Shepherd; hence Curry Shepherd.”
“A currach is…?”
“A small boat; a coracle…”
“Oh, yes. And now you’re doing..?”
“I didn’t say, but your boss, Tommy, is checking up on my credentials e’en as we speak, as they say,” this last drawled out exaggeratingly. “Actually, I’m on a little roving commission that I don’t think our Ginger Tom’s going to like.”
She giggled at the Ginger Tom. In some ways it was apt. She didn’t think Tommy had ever been unfaithful to her, but he certainly eyed up the ladies: very blatant about it. Mind you she had been unfaithful to Tommy – one night with the Wing Commander: room 504. But that was different. Of course.
“So what d’you do for our Tom?”
She thought for a moment, then said, “Actually Tommy rescued me.” In her head she saw Tommy as he was when she first met him. She had been following a lead with, of all people, Shirley Cox.
In the autumn of 1940 Suzie was out of her depth. The Blitz on London was at its most horrible, she was untrained as a detective and her senior officer, Detective Chief Inspector ‘Big Toe’ Harvey, had been injured by a passing bomb, leaving her unsuitably in charge when a headline murder case landed on her patch.
Fleet Street had a field day, and the papers were quickly awash with stories about this young, inexperienced woman in charge of an atrocious killing. In those days women coppers investigating ’orrible murders raised the hackles in a certain type of ‘Concerned of Camberwell’ correspondent in the editorial columns. The Yard was angry, thought she’d been professionally putting herself about a bit.
Eventually she was told to keep her head down and, if she needed help, to ring Detective Chief Superintendent Tommy Livermore. She did just that and found a pleasant, if avuncular, voice at the distant end, giving her sensible advice and telling her to just get on with it. He would step in and assist if push came to shove.
Push did come to shove and her cry for help was answered in the reception hall of a tasteless block of service apartments in Marylebone: Derbyshire Mansions where she first came face to face with Tommy.
She was later to discover that his entrances were usually made with some dramatic bravura, and on this occasion he swished in with his team around him, making Suzie comment, “Orchestra, dancing girls, the lot.”
Shirley added, “And a male voice choir.”
They both agreed that Tommy himself arrived in great style, the impeccable suit, handmade shoes, greatcoat across the shoulders, the energy, physical presence, and the all-consuming smile. It just about knocked her off her feet. (Just as you could Mr James Morrison Shepherd, she considered now. If you put your mind to it. Same mould as Tommy but much younger.)
The following night – back in 1940 – Dandy Tom Livermore had taken Suzie to dinner at the Ritz where he told her that she was one of a number of hand-picked women detectives who were to be groomed for stardom against the day when women coppers would be de rigueur (there were only about three people in the Met who could clearly see that female police were really here to stay. Tommy was one of them: though you’d rarely know it these days). That night she left the Ritz as one of the Reserve Squad, and during the remainder of that horrendous year, Tommy was there for her, and soon after he became her first ever lover.
Now, here he was again outside the car and talking ten to the dozen to Brian.
“Going to the nick,” he said once he’d returned to his seat – next to Brian in the front this time, his rightful place. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, young Curry, haven’t we? At least you’ve got a lot to tell me. You’re a Major I gather.” Not even a pause for breath. “Substantive rank of Major they tell me. Quite gone up in the world.”
“What about me seeing the bodies?” Curry’s voice seemed to be saying that Tommy really didn’t cut any ice
“A currach is…?”
“A small boat; a coracle…”
“Oh, yes. And now you’re doing..?”
“I didn’t say, but your boss, Tommy, is checking up on my credentials e’en as we speak, as they say,” this last drawled out exaggeratingly. “Actually, I’m on a little roving commission that I don’t think our Ginger Tom’s going to like.”
She giggled at the Ginger Tom. In some ways it was apt. She didn’t think Tommy had ever been unfaithful to her, but he certainly eyed up the ladies: very blatant about it. Mind you she had been unfaithful to Tommy – one night with the Wing Commander: room 504. But that was different. Of course.
“So what d’you do for our Tom?”
She thought for a moment, then said, “Actually Tommy rescued me.” In her head she saw Tommy as he was when she first met him. She had been following a lead with, of all people, Shirley Cox.
In the autumn of 1940 Suzie was out of her depth. The Blitz on London was at its most horrible, she was untrained as a detective and her senior officer, Detective Chief Inspector ‘Big Toe’ Harvey, had been injured by a passing bomb, leaving her unsuitably in charge when a headline murder case landed on her patch.
Fleet Street had a field day, and the papers were quickly awash with stories about this young, inexperienced woman in charge of an atrocious killing. In those days women coppers investigating ’orrible murders raised the hackles in a certain type of ‘Concerned of Camberwell’ correspondent in the editorial columns. The Yard was angry, thought she’d been professionally putting herself about a bit.
Eventually she was told to keep her head down and, if she needed help, to ring Detective Chief Superintendent Tommy Livermore. She did just that and found a pleasant, if avuncular, voice at the distant end, giving her sensible advice and telling her to just get on with it. He would step in and assist if push came to shove.
Push did come to shove and her cry for help was answered in the reception hall of a tasteless block of service apartments in Marylebone: Derbyshire Mansions where she first came face to face with Tommy.
She was later to discover that his entrances were usually made with some dramatic bravura, and on this occasion he swished in with his team around him, making Suzie comment, “Orchestra, dancing girls, the lot.”
Shirley added, “And a male voice choir.”
They both agreed that Tommy himself arrived in great style, the impeccable suit, handmade shoes, greatcoat across the shoulders, the energy, physical presence, and the all-consuming smile. It just about knocked her off her feet. (Just as you could Mr James Morrison Shepherd, she considered now. If you put your mind to it. Same mould as Tommy but much younger.)
The following night – back in 1940 – Dandy Tom Livermore had taken Suzie to dinner at the Ritz where he told her that she was one of a number of hand-picked women detectives who were to be groomed for stardom against the day when women coppers would be de rigueur (there were only about three people in the Met who could clearly see that female police were really here to stay. Tommy was one of them: though you’d rarely know it these days). That night she left the Ritz as one of the Reserve Squad, and during the remainder of that horrendous year, Tommy was there for her, and soon after he became her first ever lover.
Now, here he was again outside the car and talking ten to the dozen to Brian.
“Going to the nick,” he said once he’d returned to his seat – next to Brian in the front this time, his rightful place. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, young Curry, haven’t we? At least you’ve got a lot to tell me. You’re a Major I gather.” Not even a pause for breath. “Substantive rank of Major they tell me. Quite gone up in the world.”
“What about me seeing the bodies?” Curry’s voice seemed to be saying that Tommy really didn’t cut any ice
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