Free Not My Blood by Barbara Cleverly Page B

shrugged. “I think you know. Something that wasn’t there yesterday morning. The boy. But why? No idea, Alfred! We’ll leave him where he is for a bit. I’ve summoned the two best shadows we have at the Yard. When they’ve checked in and got themselves in position you can put the fuse back in and let him loose. I’d like to know where he goes and whom he contacts. I’ll ask the boys to let him run and get what they can from surveillance before he goes to ground and—if they can judge the moment—jump on him!”
    “Frog march him to the Yard on some pretext,” Jenkins said with satisfaction. “I’m sure they’ll find he’s tied his shoelaces the wrong way. Leave it to me, sir. Your luggage is by the door ready for off. I’ll give you a hand while Miss Lydia gets your nephew into his new uniform. She says she’s packed what you need.” He smiled. “And a fair bit more, I’d say. I put the lad’s fancy bag on top of the pile.”
    Joe was struggling to push the last of the suitcases into the back of the car when a passing businessman in dark overcoat and bowler stopped to lend a hand then went on his way. Joe barely caught the “Reporting for duty, sir,” as they bent together over the back seat. A discreet glance around gave him no sight of a second presence in the eerily deserted street. Overcast skies, chilly wind. The few pedestrians braving the weather were hurrying, heads down, through the snow, their outlines blurred by overcoats, mufflers and umbrellas. Perfect stalking weather. Joe felt for a moment an ancient stab of excitement, the hot impulse to pursue his quarry on his own two feet.
    He wouldn’t keep his men hanging about. He hurried back inside and herded Lydia and Jack into the car, murmuring goodbyes to his landlord and a casual, “Well, there we are at last. Thanks for your help, Alfred. All arrangements in place, I think.”

CHAPTER 7
    “H e’s fallen asleep, Joe,” Lydia reported as they chugged their way through the last of the London suburbs. “Thought he might. He went to bed very late last night and was up and about early, and then there was all the excitement of playing railways.”
    “To say nothing of the snug little nest you made up for him in the back there.”
    “Are you ever going to tell me what this is all about?”
    “If I knew myself I certainly would.”
    “Do you mean to tell me you gleaned nothing from your hastily arranged meeting at the Yard? I don’t believe you. Who did you manage to drum up to see you? Anyone available, or did you have to consult the tea-lady?”
    “Oh, there were people there. An Education minister, two private secretaries, Miss Peto, the Commissioner himself.… Will that do to be going on with?”
    “Big guns! But what was Miss Peto doing there?”
    “There’s a child involved. Waifs, strays, children and tarts—they all trigger a female presence. I was offered the flower of the Force to escort young Jackie back into the lions’ den. I turned down the offer for the time being since I have you on hand, Lyd. I’d rather handle this school with discretion and walking inescorted by a female policeman in full kit would not be the way to do it. A concerned family member—that’s fine. But all these characters played walk-on roles—the star of the show was the Secretary of State for Reform.”
    “James Truelove?”
    “That’s the man.”
    “But what could he possibly have to say to
you
, Joe? Do you need reforming? Why is he meddling in police business?”
    “Well, of course, he oughtn’t to be. And, as far as I can see to it, he won’t. The police force isn’t at the beck and call of the government. We need to remind them occasionally that it’s the
country
we serve, not ministers. This new office of state someone’s thought fit to endow him with worries me. It’s a bit nebulous, a bit embryonic. I mean—name
anything
that couldn’t do with a bit of reforming! Where do you start?”
    “You could start with the Met,