Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

Wine Is a Mocker by Jeffry Scott

© 1994 by Jeffry Scott

The female cop has become such a familiar figure on the street, we may be inclined to forget that her lot within the force can still be difficult — especially when she’s paired with the likes of Jeffry Scott’s PC Kit LePage...

Drunks are funny. Ask generations of clowns, cabaret artistes, or writers scrabbling around for light relief. Cue the rumpled Man-about-town, screwing a cigarette into his ear, fumbling with a lighter, and then solemnly igniting the tip of his necktie.

In real life, your average benighted boozer, slurred of speech and double of vision, tends to be an embarrassment. Or due to irrational rages over imagined slights, an outright menace. Sadly, city coppers find it hard to laugh, but then they know of too many maimed innocents, and the occasional grieving widow whose life has been altered for the worse by a gush, of alcohol.

In the criminal triangle of London between Rosetta Street, Great Northern Prospect, and Cap-a-Pie Lane, comical drunks are a rarity. What with joblessness, inner-city poverty, and abundant slums, everything around the Rosetta is more serious, somehow. Intoxicated men and women adrift on the street are seldom arrested — who needs the paperwork — but they are treated with caution and strongly, often colourfully advised to get off out of it.

Constable Kit LePage and Constable Angela Farrington wanted no truck with drunks. They were on patrol in the maze of alleys, mews, and courtyards behind Great Northern Prospect. It demanded much trudging. Their feet hurt. It was about one in the morning

and they had, as the ancient Met’ Police slang goes, shaken hands with several hundred doors, checking that they were locked. Since half the premises were derelict anyway, wretched little stores and two-room workshops killed by the endless recession, the task struck them as futile. However, there was a bit of a purge on about burglaries.

Kit LePage quite liked the futility part. PC LePage, while not exactly idle, was what is known in the trade as a uniform-carrier or warm body. He did what he was told, fading away when volunteers were called for or messy duties could be avoided. He welcomed a simple assignment unlikely to require decision-making, undue effort, much chance of action. Angela Farrington, stuck-up little cow, had been fuming throughout their shift, for the same reasons. She was worryingly intelligent, not to mention ambitious (a word sounding like a disease when uttered by PC LePage), and lusted after CID work.

Had she been dense as concrete and apathetic as a pebble, Kit LePage would still have disliked Angela. She was female, for a start. And reasonably sexy in a chubby, twinkling-eyed, jaunty manner. PC LePage was all for that, naturally. But Angela Farrington was sexy etcetera and unavailable, which he could not forgive. Asked for a date (Kit LePage kept being told he ought to try male modelling, so he was fully aware of the opportunity being bestowed on a fairly tiresome young woman), PC Farrington had smiled sweetly and stated that she would rather spend a year subjected to the sexual whims of gorillas than endure so much as a nanosecond off duty with him.

He wasn’t surprised, Kit LePage told anyone who would listen and many who jeeringly refused to do any such thing. He had pegged Farrington as a lesbian soon as he clapped eyes on her. He’d just been testing his suspicion.

Further, there was the matter of PC Angela Farrington being upper class, or letting on to be. She had that blah accent, marbles in the mouth. A couple of women officers had spent the weekend at her parents’ place, reporting that it was a stately home as near as made no odds, ever so old, ever so big, though a touch shabby, and there were real servants, just like in Edwardian costume dramas on the telly.

If there was one thing PC LePage couldn’t stand, he discovered on hearing that, it was a posh tart playing at coppers until she reverted to type and married a millionaire or a title, probably both. Ah yes, Farrington and LePage made a great team.

Another thing getting up Kit LePage’s nose was Angela’s popularity at work. Everybody liked her, from sarcastic Inspector Caradoc and thuggish-looking Sergeant Nick Flinders, to the rest of the Woodentops, the uniformed people. Whereas PC LePage, who as far as he could make out was a terrific guy, seemed to get Angela Farrington’s rightful share of snubs and ribbing as well as his own... Weird: he’d been on the Rosetta for two years, she was green, yet she was accepted and he was treated like rubbish.

For some weeks before the Night of the Drunk, a conviction had been growing within Kit LePage. If Angela Farrington came unstuck, blundered and became discredited, then his career would turn around. It wasn’t logical, but in his heart he knew it had to be that way.

They were pacing along Duck Street, PC LePage musing on how nice it would be if some of that insecure, crumbling brickwork fell on Angela’s head — not to kill her, mind; say a year in hospital, slow her down a trifle — when she startled him by stopping dead. “Did you hear that?”

“No,” he said, without thought or analysis. Jobwise, it was one of PC LePage’s favorite responses, way ahead of “I’m off watch, boss” or “It’s not up to me, get someone else.”

But then he did hear it. They were standing at the entry to Persever Lane, no more than a slot between the walls of adjoining buildings, which led onto Henry Court and another dead end, Absolam Rents. Persever Lane had echo-chamber qualities when the city was so quiet, and LePage caught a sound akin to autumn leaves blowing across the flagstones, down there beyond the radius of the nearest street lamp. But it wasn’t autumn, and in any case, Persever Lane had no trees.

What the sound might well be, was of feet uncertain and faltering, or tippytoe stealthy. Before he could repeat the denial, Angela Farrington nipped into the alley and shone her torch, calling in a harsh, far from cute and sexy way: “Stay where you are! Police.”

“Bloody hell,” LePage groaned. “You should hear yourself. Come on, it’s only a cat or something.”

“Some cat,” she said. The torch had a hell of a beam. It showed, fifty or sixty yards down Persever Lane, a shoulder, an ear, some disordered hair, and one leg from the knee down. “Come on out,” she ordered.

And the quarry obeyed, half toppling from a distant doorway. He kept one hand on its jamb, swinging like an urchin twirling round a pole. PC LePage activated his own torch as Angela gasped and flinched, then he advanced. The man froze for an instant, free hand thrown up to shade his eyes.

He was young, well, youngish, with a lot of fair hair and a lot of nose and very little in the way of chin. His tie was pulled down and one point of shirt collar stuck up in a fang. The Armani suit was grievously creased and crumpled, not just fashionably baggy, and PC LePage, who cared about such things, estimated that the leather loafers had cost more than his, LePage’s, weekly salary.

“Ah, poleesh,” the man mumbled to himself, evidently relieved. He was equally evidently high, or well on the way thither. For he added, unaware of expressing it aloud, “Watch your step with the coppers, my boy.”

PC LePage went closer, although still beyond swinging, kicking, or throwing-up range. From there, the reek of whisky was palpable as aftershave laid on too enthusiastically.

The man gulped and took an almost visible grip on himself. Suddenly his articulation was prim. “I’m not driving, you know. Left the car at home, cabbed it here, knew it’d be a heavy night.” Gawd, Kit LePage told himself disgustedly, more marbles in the mouth, another Hooray Henry.

Flicking a glance over his shoulder, he was mildly surprised to see that PC Farrington was hanging back. Not bothering to lower his voice, LePage jeered, “Don’t be scared, luv, just a twit who’s sloshed.” His tone turned hectoring: “Long way from home aren’t you, sunshine? What have you been getting up to, then?”

“Nothing!” The drunk spread his arms wide, reeled, and clutched the doorjamb again. “Woah... Not my scene, these parts, you’ve got me there. Friends from the office, wanted to see life inna raw, an’ this is outshide lav’tory of universh, ri’?” He gulped again, and remembered to take trouble with his words. “Sorry, it’s where you do your work and very grateful we all are. But it is fair-to-middling squalid... Why we came, of course. Some desperate pubs, truly groteshk, grotesque, then a club back there.”

He gestured vaguely. “Strip club, ghastly joint. The girls were enough to put you off sex for... ooh, five minutes.” He giggled, then frowned sternly. “Just kidding. The others, rotten devils, left me in the lurch when I started feeling... you know, queasy. Been trying to get back to civilisation ever since, reg’lar lab-ab-arinth here, little street into little street into little...” He seemed pleased with his new mantra, content to repeat it indefinitely.

“Never mind that. Let’s see some ID, chum.”

“Be my guest.” The man delved inside his jacket and thrust a wallet at LePage. “All in there, driver’s lishens, ere’ cards, the good ol’ plashtic cash... Gavin Huxtable, Huxtable the name, banking the game. Treat me right, I’ll leash, lease you a jumbo jet.”

“Put it away,” PC LePage snapped, returning the billfold. “You people... Flashing money around, and legless at that. Wonder you haven’t been mugged, stupid great berk.”

PC Farrington drifted up behind. “Run him in,” she urged in a bossy whisper. “He’s drunk as the proverbial skunk.”

“Shuddup, I’ll decide whether he’s worth nicking.” Kit LePage wheeled round and scowled at Angela. Unprecedentedly, this form of negotiating worked, for she retreated into the shadows.

PC LePage was thinking that they might be able to contact an area car to transport a prisoner back to Rosetta Street. But probably not. Meaning a long trek back with nauseous Mr. Huxtable, then the aggravation of booking him and waiting for a doctor to rule whether he was suitable for temporary confinement and... and... and... Horrible.

Interfering PC Farrington had made him lose his thread. Oho, yes, that was it. “Which club, sunshine? There’s no strip club down here.”

Gavin Huxtable smeared a sleeve across his forehead. “Is it very sultry tonight?” he asked plaintively. “Which club? It had a yellow door, I know that. The manager got nasty when I, um, made emergency use of a fire bucket. So I got out pretty smartly, the way one does. Down a passage, the door said, Tush bar for exit,’ so I did, but it was just a courtyard affair. Posse behind me, very dodgy moment. I climbed over the wall and dropped into this blessed maze.”

“Yellow Mandarin, must of been, that backs on Henry Court. They’d have loved you there, carrying on like Lord Muck and acting the hooligan.” PC LePage shook his head. “Your sort are reckoned to set an example, and look at the state of you! Very nice it’ll look in court tomorrow, eh? Drunk and disorderly, committing a public nuisance, like as not. That’ll do your prospects a power of good at the bank.”

Huxtable whined, “I did leave the car at home, officer... Look, I’m only trying to get home. Give a chap a break.”

Kit LePage pretended to ponder. It occurred to him that if Angela Farrington had not been around, he could have had a laugh with Huxtable — knocked him down and trodden on his fingers in helping the prat up, before really telling him a thing or three and kicking his backside all the way along Persever Lane. As it was...

“All right, I’m a fool to myself. Go along that way — look where I’m pointing, dummy — turn right, and there’s a mini-cab office. They’ll get you home. Off you go, chop-chop!”

Huxtable obeyed, though more slowly than recommended, nearly bumping into Angela Farrington. Head averted, she jinked out of his way. LePage gloated, watching the idiot stumble away with one shoulder scraping along the alley’s wall, ruining the Armani jacket. Kit LePage made the bright sword of his torch’s beam skid and dance around the clown’s feet, so that he shied and staggered. Finally the idiot reached Duck Street. “Your other right,” LePage yelled, “not that way.” And then Gavin Huxtable was gone.

“Disgraceful,” PC Farrington remarked coldly, a minute later. They were out on the main street again; the night had slid into that depressing London-summer state of “trying to rain” while remaining warm, coating everything with a fine, sweaty film. “Serve you right if that man complains once he sobers up and remembers how you ranted at him.”

Women! “You wanted him nicked, now I’m disgraceful for doing him a good turn. Fat lot of good a complaint would be: his word against ours, right? Don’t get iffy on me, gel. We back each other up in this job.”

She shrugged again. “If you say so.” Staring along Duck Street to where the mini-cab company’s neon sign scrawled a Chinese pattern on the slick road surface, Angela said casually, “Bet you a fiver that guy never went into the cab office. Drunk as he was, he shouldn’t have got far... But there’s no sign of him in either direction, and we can see a long way.”

PC LePage gaped at her. She smiled demurely. “Now you’re getting the idea. Soon as he turned the corner out of Persever Lane, our Mr. Huxtable ran like hell.” And as if to herself, though it wasn’t: “I hope you weren’t too busy blustering at him and ogling all that green in his wallet to make a note of his address.”

“No bother,” Kit LePage lied. He hadn’t even opened the driving licence, just checked the name on three different credit cards. Gavin Huxtable, G. J. Huxtable, and Gavin Huxtable, what could be fairer than that?

They heard the vehicles before the little convoy came into sight. It was led by a white Ford Escort, unmarked in the sense of having no police badges, but notably grimy. That was Detective Sergeant Nick Flinders’s chariot. Just behind was an anonymous Rover 3.5, considerably cleaner, Detective Inspector Caradoc’s personal transport. In shotgun position rolled a Met’ Police mini-bus carrying half a dozen officers.

All three units were being driven with unobtrusive haste, no flashing lamps or sirens, and despite their speed, were using parking lights only. Making the right-angled turn into Duck Street, each one slowed to avoid squealing tires. For anyone in the trade, either side of the law, the train might just as well have flown a banner announcing, “Raid in progress.”

PC Kit LePage, seeing the convoy slow to a crawl before turning sharp right around the far corner of Duck Street, took in the implications. Stomach churning, he gabbled, “Listen, we never saw that bloke. Never saw a thing. Just a routine patrol.”

“Interesting concept,” PC Farrington commented, still in thinking-aloud mode. “So we falsify our Incident Books, is that it?” She shook her head, adding almost kindly, “Don’t be daft, Kit. Bad enough to seem incompetent and gullible, without adding dishonesty to the bill. Come on, we’d better join the party, bring Mr. Caradoc up to speed.”

Such a cheerful tone made LePage yearn to shake her warmly... by the throat. She was already hurrying along the street, he could tell that she would be immune to entreaty or argument. Dimly he understood that he was at the undesirable end of a biter-bit deal — PC Obnoxious Farrington had come unstuck, just as he’d daydreamed, but pleasing fantasies had not included his own involvement in the disaster.

“It’s ironic, really,” Detective Inspector Caradoc lectured dreamily. “We turn the rosters upside down, run up enough overtime payments to give the Suits a nervous breakdown, we saturate the manor with coppers after dark, all in the cause of hammering burglary. And the most notable result to date? Two of our finest let a big fish get away. Here’s a fellow in the wrong place at the wrong time, ought to have stuck out like a sore thumb, and you’re so sweet and understanding that I’m surprised one of you didn’t offer him cab fare off this patch.”

Caradoc, with his black patent-leather hair, nightclub pallor, and soulful eyes, had the look of a silent-movies star in need of a shave. He was presiding over a drumhead court-martial in the CID room at Rosetta Street nick, flanked by Nick Flinders and Night Station Sergeant Grant, with PC Angela Farrington standing before them. PC LePage was downstairs, waiting his turn. The lions, Angela told herself, wanted to trash the Christians one at a time, thereby squeezing twice the sadistic fun from the proceedings...

“You might as well know,” Caradoc went on, “that a burglar got into Gruntons tonight. Big old house in Duck Street, looks like lodgings but isn’t. It runs a long way back, narrow frontage, room after room behind. The rear wall of Gruntons, funnily enough, forms one side of Absalom Rents — which is reached from Persever Lane, where you happened on that man.”

Nick Flinders cut in, “Gruntons doesn’t look much, but they make hi-tech instruments. Customers all over the world, space-satellite gear and such. Inside, it’s state of the art, sterile areas, labs. The basement’s a vault. Gruntons uses precious metals, you see. The raider was after about a million quidsworth of gold and platinum.”

“Huxtable wasn’t carrying anything bulky, Sarge. Else I would have stopped him there and then.”

Inspector Caradoc snorted, “Twenty-twenty hindsight! He didn’t get the stuff, no thanks to you, and we didn’t get him. Which was thanks to you and LePage. Huxtable — that won’t be his real name — climbed up to the roof, went in through the tiles, and straight down to the vault. He tripped a silent alarm, though. And knew it, more’s the pity. This is a cool one, a pro, ready to cut his losses and switch to Plan B: left his gear and got out in a hurry. Of course, he hadn’t planned on walking into you two bright sparks, but as it turned out, that wasn’t a problem.”

“Sir, we’ve never been warned about Gruntons. Knowing a high-value site was on our beat would have affected my—”

Grant, her immediate boss, stirred angrily. He was a decent stick, but terribly sergeant-majorly, Orders is Orders and Silence in the Ranks There. Caradoc, patting his arm, stalled the reprimand. “Fair enough, I suppose. Policy, my dear — ‘Need to know’ is part of good security. Why advertise the fact that Gruntons has bank-type assets but less than bank-branch defenses, good as they are? And in theory, you protect all premises with equal diligence. Ha bloody ha.”

Angela Farrington took a deep breath. “Sir, I haven’t had a chance to explain. It isn’t as bad as... I mean, there was method in my madness. Honestly.”

“This’ll be good,” Nick Flinders predicted. But he sounded more encouraging than sceptical.

Colouring, PC Farrington said, “The thing is, I recognised him straightaway. His name isn’t Huxtable, he’s Roddy Muldeoun, that’s e-o-u-n at the end, but you say it Muldoon.” I’m babbling, she thought, cut to the chase, or they’ll think you’re a featherhead.

“He’s related to Lord Raven, second cousin, great-nephew, or something. Lives on the family estate in Sussex. Very top-drawer; I believe he could use an honorary title and he’ll inherit a proper one, eventually. The point is, he was the last person who should have been wandering around Persever Lane at one in the morning.”

Inspector Caradoc leaned forward. “And so? If you made him, he must have recognised you.”

“No, I only know him because my sister had a terrible crush on Roddy Muldeoun, all the girls at her school did. He used to ride morning exercise for a racehorse stables and they’d see him going past the gates... She showed me his picture in Tatler a few years ago. I’ve seen him in the distance at parties a couple of times since. He was so out of place tonight, and I had a hunch... so I let PC LePage make the running and stayed behind him most of the time. Muldeoun’s never been introduced to me, and anyway, people look at the uniform, they skip one’s face.”

“That’s true.” Nick Flinders nodded. “Okay, you kept out of the light. Soon as he started the I’m-Huxtable moody, why didn’t you challenge him on it? Or alert LePage?”

“I wanted to see what Muldeoun would say, Sarge. Get an idea of what he was up to. I knew who he really was, you see. I know where he lives. So I — we — had him on a string. I’d have told Kit the strength of it, later. I wondered whether it wasn’t something to do with drugs... he could have been on his way to or from a meet with his dealer. It seemed better to play dumb, and maybe open some lines of inquiry for CID.”

Caradoc, joined forefingers tapping his lower lip, brooded for a few seconds. PC Farrington rushed on, “I had an edge, knowing he was lying, so it wasn’t that smart of me to peg him as bogus. Stank of drink, but when he brushed past, there was none on his breath. And it was a brilliant drunk act, that wavering between clarity and muzziness, and he was sort of laying himself open for Kit, PC LePage, to rubbish him... but it was an act.”

After a hesitation she admitted, “I was held back by embarrassment at first, sir. Roddy Muldeoun’s the first punter, er, member of the public I’ve encountered who... um, fits into a personal context. Slightly, but I did sort of know him. So I dithered a bit.

“Then he started flashing those Huxtable credit cards, and obviously he wasn’t just improvising, trying to keep his name out of the papers. Muldeoun had a pretty elaborate, sophisticated cover ready. Suggesting he had to be up to something major.” Angela Farrington blushed again. “That’s as much as I’d worked out when you turned up.”

Sergeant Grant, eyebrows down in a single bar, declared, “I’ve never heard anything like this from one of my men, all right, my people — personal contexts and sophisticated covers, ruddy John le Carre stuff from a beat officer!” His face cleared and he chuckled rustily. “All the same, smart work, lassie.”

“Thank you for sharing that with us, Sid.” However, Inspector Caradoc’s expression hinted at approval. “You know where he lives, sure of that?”

“Egelshawe Court in Tyrham, it’s a village on the South Coast. ‘Huxtable’ shares the Dower House with his widowed mother, it’s just down the road from my sister’s old school.”

“Right, for the moment keep your trap shut, my dear. Not a word to anyone, even LePage. Go straight home,” Caradoc decreed.

The sky was paling towards dawn as Caradoc finished the last of a series of phone calls. “Nothing I like better than rousing colleagues from a sound sleep. I’m awake, why should they be better off?”

Nick Flinders, hands in pockets and feet on desk, yawned agreement. “Does it fly, skipper?”

“Like a bird, with any luck. There is a Roddy Muldeoun living where she says. Sussex CID has been turning a wistful eye his way — guy has a lavish lifestyle, runs a top-of-the-line Jag and a Range Rover, takes long vacations, but there’s no family money, all he stands to inherit is death duties and debts. Sussex was wondering about drugs, but now it looks like big-time robbery.”

“Just as well young Angela didn’t jump in and feel his collar, then,” Flinders pointed out. “Sprig of the nobility, no criminal record... all right, he’s produced false documents and been found near the scene of a break-in. So what? A good brief would come up with high spirits, a Hooray Henry on a pub crawl, teasing the stupid coppers, and Muldeoun would be cleared. Whoever went after that gold and platinum left no prints, just an anonymous set of tools.”

“Oh yes, she did well. Bob Friern’s over the moon; you know how his squad loves cloak-and-daggery. Muldeoun has been a Target” — Caradoc broke off to consult his watch — “for the past four minutes. Muldeoun wouldn’t have tried pulling tonight’s stroke on his own. There must have been a getaway driver waiting, and a mule or mules standing by to help him carry the stuff out once the vault was cracked. Plus the fence, of course. And an inside man at Gruntons, stands to reason. Superintendent Friern revels in all that; softly softly catchee monkey. He reckons that patient, extended surveillance on Muldeoun will lead him to the entire firm. They’ll get together to argue over what went wrong.”

Caradoc rolled his eyes. “Crafty little madam, that Angela. Note her artless admission that she needled Lippy LePage to bust so-called Huxtable, calculating that was the one thing which would guarantee the bloke’s release. Thank God LePage wasn’t on his own tonight, he’d have screwed the whole thing up. Either felt Muldeoun’s collar, which was pointless, or let him go and never mentioned the fact.”

“LePage,” Nick Flinders asserted heavily, “is useless. I wouldn’t mind that, the Job’s packed with useless fellers, but he’s slimy with it, dead irritating...”

Inspector Caradoc didn’t bother acknowledging a statement of the obvious. Instead he stretched until muscles cracked. “Not a bad night, Nick. Tasty result in sight, and Bob Friern owes me one for it. Always useful, having Serious Crimes Squad in your debt. And that girl’s a bit of a discovery, unless tonight was a fluke. Winning all round, for a change.”

PC Kit LePage was no gambler, he felt it was a mug’s game to take avoidable risks. So he assured himself that he wasn’t about to embark on a gamble.

Ever since he and PC Angela Farrington had hurried round the block, located Inspector Caradoc’s party, and confessed their sin, LePage had been nursing a theory. He didn’t believe it was strong or convincing; on the other hand, when waste products impacted with the air conditioning, Kit LePage followed the Octopus Strategy. Were hiding or running out of the question, then the great thing was to cloud the water.

PC LePage was puzzled, then timidly optimistic when Angela Farrington never returned from her inquisition. If she’d talked back, and she did have that tendency, the bosses might well have suspended her instantly, packed her off in disgrace. His spirits dived when he reasoned that PC Farrington was only half of the team, and if they’d thrown the book at her, his prospects were just as dire. Sauce for the gander, sauce for the goose.

Unless... His theory, and the ploy founded on it, seemed more tempting by the second.

He breathed easier on learning that Caradoc and Flinders no longer required his presence. It suggested that Angela was taking the entire weight, and a damned good job too. Sergeant Grant might give him grief, but LePage felt that he could handle that.

A quarter of an hour afterwards, Sergeant Grant, nerve-tweakingly deliberate, was saying, “Let’s make sure I got this straight, Lippy. You had no part in letting Huxtable or whatever his name is — this famous drunk of yours — you had no part in letting him go?”

“On my life, Sarge! Me, I thought he was drunk enough to detain. But it was a judgement call, right? I mean, we’ve been told if a drunk is no danger to himself or others, not a nuisance, then use your discretion. I was all for taking him in, but Ange, she always knows better. ’Course, he was a Hooray Henry, one of her sort, that might have counted. Give him a break, she goes, and we don’t need the hassle. Fair play, I let myself get nagged into it.”

“Very well, I get the message. It was all done on her initiative.” Grant sucked a back tooth. “Though you’re the one with experience, senior partner, like. Showing her the ropes.”

“Sarge, she kept on at me. You know how it is. Ange gets nasty if she can’t have her own way. Sulks and threatens and throws tantrums for hours. If I’ve got a fault, it’s chivalry, see. I let myself be swayed because she’s a woman. Can’t deny it, that’s me. And it seemed trivial, too, just another drunk.”

Grant, balding, grizzled, and pouchy as he was, had the aura of an oversized schoolboy as he chewed his lower lip, frowning. His podgy hand hovered over the drawer where disciplinary report forms were kept. That as much as spite spurred Kit LePage to share his theory.

“Sarge, this is awkward, but I couldn’t sleep, keeping it to myself. Might be wrong, mind, it was only an impression. But I reckon PC Farrington knew that punter. Had a good notion who he was, anyway. I’ve been thinking, see. She kept out of his way all the while, and usually she’s got her nose stuck well in.

“But after she talked me into letting him go and he had it away on his toes... when Inspector Caradoc and Flinders and them steamed up, she wasn’t surprised. Not gobsmacked, leastways. Even before we knew Huxtable was a wrong ’un, she bet me he wasn’t in the mini-cab office. Like she’d expected him to do a runner, all along.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, Lippy. It’s all being attended to by them upstairs.”

“Then she did know! She’s in trouble. Shame.”

Sergeant Grant said, “You make a right ricket, buying that chap’s line, then you try to drop your partner in the mire over it. What a prince you are. Yes, PC Farrington knew more than she let on. Between you and me and the gatepost, she’s written her ticket to CID, sooner rather than later.”

He was relentless. “If you’d been a decent bloke, I expect young Ange would have shared the credit. As it is, you’ve just gone to no end of trouble convincing me that all the headwork and initiative was down to her — and you never had an inkling of what was going on. I shan’t even bother telling CID that, because they have worked it out already. It’s the organ grinder what gets promotion, old son, not the monkey.”

With sincerity born of chagrin, PC LePage muttered, “It’s not fair. If they hadn’t started messing around with the drink laws, altered closing time, any fool could have seen he wasn’t a genuine drunk.”

LePage meant that pub licensing hours had been liberalised recently, not quite a century after pubs were ordered (as a strictly temporary, emergency measure) to eject all customers and lock their doors by ten-thirty P.M. That was during World War I; no freedom-loving country is more tolerant of petty and needless repression by its own elected servants than Britain.

These days many pubs and clubs do stay open much later, so the wretched LePage had a point. Even he might have found something odd about a drunk still staggering around three hours after the old curfew for boozers.

“So now it’s Parliament’s fault,” Sergeant Grant sighed. But then he chuckled, for he was a lay-preacher and churchwarden, and a thought had tickled him.

“There’s a passage in the Bible that fits your situation to a T, Lippy. ‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging.’ Once this tale gets round the nick — and I don’t approve of gossip, but this once I shall make it my business to spread the story — then you’ll be getting plenty of that. Mockery, not wine.”