than that Mulholland stuck to the facts and the facts stuck to him.

At the end of his recitation there was silence. The inspector’s face was like thunder and Roach placed a prudent hand over his long snout of a chin as if deep in thought.

Mulholland had a brief devious moment of hope; was that a forgiving glint in the lieutenant’s’s eye? Had Roach come down on the side of young love?

Inspector McLevy came down differently.

‘You withheld evidence!’ was his accusation.

‘More like delayed, sir.’

‘Withheld!! From your superior officer.’

‘Most improper,’ agreed Roach urbanely. ‘I only know of one other man who would do that.’

This snide observation brought McLevy’s head whipping round.

‘In my case it is strategic,’ he allowed. ‘Constable Mulholland has permitted his personal affairs to hinder the investigation of a case. We have lost valuable time, and time is always of the essence.’

‘It was the previous night only,’ ventured Mulholland.

‘Of the essence!’

This roar brought the exchange to an end and though McLevy was often guilty of such behaviour as regards his lieutenant, one of the prime reasons was Roach inevitably dragged his feet, scratched around for the rule book, pored over evidence as if it were a tricky putt on a treacherous green, and took forever in granting permission to accomplish what could be effected in one hour of unsupervised action.

Every investigation had its own rhythm, like a symphony, and there was room for only one conductor.

Second fiddles must remain so.

It was too late now to say whether the inspector would have handled events differently; Mulholland had denied him the choice.

So though there was an egoic element to the outrage experienced as regards his subordinate’s sleekit, behind the back, round the corner, slimy, ungrateful, underhand, despicable, belly-crawling activities, McLevy also had a sense of genuine betrayal.

He fixed his constable with a cold eye and Mulholland hung his head in apparent shame.

But the young man was calculating the odds. He might yet survive; if nothing untoward transpired, the wrath of the inspector would hopefully pass, especially if they topped and tailed Oliver Garvie.

Of more concern was an official reprimand from his lieutenant, though McLevy collected them like a child did daisies in the spring. That would go on record and affect the constable’s hopes of promotion.

Roach said nothing.

McLevy seethed.

Mulholland calculated.

The silence stretched like a yawning tiger and three little taps upon the already open door signalled the arrival of fate in the form of Constable Ballantyne, the white half of his face peering in, shoulders hunched.

‘Come in Ballantyne,’ said Roach wearily. ‘Join the throng. Perhaps we may all find partners and dance the quadrille.’

This passed the constable by; he had two left feet to go with the other hazards inflicted by a bountiful nature.

Also he had other things on his mind, the weather had turned unexpectedly mild and the station was crawling with bluebottles.

He fixed his eyes earnestly upon McLevy; the inspector, unlike Ballantyne, had no liking for flies and had been known to wreak havoc with a rolled-up Leith Herald.

‘A report jist in, sir,’ he announced gravely. ‘The sergeant has it at the desk. He wishes your presence.’

McLevy nodded curtly, Ballantyne departed and before the inspector followed he stuck out a stiff finger at the still figure of his constable.

‘Don’t you go anywhere Mulholland, I haven’t finished with you yet.’

The door slammed behind him. Roach shook his head.

‘You’ve been a fool, constable.’

‘I meant well, sir.’

‘The road to hell is paved with such intentions,’ the lieutenant remarked with some asperity.

Roach stood abruptly and flexed his cramped limbs; he seemed to have been sitting at that desk for an eternity and to alleviate the tightness began to practise golf shots, narrowing his eyes as the imaginary balls split the fairway time and time again.

It is always thus with golfers, the real world being such an unwelcome intrusion into the great game.

With a regretful sigh, Roach returned to actuality. He had still to inform the constable about his failed suit, but there was no need to pile it on here.

The lieutenant adopted a formal tone.

‘Let us hope whatever is the case with Garvie, that Mister Forbes may yet provide an innocent explanation and, in that case, there is no harm done. I see no need for official reprimand.’

Mulholland’s heart skipped a beat; had Cupid abandoned that voluptuous goddess with the wispy bits and returned to his rightful owner?

For what could stand in the way of young love?

The door opened and McLevy came back in without knocking. He ignored Roach’s reproving look as regards protocol flouted, took a deep breath and spoke grimly, no trace of satisfaction in his delivery.

‘Robert Forbes has hanged himself. In his study. The body was found by his daughter.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Roach.

Mulholland let out a low moan in the terrible silence.

Love is the very devil.

‘I have sent men to Oliver Garvie’s home and offices,’ continued the inspector. ‘But I doubt our bird will have flown. I was correct. Time was of the essence.’

The constable brought his head up to meet the merciless gaze of his inspector.

‘There was a measure of arrogance in what you did, Mulholland,’ pronounced McLevy in a detached tone that made his words all the more lethal. ‘The Scots have a name for someone who rises in arrogance and falls flat on his face.’

Outside in the station, Ballantyne heard the murmur of voices behind the lieutenant’s door and wondered somewhat wistfully if he would ever, one day, be admitted to that inner sanctum. Rescuing bluebottles could take a man only so far and no further.

‘A puddock,’ said McLevy flatly. ‘You have made a puddock of yourself.’

‘Unfortunately so,’ agreed Roach. ‘Puddock is the word.’

Scylla and Charybdis were the monstrous guards of the Straits of Messina in ancient times who crushed many