Despite a campaign by the present mayor of London to open the “Black Museum” to the public; since 1877 the police had steadfastly refused to make a “peep show” of their macabre collection of murderers’ weapons and artefacts. Rightly so in Crombie’s opinion, too often victims became forgotten while murderers and their crimes gained notoriety. That didn’t stop him from peering at the letters under the glass display case supposedly written by "Jack the Ripper". To Crombie’s mind they were almost certainly hoaxes, no great detection feat really, as three were completely different in handwriting and syntax. In any case, outside of fiction, serial killers enjoyed their work too much to risk any chance of getting caught. Aware of a soft breathing beside him, Crombie turned around, to come face to face with a man he hadn’t seen in over twenty years.
‘Cavan Beckinson.’ The name sprung to his lips, and memories of Hendon and recruit training flooded back. Cavan had been born middle aged, but now he’d grown into his looks. Iron grey hair and half moon spectacles rimmed in a lighter grey perched on a long aristocratic nose, were the only apparent change in the man. Cavan had barely gained a pound in weight; although he'd always been big boned. His taste for handmade suits from Savile Row hadn't changed either.
‘Derek old man. Good to see you after all this time.’ As Cavan shook hands he grasped Crombie’s upper arm, squeezing gently. Beckinson had been slumming it back at Hendon, clearly out of the other recruits’ league and destined for higher things. Whilst training, they’d barely exchanged more than a daily greeting; yet Beckinson appeared to reflect Crombie’s pleasure at meeting someone who’d shared his youth.
Still grasping his arm, Beckinson guided him out along the corridor and into a corner office, the outer walls were composed of glass. Crombie walked behind Beckinson’s desk, gazing down at minions scurrying below, even a pre-wedding meeting with his daughter’s intended parents suddenly seemed more appealing. Somehow he doubted Beckinson had summoned him for his opinion on the Met’s latest “Community Care” campaign.
Crombie kept an impassive face as Beckinson steered him over to a pair of bulky cream leather sofas, while congratulating him on his recent commendation, his daughter’s coming nuptials, his wife’s progress at the local WI, and his youngest daughter’s qualification as a scuba diver. Formalities over, Beckinson got down to business without any further beating about the bush.
Pushing a round low coffee table to one side, he dropped a file into Crombie’s lap, before sitting opposite; beneath their feet was a rug of Moorish patterns, mainly worked in muted reds, greens and cream.
Receiving a nod to his enquiring glance, Crombie opened the file as Beckinson talked him through the reports in his plumy accent. Crombie scratched his head as he finished. Then re-read the file in silence. He hadn’t realised Mikey Stern had tried and failed to become a police officer. According to Beckinson’s report, he’d been chucked out of Hendon for "inappropriate racial remarks and behaviour." Even stranger, it seemed WPC Hewes had attended Hendon at the same time. Peculiar of the woman not to have mentioned it before now.
Across the way, Beckinson let out a barely inaudible sigh of relief, slumping against the sofa’s back for the first time, as though acknowledging he’d made the right decision to bring Crombie in.
‘You’re putting me between a rock and a hard place you know that don’t you?’
‘Sorry old chap. The cookie crumbles that way sometimes.’
‘You can’t freeze me out. I want in on the Interpol meeting. And I want some of the action.’
Beckinson nodded, as though he’d expected nothing less of Crombie. Rising to his feet, he stretched his hand out again for Crombie’s shake.
‘The kids? They’ve been contained?’
Crombie thought for a moment. ‘They’re in a safe place. I’ll make certain they stay put if they know what’s good for them.’
Beckinson accompanied Crombie to the lift, this time the welcome warmth of the Spring weather provided the safe topic of conversation.
Before the lift doors whispered closed, Beckinson jabbed out a hand, and held them back for one last question.
‘You think they’ve recovered the text?’
‘From the burglary you mean?’ Crombie clicked his tongue uncertainly. ‘No idea. Rhyllann Jones told PC Davidson nothing of value had been taken from the house. Both kids are lying. The older kid’s an honest liar though. The younger one … I dunno. He’s upset about gran, devastated by the old man’s death. But.’
Cavan peered at him from above the half moon glasses, his benevolent expression at odds by the sharpness with which he read Crombie's mind.
‘But you think he could have prevented all this?’
Crombie hesitated. Then: ‘Yes. That kid’s got his own agenda.’ He paused again, unwilling to admit it: ‘And it scares the life out of me.’
Riding down alone to the ground floor, on exiting the building he climbed back into the courtesy car, and directed his driver to Dottie Reade's house.
It was time to let Wren Prenderson know Crombie was onto him.