Dead Image by Joan Lock

Author:Joan Lock
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780752477237
Publisher: The History Press
Published: 2011-12-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Chief Inspector Arthur Amos Cheadle sat bolt upright in his chair, his huge frame motionless, his eyes glaring. He was furious again. Furious because Best had not been down at the City Road Dock that morning when Minchin’s boat returned, more furious because Minchin had not been on board anyway and that the traffic manager of the Grand Junction Canal Company had had to bring this news to him. It put him at a disadvantage which he didn’t like. It also made him wonder what the hell his underlings were doing.

Opposite Cheadle sat the object of his fury – a weary-looking, Sergeant Ernest Best. Next to Best, looking brighter and, like Cheadle, keeping very still but for a different reason, sat the fair and innocent-looking, PC John George Smith.

‘Feel more at home with those artists, d’you?’ It was more of a statement than a question.

‘It was another strand of the enquiry, sir,’ ventured Best.

‘A strand was it, a strand!’ Cheadle was derisory. ‘It might be, my boy, but not a bloody urgent one! If you can’t sort out which is and which ain’t it’s time you were back pounding the beat.’

Best said nothing. At that moment the option seemed a very good one to Best. He was sick of the Detective Branch with its overwork, long hours, loneliness. Not to mention the shelling out of money on transport and the like, and the anxiety as to whether the commissioner was going to deem it well spent and deign to refund it. Most of all he was sick of the seemingly endless complications and confusions of this case. Admittedly, walking the beat had, in the end, become boring, and the wearing of uniform both on and off duty had been very tiresome. one could never fade into the background. But right now the peace of strolling along at a measured pace without any worries seemed very attractive. It didn’t help that he knew that Cheadle was right. He himself wasn’t sure why he had done what he had done.

Cheadle turned his attention to the other two figures sitting to the left of his desk: Traffic Manager Albert Thornley, still worried-looking but clearly relieved to have been able to demonstrate his willingness to co-operate with the authorities. Alongside him, the darkly handsome and friendly dock labourer, Sam Grealey, as restless as ever, and looking ill-at-ease in his rough shirt and stained cord trousers tied up with string. Clearly, he didn’t like being at a disadvantage either. Hadn’t he done his duty, pointing out to Thornley that Minchin was missing, telling them what he knew about the man? Now he sat shifting about in his chair clenching and unclenching his strong fists and causing his considerable arm and shoulder muscles to tense and grow large which, had he known it, made him look even more out of place.

‘Near Tring, you said?’

Thornley nodded. ‘Coming into Marsworth – “Maffers” the boatmen call it – there’s a run of seven locks there. He got out to see the boat through, then went off.

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