Guthrie sat down in the standard Hilton armchair and crossed pinstriped trouser legs. A fob watch chain hung from the breast of his waistcoat. He reached for the timepiece, opened it, snapped it shut, inclined his elegant head, and raised one eyebrow by way of ‘Well?’.
Comb-over remained standing and patted his roundness as if to reassure himself. He rubbed a smoothly shaven chin, and endeavoured to appear apologetic. “Thank you for coming, sir. As we speak, biker boy is being taken back into police custody,” he looked down at the relaxed peer. “In fact we will state that he never for a moment left it. He appears likely to regain the faculty of memory, I have just been informed, and co-operate by telling us his life story. You will be given a copy.”
“Have you any idea what you are doing?” Guthrie asked suavely.
The Commander ignored the question. “Since you recruited the idiot who calls himself Control, sir,” he stated, “we have no productive evidence of wrongdoing against Chummie unless, of course, you wish to enlighten us on your interest in him. Do you, sir?” the Commander enquired. “So here we are, then,” he continued, after a brief silence.
“This matter goes to a level beyond your understanding,” Guthrie said.
“Of course it does,“ the Commander replied coolly. “We have circulated Chummie’s photograph to the Press with a public plea for identification.”
“You bloody fool,” Guthrie said.
“If he is a UK citizen, he will remain and not be sent off unconscious to another part of the planet,” the Commander continued in a soothing tone. “Our initiative will pre-empt a picturesque story in the Daily News about his mysterious disappearance. No need for effusive thanks, sir, just doing our job.” He paused and enquired, “Tea, coffee, can I get you anything?”
Guthrie smoothed out a crease in his Mayfair tailored trouser and cocked a quizzical Etonian chin. “Thank you, no, nothing for me, Commander.”
“The Daily News don’t know that Chummie had a firearm when he fell off his bike. They also don’t know about his collection of passports. We are explaining the bedside police presence as part of a missing persons enquiry. Not brilliant, but it will have to do for now.“
The viscount’s eyebrow elevated once again. ‘Was there to be more?’ he seemed to be asking, his posture somehow haughty despite being seated.
The Commander inclined his head deferentially, then continued. “Daily News will soon carry the American cover-up. Civilians murdered by the CIA in Lashkar Gah province. A bad business, involving the Americans and ourselves. It drove a young officer mad. Your man in Polloch, Alex, is doubtless being transferred to another assignment as we speak. May I suggest he remains within these shores, for the time being at least. He is witness to a murder. He also has special knowledge of the likely motive. There are no inquests in Scotland but local police conduct a full enquiry for their procurator fiscal’s office. The Chief Inspector, Henderson, is a real stickler for procedure. He asked me to make that very clear. He then told me how busy he was these days, what with extra-ordinary rendition being formally investigated and so on.”
“Is that all, Commander?” Guthrie asked coldly from the chair.
“The remit of a forthcoming Public Enquiry into the deaths in that forest fire may overlap with the killing of these two journalists and the suicide of a young ex-army officer, given the helicopter connection. That should keep the Lashkar Gah incident in the public eye for quite some time, you know how long these Enquiries can take,” the Commander shook a shiny head in despair at the institutional tardiness of bureaucracy.
Guthrie sat in silence for a time. Finally, he arose and brushed carefully at a trouser leg. “We do appreciate being kept updated, ‘in the loop’ if I may employ that dreadful expression. These matters do affect affairs of state. And don’t think that expression to be merely pompous.” He leaned menacingly towards Comb-over, who maintained his deferential attitude.
“We will do our best to muddle through,” the Commander said.
“You have already done enough,” Guthrie allowed his anger to spill into his voice. “You will not be rewarded for being glued to the book. Rules are for the observance of fools…”
“…and the guidance of wise men,” the Commander interrupted. “Not that we claim sagacity in our dull plodding existence.”
“Nor should you,” Guthrie said coldly, in controlled fury.