end of the table, his head buried in The Daily Telegraph. He muttered the occasional tut-tut, while his wife, seated at the other end, continued her daily battle with The Times crossword. On a good day, Marjorie would have filled in the final clue before her husband rose from the table to leave for Lincoln’s Inn. On a bad day, she would have to seek his advice, a service for which he usually charged a hundred pounds an hour. He regularly reminded her that to date, she owed him over twenty thousand pounds. Ten across and four down were holding her up.
Sir Julian had reached the leaders by the time his wife was wrestling with the final clue. He still wasn’t convinced that the death penalty should have been abolished, particularly when a police officer or a public servant was the victim, but then neither was the Telegraph. He turned to the back page to find out how Blackheath rugby club had fared against Richmond in their annual derby. After reading the match report he abandoned the sports pages, as he considered the paper gave far too much coverage to soccer. Yet another sign that the nation was going to the dogs.
“Delightful picture of Charles and Diana in The Times,” said Marjorie.
“It will never last,” said Julian as he rose from his place and walked to the other end of the table and, as he did every morning, kissed his wife on the forehead. They exchanged newspapers, so he could study the law reports on the train journey to London.
“Don’t forget the children are coming down for lunch on Sunday,” Marjorie reminded him.
“Has William passed his detective’s exam yet?” he asked.
“As you well know, my dear, he isn’t allowed to take the exam until he’s completed two years on the beat, which won’t be for at least another six months.”
“If he’d listened to me, he would have been a qualified barrister by now.”
“And if you’d listened to him, you’d know he’s far more interested in locking up criminals than finding ways of getting them off.”
“I haven’t given up yet,” said Sir Julian.
“Just be thankful that at least our daughter has followed in your footsteps.”
“Grace has done nothing of the sort,” snorted Sir Julian. “That girl will defend any penniless no-hoper she comes across.”
“She has a heart of gold.”
“Then she takes after you,” said Sir Julian, studying the one clue his wife had failed to fill in: Slender private man who ended up with a baton. Five, seven, and four.
“Field Marshal Slim,” said Sir Julian triumphantly. “The only man to join the army as a private soldier and end up as a field marshal.”
“Sounds like William,” said Marjorie. But not until the door had closed.
2
William and Fred left the nick just after eight to set out on their morning patrol. “Not much crime at this time of day,” Fred assured the young probationer. “Criminals are like the rich, they don’t get up much before ten.” Over the past eighteen months William had become used to Fred’s oft-repeated pearls of wisdom, which had proved far more useful than anything to be found in the Met’s handbook on the duties of a police officer.
“When do you take your detective’s exam?” asked Fred as they ambled down Lambeth Walk.
“In a few weeks’ time,” replied William. “But I don’t think you’ll be getting rid of me quite yet,” he added as they approached the local newsagent. He glanced at the headline: “PC Yvonne Fletcher killed outside the Libyan Embassy.”
“Murdered, more like,” said Fred. “Poor lass.” He didn’t speak again for some time. “I’ve been a constable all my life,” he eventually managed, “which suits me just fine. But you—”
“If I make it,” said William, “I’ll have you to thank.”
“I’m not like you, Choirboy,” said Fred. William feared that he would be stuck with that nickname for the rest of his career. He preferred Sherlock. He had never admitted to any of his mates at the station that he had been a choirboy, and always wished he looked older, although his mother had once told him, “The moment you do, you’ll want to look younger.” Is no one ever satisfied with the age they are? he wondered. “By the time you become commissioner,” continued Fred, “I’ll be shacked up in an old people’s home, and you’ll have forgotten my name.”
It had never crossed William’s mind that he might end up as commissioner, although he felt sure he would never forget Constable Fred Yates.