folded newspaper, in which he’d secreted his brass knuckles.
‘Thanks for the lend of the paper, Pietro,’ he said with a wink.
The silent Italian gave a curt nod and placed it under the counter.
Harley walked back to the table and raised his hat.
‘Ladies.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Vera, offering her hand to be kissed. Harley gave it a peck and turned to Slater.
‘Always a pleasure, Vern. You look after yourself now, won’t you?’
‘Ha, ha—you mug, Harley.’
The policemen escorted Harley out of the warmth of the café and into the grey drizzle of the London morning, steering him towards a large black Wolseley parked at the kerb.
‘You be careful now, Mr. Webbe!’ shouted Slater, enjoying himself immensely as he stood watching from the café doorway. ‘He’s a bit of a wide-boy that one—he’ll be a hard nut to crack!’
CHAPTER FIVE
Harley stood at the Station Sergeant’s desk, flanked by the two plain-clothes detectives who had brought him in.
‘George Harley! Long-time-no-see. And to what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘Search me, Dick. There I was, minding me own business—’
‘I’ll stop you there, George, if you don’t mind—I’ve heard that particular song before … Well, Detective Sergeant, what’s the charge?’
‘No charge, Dick—not as yet, anyway. Mr. Quigg asked us to bring him in for a chat.’
‘Right-you-are—number two’s free. Mind how you go, George. I’m sure one of these nice gentlemen will bring you a cup of tea once they’ve got you settled. And I’d be grateful if you’d keep the language clean this morning—and that goes for you two as well—we’ve got a VIP on the premises. Off you go then lads, let’s be having you.’
Harley was shown into an interview room, bare apart from a scuffed deal table and two metal-framed chairs.
‘Take a seat, Harley. The DI will be with you in a little while.’
‘How about that cup of tea then?’
‘Don’t push your luck, sherlock! And no shouting, now—you heard the sergeant.’
Harley waited for Webbe to leave and then dropped his hat on the table and took a seat. He quickly flipped through his notebook, searching for anything that might be compromising to either himself or his associates if found by Quigg. Having erased a couple of surnames he replaced the book in his jacket and lit a smoke. He leant forward on the table and played with some loose strands of tobacco whilst pondering why Quigg might have pulled him in. After a while Webbe returned.
‘Look sharp, Harley—you’re wanted in the Chief Inspector’s office.’
‘Chief Inspector? What about Quigg?’
‘There’s no time to argue about it. And put that fag out! He’s got the new Commissioner in with him.’
‘ Commissioner? ’
‘Yes. The new Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. I know, I know—I’m as surprised as you are; but believe me, you do not want to keep them hanging around. Come on—look lively now!’
Now Harley really was puzzled, and more than a little concerned. Quigg he could handle, up to a point—but an interview with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police? Well, that was an altogether different proposition. As he was escorted down the corridor his mind scrambled through his most recent cases, trying desperately to think what he’d done to warrant interest on such an executive level. He was still struggling to make sense of it all as Webbe knocked on the frosted glass of the Chief Inspector’s door.
‘Come!’
‘George Harley, sir,’ said Webbe, pushing Harley in and closing the door behind him.
To Harley’s left stood Quigg, for once devoid of his supercilious sneer, but still failing to acknowledge his presence in the room. Seated next to Quigg was a portly, balding man with a ruddy complexion, wearing the three pips of a Chief Inspector. Directly in front of Harley, sitting behind the Chief Inspector’s desk and sucking on his trademark Hungarian saxophone pipe, was General
‘Thanks for the lend of the paper, Pietro,’ he said with a wink.
The silent Italian gave a curt nod and placed it under the counter.
Harley walked back to the table and raised his hat.
‘Ladies.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Vera, offering her hand to be kissed. Harley gave it a peck and turned to Slater.
‘Always a pleasure, Vern. You look after yourself now, won’t you?’
‘Ha, ha—you mug, Harley.’
The policemen escorted Harley out of the warmth of the café and into the grey drizzle of the London morning, steering him towards a large black Wolseley parked at the kerb.
‘You be careful now, Mr. Webbe!’ shouted Slater, enjoying himself immensely as he stood watching from the café doorway. ‘He’s a bit of a wide-boy that one—he’ll be a hard nut to crack!’
CHAPTER FIVE
Harley stood at the Station Sergeant’s desk, flanked by the two plain-clothes detectives who had brought him in.
‘George Harley! Long-time-no-see. And to what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘Search me, Dick. There I was, minding me own business—’
‘I’ll stop you there, George, if you don’t mind—I’ve heard that particular song before … Well, Detective Sergeant, what’s the charge?’
‘No charge, Dick—not as yet, anyway. Mr. Quigg asked us to bring him in for a chat.’
‘Right-you-are—number two’s free. Mind how you go, George. I’m sure one of these nice gentlemen will bring you a cup of tea once they’ve got you settled. And I’d be grateful if you’d keep the language clean this morning—and that goes for you two as well—we’ve got a VIP on the premises. Off you go then lads, let’s be having you.’
Harley was shown into an interview room, bare apart from a scuffed deal table and two metal-framed chairs.
‘Take a seat, Harley. The DI will be with you in a little while.’
‘How about that cup of tea then?’
‘Don’t push your luck, sherlock! And no shouting, now—you heard the sergeant.’
Harley waited for Webbe to leave and then dropped his hat on the table and took a seat. He quickly flipped through his notebook, searching for anything that might be compromising to either himself or his associates if found by Quigg. Having erased a couple of surnames he replaced the book in his jacket and lit a smoke. He leant forward on the table and played with some loose strands of tobacco whilst pondering why Quigg might have pulled him in. After a while Webbe returned.
‘Look sharp, Harley—you’re wanted in the Chief Inspector’s office.’
‘Chief Inspector? What about Quigg?’
‘There’s no time to argue about it. And put that fag out! He’s got the new Commissioner in with him.’
‘ Commissioner? ’
‘Yes. The new Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. I know, I know—I’m as surprised as you are; but believe me, you do not want to keep them hanging around. Come on—look lively now!’
Now Harley really was puzzled, and more than a little concerned. Quigg he could handle, up to a point—but an interview with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police? Well, that was an altogether different proposition. As he was escorted down the corridor his mind scrambled through his most recent cases, trying desperately to think what he’d done to warrant interest on such an executive level. He was still struggling to make sense of it all as Webbe knocked on the frosted glass of the Chief Inspector’s door.
‘Come!’
‘George Harley, sir,’ said Webbe, pushing Harley in and closing the door behind him.
To Harley’s left stood Quigg, for once devoid of his supercilious sneer, but still failing to acknowledge his presence in the room. Seated next to Quigg was a portly, balding man with a ruddy complexion, wearing the three pips of a Chief Inspector. Directly in front of Harley, sitting behind the Chief Inspector’s desk and sucking on his trademark Hungarian saxophone pipe, was General
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