Free A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) by Barbara Cleverly Page A

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body perhaps should take precedence over one that is not likely to become so in the immediate future. Law enforcement before politicking, Armitage. I decided my priorities a long time ago. And I’m senior enough to be able to indulge myself. Something very puzzling and very sinister has come—all too literally—to the surface in the middleof my patch and I’m going to cast an eye over it.” He took a step towards the door. “You know Cottingham, I think? Now Chief Superintendent Cottingham.”
    Armitage nodded and confirmed: “Good bloke. We can work together. I’ll make your apologies to the senator. Don’t you worry about him—I’ve got his back.” A smile broke through, showing, Joe was sure, a gleam of envy, a reminder of the keen young detective Joe had known. “A body, eh? You’re still lead hound in this kennel, then?”
    Joe knew for certain that the sergeant would have liked nothing better than to be running alongside, nose to the ground, following a trail.
    T HERE WAS AN indignant detective inspector waiting to brief him in his office.
    The man, to whom Joe was relieved he could give a name—Orford, that was it, Orford—was red-faced and breathing heavily. He was standing about, tense, and giving off a smell of river water and sweat. In his agitation, he ignored Joe’s invitation to take a seat. Calmly, Joe took the bowler hat from the twitching fingers and put it firmly on the hat stand. The command to sit down was accepted when Joe repeated it more forcefully. It was followed by a friendly request for an account of the inspector’s adventures on the riverbank.
    Joe listened, fascinated, to his account of the discovery a short time ago. Inspector Orford knew a good deal about the case since, while in the area on police business, he’d been diverted from an early morning stakeout by the sound of police whistles and shouting. He’d been very quickly on the scene. Joe was invited to figure the inspector’s horror when he’d come upon seven members of the public digging up and making off with a corpse with the apparent collusion of two uniformed beat bobbies. A pair of strapping blokes in red neckerchiefs were helping the officers to load the body ontoa sling hurriedly fashioned from their police capes and carry it up to the Chelsea embankment.
    “But the scene of crime!” the inspector revealed that he’d yelled. “You’ve pounded it to pieces! Nothing should be disturbed! You know the procedures!”
    Joe had nodded, understanding that the man was carefully covering his back. “Quite a proper response,” he’d said encouragingly. “Do go on.”
    A different view had prevailed when one of the bobbies had pointed to the river. The desperately struggling officer had informed the inspector in blunt terms that in three minutes time he’d have lost the scene of crime under six foot of water. He’d remarked that they were lucky they’d got the manpower on hand to get her out before worse occurred and muttered that he didn’t believe even a Met inspector had the power to command the Thames to retreat. Orford had lost no time in getting his Oxfords wet. He’d declared himself, in accordance with the latest practice: Scene of Crime Officer. As such, all decisions were his to take and not even the Commissioner, if he’d come strolling by, would have had the authority to say him nay. A bold move and the inspector’s subsequent instructions showed a calm and decisive mind, Joe concluded. He further concluded that the officer had assumed—and who should blame him?—that he would be given responsibility for the follow-up police work.
    “So there you have it, sir,” Orford finished resentfully. “A corpse preserved in the nick of time, and waiting on the slab. The case taken out of my hands and handed over to a superior officer. Handed over, what’s more, at the suggestion of a member of the public.” His tone grew steely. “But a well-connected member of the public. Makes a