telephoned the chief inspector rather than himself, he gave no sign of it.
“You didn’t say,” he answered. “You just asked if he would have a moment to speak to you in the morning.”
Gibbons frowned. “That seems odd.”
“Well, I think it shows that whatever you wanted, you didn’t feel it was urgent,” offered Davies.
“But it almost seems as if it couldn’t have been about the Haverford case,” said Gibbons. “If I’d found out anything about that, I would have rung you, not Carmichael. And yet I can’t think of any other reason I would have wanted to talk to him.”
“Perhaps it was a personal problem?” suggested Davies. “Something you wanted an older man’s perspective on? It seems to me the chief inspector would be a logical choice for something like that.”
“Maybe.” But Gibbons looked unconvinced.
“Well,” said Davies with a glance at his watch, “I’m afraid I must be going or I’ll be late meeting Colin. I’ll stop back later to tell you what, if anything, I find out and I’ll bring by that report of yours.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons. “It’s very good of you to take the trouble.”
Davies smiled. “No trouble at all, Sergeant. It’s the least I can do.”
Gibbons leaned back against the pillows as he watched the inspector leave. He was curiously tired, as if focusing on their conversation had tried his strength.
But it had also given him new food for thought. In all the confusion of waking in an unknown hospital with a painful wound in his abdomen, he had nearly forgotten about the case he had been working on less than a day ago. He turned his still-fuzzy mind to it now, but dozed off again before he had got very far.
Inspector Davies hesitated as he left the hospital. He did not like to interfere in any way with Chief Inspector Carmichael’s investigation into
the events of Tuesday night—shootings were, after all, much more in the chief inspector’s line of country than in his own—but having spoken to Gibbons, a certain step seemed essential. He supposed it would not do any harm to wait until Carmichael was back on duty and could think of it himself, but concern over the chief inspector’s temper seemed a poor reason to delay such an obvious precaution.
After debating with himself for a few minutes, Davies pulled out his mobile with a sigh and rang the number for the Scotland Yard forensics laboratory. He was surprised to have his call answered by Ian Hodges himself, since the scientist was notorious for never even checking his messages, much less actually answering the phone.
“Mr. Hodges,” he said politely, “Detective Inspector Davies here. I was ringing about Sergeant Gibbons’s case.”
“Well, I’m working on it, aren’t I?” demanded Hodges. “You detectives all seem to think forensics is some kind of magic, accomplished with a snap of the fingers.”
“I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job, Mr. Hodges, just as you always do,” said Davies soothingly. “I wasn’t calling for results. I’ve just spoken to Sergeant Gibbons, you see, and he doesn’t remember much of yesterday. I thought perhaps you might send someone along to have a look at his computer at the Yard and see if we can’t determine what he was working on yesterday afternoon.”
“Ah, poor lad,” said Hodges, immediately appeased. “How is he today?”
“He seemed very well to me,” replied Davies. “I mean, considering what he’s been through and all. I think he’s frustrated at not being able to remember more.”
“Natural enough,” grunted Hodges. “Well, I’ll have Michaels go collect Sergeant Gibbons’s hard drive and we’ll see what we’ll see.”
“Thank you,” said Davies. “Er—I’m ordering this on my own initiative, you understand, but I think your report had better go to Chief Inspector Carmichael.”
“Very well,” said Hodges. “Nothing else, then? Good.”
And he rang off abruptly.
Davies sighed as he closed
“You didn’t say,” he answered. “You just asked if he would have a moment to speak to you in the morning.”
Gibbons frowned. “That seems odd.”
“Well, I think it shows that whatever you wanted, you didn’t feel it was urgent,” offered Davies.
“But it almost seems as if it couldn’t have been about the Haverford case,” said Gibbons. “If I’d found out anything about that, I would have rung you, not Carmichael. And yet I can’t think of any other reason I would have wanted to talk to him.”
“Perhaps it was a personal problem?” suggested Davies. “Something you wanted an older man’s perspective on? It seems to me the chief inspector would be a logical choice for something like that.”
“Maybe.” But Gibbons looked unconvinced.
“Well,” said Davies with a glance at his watch, “I’m afraid I must be going or I’ll be late meeting Colin. I’ll stop back later to tell you what, if anything, I find out and I’ll bring by that report of yours.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons. “It’s very good of you to take the trouble.”
Davies smiled. “No trouble at all, Sergeant. It’s the least I can do.”
Gibbons leaned back against the pillows as he watched the inspector leave. He was curiously tired, as if focusing on their conversation had tried his strength.
But it had also given him new food for thought. In all the confusion of waking in an unknown hospital with a painful wound in his abdomen, he had nearly forgotten about the case he had been working on less than a day ago. He turned his still-fuzzy mind to it now, but dozed off again before he had got very far.
Inspector Davies hesitated as he left the hospital. He did not like to interfere in any way with Chief Inspector Carmichael’s investigation into
the events of Tuesday night—shootings were, after all, much more in the chief inspector’s line of country than in his own—but having spoken to Gibbons, a certain step seemed essential. He supposed it would not do any harm to wait until Carmichael was back on duty and could think of it himself, but concern over the chief inspector’s temper seemed a poor reason to delay such an obvious precaution.
After debating with himself for a few minutes, Davies pulled out his mobile with a sigh and rang the number for the Scotland Yard forensics laboratory. He was surprised to have his call answered by Ian Hodges himself, since the scientist was notorious for never even checking his messages, much less actually answering the phone.
“Mr. Hodges,” he said politely, “Detective Inspector Davies here. I was ringing about Sergeant Gibbons’s case.”
“Well, I’m working on it, aren’t I?” demanded Hodges. “You detectives all seem to think forensics is some kind of magic, accomplished with a snap of the fingers.”
“I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job, Mr. Hodges, just as you always do,” said Davies soothingly. “I wasn’t calling for results. I’ve just spoken to Sergeant Gibbons, you see, and he doesn’t remember much of yesterday. I thought perhaps you might send someone along to have a look at his computer at the Yard and see if we can’t determine what he was working on yesterday afternoon.”
“Ah, poor lad,” said Hodges, immediately appeased. “How is he today?”
“He seemed very well to me,” replied Davies. “I mean, considering what he’s been through and all. I think he’s frustrated at not being able to remember more.”
“Natural enough,” grunted Hodges. “Well, I’ll have Michaels go collect Sergeant Gibbons’s hard drive and we’ll see what we’ll see.”
“Thank you,” said Davies. “Er—I’m ordering this on my own initiative, you understand, but I think your report had better go to Chief Inspector Carmichael.”
“Very well,” said Hodges. “Nothing else, then? Good.”
And he rang off abruptly.
Davies sighed as he closed
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