City Of Shadows. M J Lee

do that, sir. Not without Chief Inspector Boyle’s permission. He’s been charged. Can’t leave here.’

      ‘He’s going to die unless you do something.’

      The sergeant stared at the prisoner lying prostrate on the bed, mumbling over and over again through his broken mouth.

      ‘I need the Chief’s permission, sir. Regulations.’

      Danilov raced out of the cell and up the stairs at the end. ‘I’ll see about bloody regulations.’

       Chapter 6

      ‘You can’t go in, Inspector.’ Miss Cavendish looked up from painting her nails a bright scarlet to match her lipstick.

      ‘I’m sorry, I must.’

      She got up from behind her desk and stood in his way. Miss Cavendish was the gatekeeper to Boyle’s office, protecting the sanctum from trespass or unauthorised entry, both criminal offences in her eyes.

      ‘I need to see him immediately.’

      Miss Cavendish played with the string of pearls around her neck, thinking about his request. ‘He said he wasn’t to be disturbed. Manpower reports for upstairs. But as it’s you, Inspector, I’ll try.’

      She knocked gently on the frosted glass door. A grumpy ‘Yes’ came from within.

      She pushed open the door and Danilov caught a glimpse of a large, portly man, sitting behind his desk.

      He caught the traces of a conversation.

      ‘Can’t he come back later?’

      ‘He says it’s important.’

      ‘Tell him to come back later.’

      ‘Chief Inspector, I’m sure Inspector Danilov wouldn’t bother you unless it were urgent.’

      Danilov heard a long, loud sigh followed by a grumpy, ‘Show him in then.’

      Miss Cavendish pushed open the door and stepped aside.

      ‘What is it, Danilov? Upstairs are demanding these reports from me yesterday.’

      Chief Inspector Boyle was sitting behind his desk, a half-smoked cigar burning in the ashtray, its smoke sending tendrils of petrol-blue up towards a tanned ceiling. Behind his head, a portrait of King George V dressed in a naval uniform looked down, a bland smile etched into the thin lips, surrounded by a manicured beard.

      ‘It’s the prisoner, Kao, he…’

      ‘Damn fine work by Cowan, arresting the culprit so quickly after the murders. And he’s confessed. Upstairs is very pleased.’ He pointed with his thumb towards the ceiling.

      ‘The prisoner is severely injured, sir. A punctured lung, maybe even worse.’

      ‘Severely injured, you say? I heard he resisted arrest. The men had to restrain him. Nothing unusual in that.’

      ‘This man has been severely beaten up, sir. To get his confession.’

      ‘What are you suggesting?’ Boyle picked up his cigar and sat back in his chair. ‘Won’t you sit down, Danilov?’

      ‘I prefer to stand, sir.’

      ‘Suit yourself.’ Boyle took a long drag on the cigar, blowing out a long stream of smoke that filled the room. ‘Look, a family, a decent working family, was shot down in their home without mercy. The man in the cells has confessed to the crime. End of story.’

      ‘He says he didn’t do it, sir.’

      ‘Well, he would say that now, wouldn’t he?’ Boyle leaned forward, opening the box in front of him. ‘Take a cigarette and sit down.’

      ‘I still prefer to stand, sir.’

      Boyle sighed, scratching his bald head as he did so. Danilov noticed three long red scores on his scalp. The skin had begun to flake at the edges of the marks, sending white motes of skin onto Boyle’s shoulders.

      ‘The prisoner could die from his injuries, sir. How would that look on the records?’ Now was the time to play his final card. ‘And worse, what would upstairs say?’ Danilov repeated the gesture of pointing upwards with his thumb.

      ‘Are you threatening me, Danilov?’

      ‘No, sir, merely pointing out the obvious. If the main suspect in such a high profile case dies in police custody, well…there are bound to be questions asked about the competence of the officer in charge. And I’m sure the press would be the first to ask.’

      Boyle sat and thought for a moment, the cigar burning uselessly between his fingers. Then he leant forward and stubbed it out in the ashtray. ‘Listen, Danilov, you’re a good copper. A brilliant copper. But sometimes, you have to realise it’s important to get a result. Quickly.’

      ‘Even when “the result” is wrong?’

      ‘So you’re the arbitrator of right and wrong these days?’

      ‘Isn’t that our job, sir? To find and punish criminals?’

      ‘When you get to do my job, you’ll realise that it’s not as straightforward as that.’

      ‘For me, it is, sir.’

      ‘Then you’ll never be able to do my job.’

      ‘I know, sir. The idea gives me immense pleasure.’

      Boyle sat back in his chair and let out a long, audible sigh like the release of gas from a punctured balloon. His voice became softer, more cajoling. ‘You did well on the Character Killer case, but you didn’t make any friends in the force. Cartwright and Meaker were liked.’

      ‘A man may die unless we get him help. Do you think I care about making friends?’

      Boyle looked towards the door and coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Miss Cavendish…’

      There was no answer.

      ‘Miss Cavendish, I know you are there.’

      ‘Yes, sir?’ a tiny voice squeaked.

      ‘Ask Inspector Cowan to join us, will you?’

      ‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. Now?’

      ‘Right away, Miss Cavendish.’

      They both heard the clatter of heels on the wooden floorboards as Miss Cavendish went to fetch Cowan.

      Boyle took a cigarette from his box, lit it, inhaled and blew a long stream of smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘I have to be honest with you, Danilov. Since the trouble with Cartwright and Meaker, a lot of people have been gunning for you.’

      ‘They obstructed my investigations, sir. Hiding witnesses and information.’

      ‘They did and were punished for it. But you have to understand this police force. We stick together. Most of the men you serve with also served in the trenches. You didn’t, did you?’

      ‘No, sir. The Imperial Police in Minsk were exempt from the Army.’

      ‘In the trenches, there was a sense of solidarity. All in this together. Against the mud, the slime, the Germans, even our own generals. You don’t understand what loyalty means to these men.’

      ‘No, I don’t, sir.

      Boyle took out a brown paper file from his desk drawer and opened it. A few faded typewritten sheets lay inside, the ink faded to light blue. ‘I checked your record with the chaps at Scotland Yard.’ His eyes scanned one of the sheets. ‘Two years exemplary service but a bit of a maverick was their judgement. Too smart for his own good.’

      ‘I enjoyed my time on secondment from Russia to London, sir, but we never did catch