Nothing Ventured(9)

He knocked on a door that announced in gold lettering, COMMANDER JACK HAWKSBY OBE, and walked in to find a secretary seated behind a desk. She stopped typing, looked up and said, “PC Warwick?”

“Yes,” said William nervously.

“The commander is expecting you. Please go straight through,” she said, pointing to another door.

William knocked a second time, and waited until he heard the word, “Come.”

A smartly dressed, middle-aged man with penetrating blue eyes and a lined forehead, making him look older than his years, rose from behind his desk. Hawksby shook William’s outstretched hand and pointed to a chair on the other side of the desk. He opened a file and studied it for a few moments before he spoke. “Let me begin by asking you if you are by any chance related to Sir Julian Warwick QC?”

William’s heart sank. “He’s my father,” he said, presuming that the interview was about to come to a premature end.

“A man I greatly admire,” said Hawksby. “Never breaks the rules, never bends the law, but still defends even the most dubious charlatans as if they were saints, and I don’t suppose he’s come across many of those in his professional capacity.” William laughed nervously.

“I wanted to see you personally,” continued Hawksby, clearly not a man who wasted time on small talk, “as you passed out top in your detective’s exam, and by a considerable margin.”

William hadn’t even realized he’d passed.

“Congratulations,” the commander added. “I also noted that you’re a graduate, but chose not to take advantage of our accelerated promotion scheme.”

“No, sir. I wanted to—”

“Prove yourself. As I did myself. Now, as you know, Warwick, if you are to become a detective, you will have to be transferred to another patch. With that in mind, I’ve decided to send you to Peckham to learn the ropes. If you’re any good, I’ll be seeing you again in a couple of years’ time, and then I’ll decide if you’re ready to join us here at Scotland Yard, and take on the first division criminals, or if you should remain in the outer reaches and continue your apprenticeship.”

William allowed himself a smile, and settled back in his chair only to be shocked by the commander’s next question.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to be a detective?”

“Yes, sir. From the age of eight.”

“It’s not the white-collar criminals your father comes across that you’ll be dealing with, but the worst scum on earth. You’ll be expected to cope with everything from the suicide of a pregnant mother who can’t take being abused by her partner any longer, to finding a young drug addict with a needle sticking out of his arm who’s not much older than you. Frankly, you won’t always be able to sleep at night. And you’ll get paid less than a manager at Tesco.”

“You sound like my father, sir, and he couldn’t put me off.”

The commander stood up. “Then so be it, Warwick. See you in two years’ time.” They shook hands again; the obligatory interview over.

“Thank you, sir,” said William. After closing the door quietly behind him he wanted to leap in the air and cry Hallelujah, until he saw three figures standing in the outer office looking directly at him.

“Name and rank?” said the older man he’d seen earlier.

“Warwick, sir. Constable William Warwick.”

“Make sure Constable Warwick doesn’t move, sergeant,” said the older man to the young woman, before knocking on the commander’s door and going in.

“Good morning, Bruce,” said Hawksby. “I hear you’re about to arrest Miles Faulkner. Not a moment too soon.”

“I’m afraid not, sir. But that wasn’t why I wanted to see you…” was all William heard before the door closed.

“Who’s he?” William asked the young woman.

“Detective Chief Inspector Lamont. He heads up the Art and Antiques unit and reports directly to Commander Hawksby.”

“Do you also work for the art squad?”

“Yes. I’m DS Roycroft, and the chief’s my gaffer.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Up to your neck, constable. Let’s just say I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.”

“But I was only trying to help…”

“And thanks to your help, you’ve single-handedly managed to scupper a six-month undercover operation.”

“But how?”

“I suspect you’re about to find out,” said DS Roycroft as the door swung open and Detective Chief Inspector Lamont reappeared, glaring at William.

“Come in, Warwick,” he said. “The commander wants another word with you.”

William walked tentatively into Hawksby’s office, assuming he was about to be told that he was back on the beat. The commander’s smile had been replaced by a grim look, and this time he didn’t bother to shake hands with PC 565LD.

“You’re a nuisance, Warwick,” he said, “and I can tell you now, you won’t be going to Peckham.”





5


“Your last day in uniform,” said Fred as they left the nick and set out on their evening patrol.

“Unless I’m not cut out to be a detective,” said William. “In which case, I’ll be back on the beat in no time.”