with playing cards, and in one case a haddock bone. He looked further along the shelf.
“He’s young, Mr Biddle. He doesn’t sleep much because he has a lot of energy and doesn’t want to miss anything.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-two, but don’t let his age fool you. When he’s awake and at the office he expects everyone else to be as well. You’ll soon get used to his funny ways.”
“I was employed directly by Mr Davenport and ultimately report to him.” Biddle looked around the shabby room and sniffed. Stale tobacco and something unhealthily perfumed. He sniffed again.
“Incense,” Forthright explained. “He reckons it helps him to concentrate.” She folded her arms across her ample bosom. “If you think this is a step up to promotion, Mr Biddle, you can forget it. It’s a bleeding dead-end job.”
“I’m not looking to make my name. I just want to see results achieved,” Biddle told her.
“Well, we all want to do our bit, I’m sure,” Forthright agreed. “But if you keep an open mind, you can learn a lot.”
“And Mr Bryant’s new partner is starting today? I’m surprised not to see him here.”
Forthright found herself not wanting to volunteer any more information. She already liked John May. He looked logical and uncomplicated. Arthur was hoping he would handle the technical side of assignments, deal with the labs, tests, collation of evidence, procedural work. The DS raised her head at the sound of footsteps in the corridor.
The door opened to reveal Bryant, wrapped in a huge, partially unravelled brown scarf, with his new partner in tow.
“Stone the crows, Gladys, are you still here?” Bryant pulled ineffectually at the scarf. “I thought you’d be gone by now.” It was Forthright’s afternoon for working for the WVS in the Aldwych.
“I was settling in your new colleague.” Forthright rose from the desk corner and straightened her serge jacket.
“Not ours, surely?” asked Bryant, glancing vaguely at Biddle. “This can’t be the fellow. He’s as fit as a butcher’s dog. I thought we only got the halt and the lame. Welcome to the unit, Mr Biddle.” Bryant held out his hand. “I hear you’ve proven a bit too smart for your local constabulary. This is another new teammate, Mr John May.” Bryant peered down into his scarf to find the knot, then glanced up at Biddle, studying his colleague with undisguised interest. “We’re certainly getting some young blood today. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one, sir.”
“We’d better find you a place to hang your hat,” said Bryant airily. “I understand you’re Davenport’s man.”
“I report to him.”
“So am I right in assuming you’re here to keep an eye on us?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that, sir.”
“Really?” Bryant smiled cheerfully. “How would you put it?”
Biddle had never taken such an instant dislike to anyone in his life. There was something about Arthur Bryant that made him want to punch him in the face. The other, taller man had not yet said a word. Perhaps he felt the same way.
“Mr Biddle will need to be released for his forensic course,” Forthright reminded him.
“Oh yes? What are you studying?”
“Blood and tissue typing, gas chromatography, perishable evidence,” Biddle replied.
“Hm. Anything more – intuitive?”
“Sir?”
“Interested in forensic psychology at all? Like to get inside the perpetrator’s mind rather than studying the mud he leaves behind on his boots?”
“Not sure about that, sir.”
Bryant grunted disapprovingly. “Well, with Mr Davenport’s permission, we’ll have to see if we can whip you into shape. I suppose you’ve been hearing a lot of rubbish about the unit.”
“No, sir.” Biddle stared blank-eyed at him. He appeared to be studying a point on the wall somewhere above Bryant’s head.
“Don’t worry, I’ve heard the rumours too. All I ask is that you’re here when I’m here. If your classes clash, we’ll have to work something out.”
“I’d prefer to let Mr Davenport decide my priorities, sir.”
“Oh, I see,” said Bryant, seeing all too well. He thought for a moment, then brightened up. “In that case, you can start by making us all some tea. Sweet and strong. I won’t ask where you get the sugar from although there’s a shifty-looking chap on the corner of the alley who does a nice line in demerara, and use my mug, not a cup, they’re for visitors. Make one for Mr May as well. Do you take sugar, Mr May?”
Biddle glared more fiercely than ever at the spot on the wall. “That’s not a duty covered in my job, sir.”
“Nor’s cleaning the lavatories, but that’s what you’ll be doing if you don’t learn to make decent tea. I’m timing you. Tick tock, tick tock. Off you go.”
Biddle reluctantly retreated, and Bryant booted the door shut behind him.
“So, it seems we have a cuckoo in the nest,” said Bryant with a sigh. “He looks a bit of a Jerry, don’t you think? It must be the haircut. Oh, bugger.” A siren had begun to wail in the street, rising in tone, then dropping. “We have to go down to the cells next door. Biddle can bring our teas over, but he’d better not spill any.”
? Full Dark House ?
9
PECULIAR CRIMES
“I wouldn’t make too many jokes about Davenport in here if I were you, Arthur,” warned Gladys. She glanced at John May hovering awkwardly beside them in the cell, anxious not to appear to be listening. “I won’t always be around to protect you.”
The green and cream corridor of the underground cell sheltered the entire staff of Bow Street. The PCU personnel were granted their own cell during air raids, either out of respect for their privacy or because Sergeant Carfax had been saying unpleasant things to the others about them. The lights were off, and the acrid stench of the hurricane lamps made everyone’s eyes water.
“You’re not talking about marrying old Longbright again, are you?” asked Bryant with a grin. “I thought you’d put your wedding plans off until after the war.”
“Not wishing to sound morbid, Arthur, I could be an old maid or a widow by then. Eight years I’ve been at Bow Street, eight years of late nights and ruined weekend plans, and what happens? Hitler invades Denmark and all leave is cancelled. Not only do I have to do my job, but I also get to be your nursemaid, placate your landlady, arrange for your laundry to be collected, fend off reporters and lie to everyone who’s trying to have this place closed down. Now I’ve been given one weekend in which to get married and sort out the rest of my life. Is it too much to want a little happiness before we’re all blown to smithereens?”
“Perhaps you have a point,” Bryant admitted. “I wish you a long and happy marriage to the bounder Longbright. Listen.” From somewhere above them came the muffled thump of a bomb. The next one would reveal whether bombers were heading towards them or away, like the forking of thunderstorms. “We may emerge from here to find the unit gone. Give us a cuddle.”
“I most certainly will not, you dreadful man.”
Bryant was going to miss DS Forthright. He had felt a passion for her from the morning he had seen her standing in the queue of the Strand Lyons, adjusting her stockings in plain view of the staff. As she hitched up the
