Bah. Clearly Gruver didn’t have any idea what the puzzling numbers meant. Jackson shoved the paper into his pocket. He’d have better luck running the thing down to the Foreign Office or perhaps the army’s cryptanalysis department.
Rising, Jackson grabbed his chair. “Freedom is a siren’s call, Mr. Gruver. A call few men resist, especially after a night in here. Perhaps tomorrow your tongue will loosen.” He tipped his head towards the door. “Mr. Snagg, if you please.”
The constable let fly one last strike, jerking Gruver’s head sideways, before pulling out a key and opening the door. Jackson gritted his teeth as he passed the man. Such brutality was uncalled for. He’d have to make it a point to talk to Sergeant Doyle as soon as possible tomorrow to see about toning down the overzealous Snagg. Or better yet, moving him to a different role in the department. Then again, with his willingness to bend the rules, he could be just the man to sniff out Blackjack.
After locking the door, the constable reached for the chair. “I’ll take that for ya, Chief.”
“Thank you, Mr. Snagg.” He leaned close, speaking for Snagg’s ears alone. “We need Blackjack in custody straightaway. Can you manage that?”
A grin twitched his moustache. “My pleasure.”
No doubt it would be, but God have mercy, hopefully the man wouldn’t employ too muchpleasurein apprehending ol’ Blackjack.
“Carry on, then, Mr. Snagg, but be sure to bring the man in whole, not in pieces.” Jackson strode away, anxious for the workday to be over. Then again, the thought of dinner with Kit caused a certain amount of angst to settle in his gut. His feisty wife would not be pleased with his lack of intelligence concerning Gruver.
He trotted up the back stairwell, circled ’round to his office to snatch his hat, then left via the main staircase, all while wondering how he’d explain Gruver’s reticence to a woman who’d like nothing better than to have a go at the man herself.
Passing by the front desk, Jackson did a double take. Behind the counter, a round ball of a man was donning his hat. Jackson cocked his head. “Inspector Harvey? You’re here quite late.”
“Indeed.” With a pinch of his podgy fingers, Harvey straightened his bow tie, the fabric the only indication he had a neck at all. “I strained to the finish line, sir, and am happy to report that victory has been achieved.”
Jackson glanced past the man’s shoulders to the glassed-in records room behind. Sure enough, ledger upon ledger lined up like little soldiers ready for battle on the shelves. “So, you’ve put an end to Smitty’s administration woes, have you?”
Harvey yanked a cloth from his pocket and swiped it over his sweaty brow. “I have, sir, and it was quite the fight.”
Jackson stifled a snort. The rosy-faced fellow looked as if he’d barely survived the Bhutan War instead of simply rearranging some record books. “I am happy to hear of your success, Mr. Harvey. And now that you are finished, I have an insurance fraud case that needs tending.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. Sounds like a lot of legwork.” He rubbed his hip with an exaggerated flourish. “My physician has informed me that my sciatica is given to flare-ups. Tender hips are the bane of my mother’s family, you know.”
Stars above. The man was softer than a pudding. Jackson clapped on his own hat. “Not to worry, Mr. Harvey. The only footwork involved in a fraud of such nature is that of climbing a mountain of paperwork. I daresay the project would keep you chained to a desk for a good three or four weeks. Maybe more.”
And what excuse would the man have for that? A tender bottom to go along with those precious hips of his?
Surprisingly, Harvey tucked away his cloth with a fervor never before seen, his glasses skewing sideways from the violence of it. “Does eight o’clock tomorrow morning suit, sir?”
“Em…for what?”
Harvey shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “To brief me on the case, sir. Or perhaps we ought to make it half past seven. I should like to get an early start. Unless you would prefer to explain it to me now.”
Jackson blinked. Seriously? The man was finally taking a job? Wonders truly never did cease. “No, Mr. Harvey, eight o’clock is fine enough. Good evening.”
“Until tomorrow, sir.”
Still marveling, Jackson strode out of the station, into the summer night—where a gangly lad, cradling his arm and whimpering like a beat pup, nearly plowed him over. “Here now, boy. What’s the great hurry?”
As soon as Jackson caught his footing and a good look at the boy’s tearstained face, a brick sank to the pit of his gut.
“Frankie? For pity’s sake, what has happened?”
Chapter Thirteen
Sleep always came easy for Charles—especially after putting in an all-nighter and half the next day chasing criminals. Waking up was the dodgy part. Near to impossible some mornings, when the mattress moulded exactly to his body and his head nested just so on the pillow. Times like this he could lie there for hour upon—
He shot up, springs squeaking, bare feet slapping cold on the floor, and dashed to the window. Someone had knocked on the glass, and so help him, it had better not be a jokester looking to pull a prank or he’d shove up the sash and throttle the dim-witted mischief maker.
In a trice, he whipped back the curtain and peered out on a street barely lit by a sun that hadn’t fully left its bed. A willowy figure stood poised to knock again, bonnet shading a face he didn’t need to see, for the catch of his breath identified the woman even without a good view. Martha. Here. Pounding on his bedroom window in a world not yet entirely awash with dawn’s light.
What the deuce?
