the bearded man cautiously untucked the plastic sheet while the younger constable laid a hand on the dead man’s shoulder as if to wake him up.
“You’ll have to try harder than that, lad,” the Superintendent warned in an altogether crisper tone.
The boy pulled, the bearded sergeant helped him, and the body reluctantly rolled over, one arm stiffly waving, the other still clutching the stick.
“Oh, Christ,” said the constable. “Oh, bloody hell!”—and clapped a hand over his mouth. The sergeant grabbed his elbow and shoved him away. They heard the sound of retching.
“I don’t hold with politics,” the Superintendent confided to Smiley inconsequentially, staring downward still. “I don’t hold with politics and I don’t hold with politicians either. Licensed lunatics most of them, in my view. That’s why I joined the Force, to be honest.” The sinewy mist curled strangely in the steady beam of his torch. “You don’t happen to know what did it, do you, sir? I haven’t seen a wound like that in fifteen years.”
“I’m afraid ballistics is not my province,” Smiley replied after another pause for thought.
“No, I don’t expect it would be, would it? Seen enough, sir?”
Smiley apparently had not.
“Most people expect to be shot in the chest really, don’t they, sir?” the Superintendent remarked brightly. He had learned that small talk sometimes eased the atmosphere on such occasions. “Your neat round bullet that drills a tasteful hole. That’s what most people expect. Victim falls gently to his knees to the tune of celestial choirs. It’s the telly that does it, I suppose. Whereas your real bullet these days can take off an arm or a leg, so my friends in brown tell me.” His voice took on a more practical tone. “Did he have a moustache at all, sir? My sergeant fancied a trace of white whisker on the upper jaw.”
“A military one,” said Smiley after a long gap, and with his thumb and forefinger absently described the shape upon his own lip while his gaze remained locked upon the old man’s body. “I wonder, Superintendent, whether I might just examine the contents of his pockets, possibly?”
“Sergeant Pike.”
“Sir!”
“Put that sheet back and tell Mr. Murgotroyd to have his pockets ready for me in the van, will you, what they’ve left of them. At the double,” the Superintendent added, as a matter of routine.
“Sir!”
“And come here.” The Superintendent had taken the sergeant softly by the upper arm. “You tell that young Constable Hall that I can’t stop him sicking up but I won’t have his irreverent language.” For the Superintendent on his home territory was a devoutly Christian man and did not care who knew it. “This way, Mr. Smiley, sir,” he added, recovering his gentler tone.
As they moved higher up the avenue, the chatter of the radios faded, and they heard instead the angry wheeling of rooks and the growl of the city. The Superintendent marched briskly, keeping to the left of the roped-off area. Smiley hurried after him. A windowless van was parked between the trees, its back doors open, and a dim light burning inside. Entering, they sat on hard benches. Mr. Murgotroyd had grey hair and wore a grey suit. He crouched before them with a plastic sack like a transparent pillowcase. The sack had a knot at the throat, which he untied. Inside, smaller packages floated. As Mr. Murgotroyd lifted them out, the Superintendent read the labels by his torch before handing them to Smiley to consider.
“One scuffed leather coin purse Continental appearance. Half inside his pocket, half out, left-side jacket. You saw the coins by his body—seventy-two pence. That’s all the money on him. Carry a wallet at all, did he, sir?”
“I don’t know.”
“Our guess is they helped themselves to the wallet, started on the purse, then ran. One bunch keys domestic and various, right-hand trousers. . . .”He ran on but Smiley’s scrutiny did not relax. Some
“You’ll have to try harder than that, lad,” the Superintendent warned in an altogether crisper tone.
The boy pulled, the bearded sergeant helped him, and the body reluctantly rolled over, one arm stiffly waving, the other still clutching the stick.
“Oh, Christ,” said the constable. “Oh, bloody hell!”—and clapped a hand over his mouth. The sergeant grabbed his elbow and shoved him away. They heard the sound of retching.
“I don’t hold with politics,” the Superintendent confided to Smiley inconsequentially, staring downward still. “I don’t hold with politics and I don’t hold with politicians either. Licensed lunatics most of them, in my view. That’s why I joined the Force, to be honest.” The sinewy mist curled strangely in the steady beam of his torch. “You don’t happen to know what did it, do you, sir? I haven’t seen a wound like that in fifteen years.”
“I’m afraid ballistics is not my province,” Smiley replied after another pause for thought.
“No, I don’t expect it would be, would it? Seen enough, sir?”
Smiley apparently had not.
“Most people expect to be shot in the chest really, don’t they, sir?” the Superintendent remarked brightly. He had learned that small talk sometimes eased the atmosphere on such occasions. “Your neat round bullet that drills a tasteful hole. That’s what most people expect. Victim falls gently to his knees to the tune of celestial choirs. It’s the telly that does it, I suppose. Whereas your real bullet these days can take off an arm or a leg, so my friends in brown tell me.” His voice took on a more practical tone. “Did he have a moustache at all, sir? My sergeant fancied a trace of white whisker on the upper jaw.”
“A military one,” said Smiley after a long gap, and with his thumb and forefinger absently described the shape upon his own lip while his gaze remained locked upon the old man’s body. “I wonder, Superintendent, whether I might just examine the contents of his pockets, possibly?”
“Sergeant Pike.”
“Sir!”
“Put that sheet back and tell Mr. Murgotroyd to have his pockets ready for me in the van, will you, what they’ve left of them. At the double,” the Superintendent added, as a matter of routine.
“Sir!”
“And come here.” The Superintendent had taken the sergeant softly by the upper arm. “You tell that young Constable Hall that I can’t stop him sicking up but I won’t have his irreverent language.” For the Superintendent on his home territory was a devoutly Christian man and did not care who knew it. “This way, Mr. Smiley, sir,” he added, recovering his gentler tone.
As they moved higher up the avenue, the chatter of the radios faded, and they heard instead the angry wheeling of rooks and the growl of the city. The Superintendent marched briskly, keeping to the left of the roped-off area. Smiley hurried after him. A windowless van was parked between the trees, its back doors open, and a dim light burning inside. Entering, they sat on hard benches. Mr. Murgotroyd had grey hair and wore a grey suit. He crouched before them with a plastic sack like a transparent pillowcase. The sack had a knot at the throat, which he untied. Inside, smaller packages floated. As Mr. Murgotroyd lifted them out, the Superintendent read the labels by his torch before handing them to Smiley to consider.
“One scuffed leather coin purse Continental appearance. Half inside his pocket, half out, left-side jacket. You saw the coins by his body—seventy-two pence. That’s all the money on him. Carry a wallet at all, did he, sir?”
“I don’t know.”
“Our guess is they helped themselves to the wallet, started on the purse, then ran. One bunch keys domestic and various, right-hand trousers. . . .”He ran on but Smiley’s scrutiny did not relax. Some
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