Merlin leaned out of the open window in his office at Scotland Yard, looked down at the Thames twinkling beneath him and took a deep breath of the smoggy London air. He still couldn’t rid his nostrils of the smell of the gallows room. Returning to his desk, he fell heavily into his chair and looked vacantly around the office. The décor remained the same – the white walls, the Swiss cuckoo clock, his beloved pair of Van Gogh prints, the large map of London, the picture of a 1924 police football team featuring a young F Merlin, centre half, the brightly patterned Persian rugs enlivening the standard issue linoleum floor. To the left of the frosted glass office door was his Goya print of a firing squad somewhere, probably Spain. This seemed particularly apposite to his morning’s early appointment.
The door opened. “So how was it, sir?”
“It was bloody awful, as you’d expect, Sergeant. That’s the last one of those I’m going to even if I end up arresting Adolf himself and he’s up for the chop.”
Detective Sergeant Samuel Bridges, a tall man with a burly rugby player’s build, bright blond hair, red cheeks and a countenance that was almost incapable of being other than cheerful, thought it prudent to postpone further conversation for the moment and left Merlin alone in his room. He returned ten minutes later with a cup of tea and found his boss staring quietly out of the window. Merlin’s office gave him a good view of the river and of the London County Council building opposite. A number of barrage balloons were spaced out at regular intervals along the river, as Merlin could see as he leaned again out of the open window and extended his gaze to St Paul’s and the City beyond.
Bridges deposited the cup and saucer on the only available space on the crowded desk to which Merlin now returned.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Merlin noticed a new pile of files, which his sergeant must have placed next to the old stack of files heaped on his desk. He groaned and sat down. “Anything happening?”
“Plenty, sir, but nothing urgently requiring your personal attention.” Bridges looked meaningfully at Merlin’s desk.
“You mean that I might like to get on with reading all this bumf you’ve dumped on my desk?”
“Well, sir, it might be wise to take this opportunity to clear the decks. Everyone’s out and about dealing with their various jobs and you might find today relatively, um, uninterrupted.”
“I came in yesterday to try and catch up, but I wasn’t up to it.” Merlin leaned back in his chair and hoisted his feet onto the desk. He steepled his hands in front of him and blew on them. In days past when his boss adopted this habitual pose, Bridges had been able to take note of which of his boss’ shoes had a hole in it. Today, however, as for the past few months, Merlin’s shoes were properly intact. That girl taking him in hand, Bridges noted again to himself.
“Something funny, Sergeant?”
“No, sir, no.”
“Thinking of your beloved, perhaps? And how is Iris? What is it now, four months to go?”
“Nearer three, sir. If all goes well, that is.”
“I’m sure it will, Sam.” Merlin swung his legs down and pulled his chair closer to the desk. “Now, when you say I might find this day ‘relatively uninterrupted’, as you put it, you are not taking into account possible interruptions from airborne visitors, I presume?”
“No, sir. Well, who’s to know when that’s going to get going.”