“I’d happily boil him in oil,” said Grace, “but he wasn’t even charged.”
“In oil?” said her father. “We’ll have you voting Conservative yet.”
“Never,” Grace responded.
Sir Julian picked up the carving knife. “Anyone for seconds?”
“Dare I ask if you’ve met anyone recently?” asked Marjorie, turning to her son.
“Several people, Mama,” said William, amused by his mother’s euphemism.
“You know exactly what I meant,” she chided.
“Fat chance. I’ve been working on the roster for the past month, seven nights in a row, finishing up at six in the morning, by which time all you want to do is sleep. Then you’re expected to report back for duty two days later, to start an early shift. So let’s face it, Mum, PC Warwick isn’t much of a catch.”
“Whereas if you’d taken my advice,” said his father, “by now you’d be an eligible barrister, and I can assure you there are several attractive young women in chambers.”
“I’ve met someone,” said Grace, which silenced her father for the first time. He put down his knife and fork and listened intently. “She’s a solicitor in the City, but I’m afraid Dad wouldn’t approve of her as she specializes in divorce.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” said Marjorie.
“Whenever you like, Mama, but be warned, I haven’t told her who my father is.”
“Am I a cross between Rasputin and Judge Jeffreys?” asked Sir Julian, placing the tip of the carving knife next to his heart.
“You’re not that nice,” said his wife, “but you do have your uses.”
“Name one,” said Grace.
“There’s a clue in yesterday’s crossword that is still baffling me.”
“I’m available to be consulted,” said Sir Julian.
“Out of sorts family? Thirteen letters. Third letter is ‘s,’ tenth letter ‘o.’”
“Dysfunctional!” the other three cried in unison, and burst out laughing.
“Anyone for humble pie?” said Sir Julian.
* * *
William had told his father that he was unlikely to win, but now it was in the bag, or to be more accurate, in the corner pocket. He was about to pot the last ball on the table and win the Lambeth station snooker championship, and end a run of six victories for Fred Yates.
Somewhat ironic, William thought, as it was Fred who’d taught him to play the game. In fact, William wouldn’t have ventured into the snooker room if Fred hadn’t suggested it might help him get to know some of the lads who weren’t too sure about the choirboy.
Fred had taught his charge to play snooker with the same zeal he had applied to introducing the lad to life on the beat, and now, for the first time, William was going to beat his mentor at his own game.
At school, William had excelled on the rugby pitch in the winter as a wing three-quarter, and during the summer as a sprinter on the track. In his final year at London University, he’d been awarded the coveted Purple after winning the Intercollegiate Championship. Even his father managed a wry smile whenever William broke the tape in the 100-yard dash, as he called it, although William suspected that “re-rack,” “maximum break,” and “in off” weren’t yet part of his father’s vocabulary.
William checked the scoreboard. Three games all. It now rested on the final frame. He had started well with a break of 42, but Fred had taken his time, eating away at the lead until the game was finely poised. Although William was still leading by 26 points, all the colors were on their spots, so that when Fred returned to the table, all he had to do was clear the last seven balls to capture the trophy.
The basement room was packed with officers of every rank; some were perched on the radiators while others sat on the stairs. A silence fell on the gathering as Fred leaned across the table to address the yellow. William resigned himself to having lost his chance of becoming champion, as he watched the yellow, green, brown, and blue disappear into the pockets, leaving Fred with just the pink and black to clear the table and win the match.
Fred lined up the object ball before setting the cue ball on its way. But he’d struck it a little too firmly, and although the pink shot toward the middle pocket and disappeared down the hole, the white ended up on a side cushion, leaving a difficult cue, even for a pro.
The crowd held its breath as Fred bent down. He took his time lining up the final ball which, if he potted, would take him over the line: 73–72, making him the first person to win the title seven years in a row.
He stood back up, clearly nervous, and chalked his cue once again as he tried to compose himself before returning to the table. He bent down, fingers splayed, and concentrated before he struck the cue ball. He watched anxiously as the black headed toward the corner pocket; several of his supporters willed it on its way, but to their dismay, it came to a halt just inches from the edge. There was an exasperated sigh from the crowd, who were aware William had been left with a shot even a novice could have pocketed, and they accepted that a new name was about to be added to the honors board.
The contender took a deep breath before glancing at the honors board, to be reminded that Fred’s name was printed in gold for 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1981, and 1982. But not 1983, thought William, as he chalked his cue. He felt like Steve Davis moments before he became world champion.
He was about to sink the final black when he spotted Fred standing on the other side of the table, looking resigned and dejected.
William leaned over the table, lined up the two balls, and hit the cue ball perfectly. He watched as the black touched the rim of the pocket, wobbled precariously over the hole, but remained tantalizingly balanced on the lip, and failed to drop. The stunned crowd gasped in disbelief. The lad had buckled under pressure.
Fred didn’t squander a second chance, and the room erupted when he sank the final ball to win the frame, and the championship, 73–72.
The two men shook hands while several officers surrounded them, patting both men on the back, with “Well done,” “Couldn’t have been closer,” and “Bad luck, William.” William stood to one side when the super presented Fred with the cup, which the champion raised high in the air to even louder cheers.
An older man, dressed in a smart double-breasted suit, whom neither of the gladiators had noticed, slipped quietly out of the room, left the station, and instructed his driver to take him home.
Everything he’d been told about the lad had turned out to be true, and he couldn’t wait for Constable Warwick to join his team at Scotland Yard.
4
When Constable Warwick emerged from St. James’s Park tube station, the first thing he saw on the far side of the road was the iconic revolving triangular sign announcing NEW SCOTLAND YARD. He gazed across with awe and apprehension, as an aspiring actor might approaching the National Theatre, or an artist entering the courtyard of the Royal Academy for the first time. He pulled up his collar to protect himself from the biting wind, and joined the stampede of early morning lemmings on their way to work.
William crossed Broadway and continued walking toward the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Force, a nineteen-story building covered in decades of grime and crime. He presented his warrant card to the policeman on the door, and headed for the reception desk. A young woman smiled up at him.