“Indeed, indeed, Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse, thank you, thank you, please resume your seat.” The Home Secretary removed his pince-nez and surveyed the table. “Would you credit it? In all our planning for the Hun’s inevitable air attack on us, I don’t believe we ever anticipated this problem.”
A young civil servant to Anderson’s left whispered something to him. “Well, yes, Mr Craig here reminds me that the possibility of looting was mentioned in one of our earlier planning documents, but I am not afraid to admit that I, for one, never placed much stress or weight on it. I never believed that it would be anything other than a very minor concern, but look where we are. We have only had a few weeks of bombing and look at the numbers of reported incidents in the Assistant Commissioner’s list. I am quite shocked at what our countrymen are capable of. Quite shocked! And if this is what’s happening when places like Bromley are being attacked, think what it will be like when the centre of London is attacked. I daren’t think about what will happen in the City of London, the Docks, the West End.”
The Home Secretary’s shock was echoed by a variety of exclamations from around the table.
“Well, Assistant Commissioner, what are your plans to deal with this outrageous behaviour?”
The A.C. was not expecting the subject matter to be thrown back to him so quickly and had taken the opportunity to tinker with his wing-collar, which was causing him some discomfort. Withdrawing his finger swiftly from inside the collar, he stared back down the table enquiringly at Anderson. “I’m sorry, Home Secretary, I didn’t quite catch you.”
“What plans do you have, Gatehouse, for dealing with the looting? We are looking up in the skies at German bombers every day. We are within days, perhaps minutes, of being attacked here right at the heart of the Empire. With so many incidents in the suburbs, clearly this problem is likely to be rife here in the centre. What plans have you prepared to counter the looters? We would all like to receive the benefit of the Metropolitan Force’s thoughts on this issue.”
*
“Thank God for that, Sergeant. And don’t bring me any more for a few days at least.”
Sergeant Bridges hurried out with the last file and Merlin exhaled with relief. He had cleared the decks again, for the moment, and could look forward to a relaxed evening with Sonia. As well as completing all his administrative tasks, he had wrapped up the nasty Chelsea knife attack, which he and Bridges had been looking into since early August, and had got far enough down the line on the string of recent Hatton Garden burglaries to be able to pass the case on to a subordinate. It was half past five and he was thinking that for once he would be able to make an early night of it, when the phone rang and he was summoned upstairs.
“Ah, Merlin, come in.”
Merlin’s heart sank for the second time as he entered the A.C.’s office. It had sunk for the first when the voice on the phone had proved to be that of the A.C.’s prim, blue-stockinged secretary, Miss Stimpson. Now it sank again because the A.C.’s cheeks were flushed bright red. Very occasionally this was a sign only of an excellent lunch. More frequently it reflected the fact of the A.C.’s temper not being at its best.
“Sit down, please.”
Merlin did as he was bid and watched the A.C. pace back and forth in front of windows that had the same view as his own office windows save for being one storey higher. The A.C. scratched his neck and attempted to adjust his collar. His cheeks flushed even brighter. Eventually, he sat down at his desk and stared at Merlin. “Well, Chief Inspector.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looting. What are we doing about it?”
“Sir?”
“Looting. What’s our plan for handling it?”
“Well, sir. I haven’t really given it much thought.”
The A.C. slapped his right hand on his desktop. “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? No one seems to have thought about it!”