DISAPPROVAL
The commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Jacob Trevillion, was a big, bucolic man, ex-navy, with a manner too often faintly reminiscent of a drill-sergeant. He had a saving sense of humour, his bark being always worse than his bite, and he overlooked a great many errors provided rules and regulations were strictly observed. Entering his office, these things passed through Roger’s mind and he even wondered whether Coppell could have brought him along here on the “it’s time West was taught a lesson” principle. He had never met this man face to face over Yard business, only on official and social occasions, and he felt a sharp sense of trepidation.
In front of the commissioner was a copy of last night’s
He was frowning; and after a swift glance towards them he put the newspaper to one side and shuffled through some papers. Roger saw that amongst them were some of his own and some of Coppell’s reports on the Rapelli case.
The commissioner kept them standing just long enough to make Roger begin to fret, then looked up once more.
“Ah, commander. Have a seat. Superintendent—I think you have some explanations to make.”
Roger said in a flat voice, “About what, sir?”
“About your grave error of judgment when you asked a question in court yesterday.”
Roger kept silent.
“Well?” the commissioner barked.
“I don’t really think I committed an “error of judgment, sir.”
“You don’t
“I know I asked for trouble, sir, but it was an odd situation, and got out of hand. I felt it essential to establish the character of the witness who really shouldn’t have been allowed to testify. Thanks to some very clever tactics by her counsel, she was being allowed to give evidence that she had been in bed with a man accused of a serious crime, at the time of the crime. If it ever came to trial, as I would expect, this evidence would be on record. I did take a chance, sir, in establishing her character—”
“That’s enough, Superintendent.”
“Sir.”
“You’ve been in the service long enough to know the elementary rules, haven’t you?” The sarcasm almost dripped.
“Yes, sir,” Roger said, very quietly. “I have been in the Force for twenty-six years. And in countless cases I have managed to get results by taking some risks. Once that alibi evidence was given, the damage was done, and I felt impelled to try to discredit the witness. The very fact that a junior partner of a highly reputable firm of solicitors—”
“Commissioner,” Coppell interrupted, in a strangely mild voice for him, “West found the girl witness in another man’s bed this morning. The bed of a man who ran down and killed one of the prosecution’s witnesses in the Rapelli case.”
The commissioner stared, his lips parted; his expression one of complete bafflement. Coppell, having said his” piece, crossed his thick legs and fell silent. Roger felt an unexpected surge of appreciation, of gratitude; but he was far from being out of the wood yet. He would have to be extremely careful what he said and how he said it; the trouble was that although he knew he had stuck his neck out and that the commissioner’s manner wasn’t at all unjustified, he himself was seething with resentment, and it would be difficult to keep a hold on his tongue. He tried to relax—eyes, lips, set of his chin and shoulders, but the effort wasn’t very successful.
Then he saw the change of expression in the commissioner’s eyes. An “I’ve got him” look which he had seen in the eyes of senior officers often, when he had been younger. He steeled himself for whatever was coming.
“You
“Yes, sir.”
“In his bedroom, presumably.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was she asleep? Awake? Was the man with her?”
“She was alone, sir.”
“And how many police officers did you have with you?”
“None, sir.”
“Ah.” The commissioner looked triumphant. “The girl was in bed—by herself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were in the room, unaccompanied by any police officers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was
“No, sir,” Roger stated. “Two men, one a photographer, were in the passage outside.”
