she was away for the weekend,’ said Dog.
‘So she went away after the social worker called and she didn’t answer the door,’ corrected Johnson unnecessarily.
‘So what?’ said Cicero. ‘Would you let a social worker into your house?’
The door bell rang.
The two men exchanged glances. It wasn’t likely to be either Maguire or the alleged kidnapper. On the other hand it was silly to take risks.
Dog moved quietly to the front door and squinted through the peephole.
Nothing.
Motioning Johnson to one side, he gently turned the handle of the Yale lock. Then he dragged the door open and leapt out into the corridor.
An arm like a steel bar caught him round the throat, his right wrist was seized and his hand forced high up between his shoulder blades, while his left shoulder was thrust with such force against the wall that he screamed out in pain and felt his left arm hang paralysed. He tried to lash back with his heel but his assailant was ready for that and he kicked feebly into air while the pressure on his neck redoubled.
Then a voice said, ‘Tommy, what are you playing at? Put him down at once. This is my old mate, Dog Cicero. Dog, how’ve you been, old son? Long time no see. We’ve got ever such a lot to talk about.’
‘Funny old thing, life,’ said Superintendent Toby Tench.
Dog Cicero said, ‘Can’t argue with that,’ leaving the sentence hanging uncertainly over Toby or sir.
Tench had never lost his stoutness. At nine it had given him the bulk to back up his claim to be pack leader in the school yard. A rival had started picking on the slight, sallow, silent Italian kid and Tench had taken him under his wing to affirm his primacy. Then puberty, the great equalizer, had got to work, turning Dog into a darkly attractive young man, academically able and athletically outstanding, while it marooned Tench in a podgy, spotty, undistinguished adolescence. Their ways seemed to have parted forever when Tench left to become a police cadet and Dog stayed on to qualify for entrance to Sandhurst.
He recalled their last encounter. He’d just come from saying goodbye to Father Power at Holy Trinity. Tench, looking like the stout constable of the comic books, was walking past the church yard gate.
‘Hello, Dog,’ he’d said with surface affability. ‘Off to officer training, I hear. You’ll need to watch it on that drill square.’
‘Will I?’ he’d asked foolishly. ‘Why’s that, Toby?’
‘Come on, Dog! Everyone knows when you Itis hear the order, Forward March! you automatically start running backwards!’
He’d almost hit him, but had had control enough to know that assaulting a policeman would probably stop his army career before it began.
Now it felt like a chance missed.
But perhaps it was going to be offered again.
The podginess had turned into a solid bulk, no less menacing for being gift-wrapped in a Pickwickian waistcoat and topped with a matching smile. The two men were sitting in the armchairs in the living room of Maguire’s flat. Tench’s companion was searching the bedroom. Introduced as Sergeant Stott, he had the features of a Narcissus, and if his Cartier watch and Jean-Paul Gaultier jacket stretched across pumping-iron shoulders reflected the inner man, there was no shortage of self-love here either.
From the sound of it, the body-beautiful muscles were being exercised just now in tearing the bedroom apart. Johnson’s face appeared in the doorway with an expression of shocked interrogation, but Dog motioned him back inside. He had no idea what the newcomers were after, but if they found it, he wanted a witness.
‘Heard you joined the local boys after your spot of bother with the mad Micks,’ said Tench. ‘Surprised me, that did. Thought you’d have had enough of uniforms, especially when it meant dropping down to plod level.’
‘Can’t recall what I felt,’ said Dog evenly. ‘It was ten years ago.’
‘Long as that? Well, I never. And this is the first time our paths have crossed.’
‘Us plods don’t have much to do with the Branch,’ said Dog.
He didn’t add that one thing he’d done before joining the Romchurch force was check out Tench’s whereabouts. He might have been confused, but not so confused as to take the risk of finding himself in the fat boy’s gang again. But now here Tench was, and clearly enjoying the ambiguities of the situation hugely.
Time to clear the official ground at least.
‘What’s the score, Toby?’ he said. ‘What’s the Branch’s interest in Maguire?’
‘No real interest, Dog,’ said Tench with mock solemnity. ‘Nothing that I’d call an interest. Just that she’s on a little list of ours. People with a fine thread tied to their tails. Touch ’em and there’s a little tinkle in the guardroom, know what I mean?’
‘The computer?’ said Dog. ‘I wondered why that entry was there. Anyone asking questions jerks the trip wire, right?’
‘Clever boy,’ said Tench. ‘So tell me all you know.’
Briefly, Dog outlined his investigation so far.
Tench produced a notebook, not to make notes in but to examine.
‘Well done,’ he said at the end of the outline. ‘Missed out nothing.’
‘You’ve spoken to Parslow? You knew all this! What the hell are you playing at? Checking up on me or what?’
‘Hold your horses, my son,’ said Tench earnestly. ‘Not you. Old Eddie Parslow, he’s the one we need to double check. He’s so demob happy, he’s stopped taking bribes.’
The muscular boy came out of the bedroom. In his hand was a foolscap-size buff envelope.
‘Found this in the mattress cover, guv,’ he said, handing it over.
‘Well done, my son,’ said Tench, smiling fondly.
‘You want I should organize a real search, guv?’ asked Stott.
Dog Cicero had no doubt what a real search meant. He’d supervised enough in scruffy Belfast terraces and lonely country farms, watching as floorboards were ripped up, tiles stripped, walls probed, while all around women wailed their woe or screamed abuse, and men stood still as stone, their faces set in silent hate.
Tench shook his head.
‘Early days, Tommy. Just carry on poking around.’
Tommy went into the kitchen. A second later what sounded like the contents of a cutlery drawer hit the tiled floor.
Tench
