Reputation - Chapter 1: By Douglas Mitchell.

Reputation: 

An Alan McGill mystery 

by Douglas Mitchell 

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. 

ISBN: 978-1-326-19544-1 

For Jane 

Chapter 1 

McGill was feeling the worse for wear. He’d had too many beers last night as he sought to break the cycle of his insomnia. But it had only ended with him getting up several times in the night, and feeling even more depressed. McGill hated his job. He was a detective at Scotland Yard having been a beat constable, none of whom were ever promoted. He was largely treated like a servant. Of course, strictly speaking, Scotland Yard was just one entrance to the building that housed the detectives in London, but the name had become synonymous with the detection of crime .McGill’s simple ways and craggy good looks sat ill with his suave and urbane superiors. He had a good nose for detection, though, and apart from his superior taking the credit, he did derive some satisfaction from breaking a case. He shaved with a shaky hand and dabbed the nicks between the tufts of hair he hadn’t managed to pare. Looking at himself in the mirror, he shook his head. That made him wince, briefly shutting his bloodshot eyes to try to dull the pain. He groaned. The face that looked back at him was handsome in a gentle, manly sort of way, and the usually piercing Celtic blue eyes looked dull and lifeless. The eyes contrasted sharply with his dark hair, supposedly a legacy of the sailors washed ashore in Scotland from the Spanish Armada. In the third year of the war, London was even more grey and depressing than usual. McGill had been transferred from his East End beat to Scotland Yard in early 1915, as the upper classes and university undergraduates got mown down in France. He had liked the East End. He’d lived there most of his life – still did in fact – and he had friends there amongst the thieves, pimps and whores who he saw as real people in need of help,unlike his masters who saw then as scum to be locked away and brutalised. McGill’s parents had come down from Scotland some years before the turn of the century, in Victoria’s reign. There was a distant cousin who had promised his father a job looking after horses, but, as the horse gave way to the motor car over the years, the business had 

suffered. Finally, the two cousins acknowledged that the way forward was smelly and dirty but offered better pay, and they had turned the old stables into a proper garage, looking after the increasingly numerous cars that were more and more replacing horses. McGill had hated the deference his father gave to the arrogant and haughty. It had paid off over time, though, as the business prospered and McGill’s father had bought the little terraced house where he now lived. His mother had been overjoyed and as house proud as any Duchess. Sadly she was only there a short time, dying in the cholera outbreak of 1910. There had been very few deaths in London from cholera that year, but McGill’s mother was one. His father never recovered properly and died within the year. By that time McGill had been in the police for nearly eleven years, patrolling the beat in the East End with his soft accent and gentle eyes, keeping law and order. The cousin had bought out the business from his father’s estate (probably to McGill’s detriment) but he wanted nothing to do with it. He had the house and a nice little nest egg. Now, with the war, there almost seemed to be a truce in crime as everyone did their best to help with the war effort. Of course, houses in the West End still got broken in to, and the pimps and prostitutes were doing a roaring trade with the soldiers back on leave. They were largely being left alone by tacit agreement. McGill really disliked the fact that, because he was 38, everywhere he went he was looked at as if he were a lesser mortal. All because the powers that be wouldn’t let him join up. Sometimes he thought he would just run away to the Front, but he knew he would simply be sent back. He’d never even get to France. The controls on the Channel crossings were fierce – in both directions. At least no one had sent him any white feathers yet. He dressed quickly, pocketing a clean white handkerchief. He shrugged himself into his heavy overcoat and donned his battered brown bowler. It was only November, but there was a distinct wintry feel to the air as he walked to catch the omnibus west. When he got into his cubbyhole of an office there was yet another pile of folders dumped on his desk. He tried to close the door quietly 

so that the inspector in the next room wouldn’t know he was in. As he stepped around the desk, the floor creaked. “MCGILL – IN HERE!”  Sighing, McGill stepped back and opened the connecting door. Inspector Brown looked at him balefully. “What have you got on?” “ Er well there’s a whole lot of paperwork just been put on my desk and…” “Forget that. Ever been abroad?” “ No Sir” “ Well you’re going now.” For a moment McGill’s heart leapt. Maybe they had decided to let him join up. His face must have betrayed him, for Brown immediately grunted. “ You’re going to the front right enough, but not to fight. There’s been a murder, and we’ve been asked to help the Military. Bunch of amateurs.” McGill didn’t know what to think. Normally he trailed along after Brown taking notes and running errands. It would just be the same in France. “ Yes, sir.” “ So cut off home and pack a bag – we leave from Victoria at 3.” McGill turned to go. “ Oh, and McGill…” “ Yes sir?” “ You’ve been made up to Sergeant. Now hurry along.” “ Thank you sir” “ And don’t go thinking it means anything. It just means we’ve no spare sergeants to send to France.” As he shut the door, McGill grunted to himself. It was only because so many had died that he was even in the detective branch. Neither Brown nor the Superintendent thought he was worth a Sergeant’s stripes. By 2:30 McGill was standing under the clock at Victoria Station, waiting for Brown. He had a battered holdall he had borrowed from a neighbour at his feet. There were hordes of soldiers moving to and fro, as well as smart and not so smart ladies. Quite a few glanced at McGill as he stood waiting, taking stock of his bulk and quiet 

confidence.A few minutes later, Brown appeared with a porter in tow carrying two large brown leather suitcases. He eyed McGill and his holdall. “ That all you’ve got? Hmm well I don’t suppose they’d let you in to a mess dinner anyway…” So saying he pointed out the relevant platform to the porter, and followed him. McGill picked up his bag, seething inside. What made Brown so special? He was only another policeman like himself, and not that good at his job either. In the nine months McGill had been with him, it was all McGill’s work that had led to any arrests. Not that Brown saw it that way of course. “ Don’t suppose you’ve ever been in First Class have you McGill? Just remember to keep your feet off the seats.” “ Yes Sir, I’ll try,” Brown looked at him sideways, but McGill’s face was immobile. “Hmmf” They settled into their seats, and shortly before the train was due to leave for Folkestone, four young officers got in beside them. One was a Captain, slightly older, and the others, all lieutenants, deferred to him. One of the Lieutenants had a livid scar on his cheek. McGill envied them their uniforms. But when he looked at their faces he saw the fear in their eyes, even as they joked and made light of where they were going. “ I don’t suppose you have any details of the crime, sir?” asked McGill. “ Not here,” said Brown, glancing sideways at the braying young men. “ On the boat” By the time they got to Folkestone it was already dark, and as they made their way through the huge sheds crammed with soldiers towards the quay, McGill wondered at the numbers. He’d lived in London all his life, but he’d never seen as many people crammed into one place. Military Police were shoving slow movers around and officers were bawling instructions. If this is what it’s like with no Hun shells landing, thought McGill, what’s it like at the front? He shuddered. Perhaps being a policeman wasn’t so bad. Brown had various passes and letters of introduction, and soon enough they were aboard what seemed to McGill to be an enormous ship. They made their way to an area where they could sit, which 

was reserved for officers. The troops sat on the floor, or stood about, and a haze of cigarette smoke hung lazily in the air. Brown took a cigarette out of his cigarette case and tapped the unfiltered end on it. He looked speculatively at McGill. He lit the cigarette and blew the first cloud of smoke upwards. “ Did you never smoke, McGill?” “ No sir – never started. My father smoked a pipe but I never had the urge.” “ More fool you. Where we’re going a bit of comfort won’t go amiss.” He dragged greedily on the cigarette, making it glow bright red. A bit of ash fell off as he took it out of his mouth. “ No sir, I suppose not.” Brown reached down into his attaché case and produced a sheaf of papers. He flung them at McGill, so that some fell to the floor. “ There you are – have a look at that lot.” Patiently McGill picked up the fallen pages. As the ship shuddered to the thrum of its accelerating engines and hooting sirens, McGill put the papers in order again and began to read. It appeared that a young man had been found dead in a house in Amiens. He had been naked and he had been strangled. The house was occupied by a group of young officers who all claimed they were on duty or on leave and had no idea who the young man was, or where he had appeared from. It was one of their number, Captain Percy Miller, who had found the body when he got back from five days leave on the night of Thursday 25th. October. He’d only noticed it because the body was in his bed and covered up, and when he had gone to wake the usurper, he’d found him dead. He’d sent for the Military Police, who took their time arriving, and in fact didn’t appear until the next morning. Miller was mightily annoyed (and probably a little drunk), so had turfed the body onto the floor to get into his bed. There were no clothes or uniform left anywhere, so there was no clue as to the young man’s identity. No one had seen him come into the house. No one had seen anyone leave. There was no sign of a struggle or a break in. There was more on the other people living in the house, but in essence that was it. McGill looked across at Brown. 

“ Pretty pickle eh McGill? The military only asked for our help to cover their own backsides, and when we don’t get anywhere they will be in the clear. I for one don’t intend to take this too seriously. I’ve already arranged to see some old friends but of course you won’t be coming along.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “A few days are all we need. You can go round and re-interview all the people mentioned, and once you’ve got statements from them we can say there are no leads and trot back to the Yard.” He yawned.” So I’m going to treat this as a paid holiday whilst you carry on with the job. And make sure you do it properly.” “Yes sir, of course sir. Only… “ “Yes?” “ Don’t you think we should at least try to find out who the victim was? At worst we could tell his family.” “For God’s sake McGill you must have seen the casualty lists? There are thousands dying and being wounded every day. What difference does it make? Anyway, the military haven’t been able to find out so what makes you think we can?” McGill looked down at the papers again. “ If I was his family, I’d want to know,” he said quietly. Brown sighed, and waved his hand. “ Oh, just do whatever you like. But make sure you don’t get us or the military into any bother – and make sure the statements tally with what is already there. Neither we nor the military want any loose ends.” McGill nodded. “ I’ll do my best sir” “ You’ll do better than that – you’ll do it!”