Page 22 of Copper Script
“The difference between police and graphologists is, you’ve never caught me in a professional lie.I’ll show myself out,” Joel said, and got out of there, leaving the tall, dark figure lonely behind him.
CHAPTER FIVE
AARON HAD ONE LASTday off to fill.He might have gone to an art gallery, or a museum, but in fact he found himself heading over to Marylebone nick, in order to ask about the policeman who had supposedly taken advantage of Wildsmith.
‘Supposedly’ was an awkward word there.Aaron was well aware some of his colleagues profited from their positions.Accepting petty gifts, free food and drink, was a matter of routine; Aaron wouldn’t take more than a cup of tea himself, but didn’t comment when his colleagues accepted a packet of sausages or a bunch of flowers for the wife, for fear of being seen as a prig.He wasn’t aware of corruption on a larger scale in G Division, but he knew bribery was rampant in Soho, where the criminals had more money.He’d also heard of colleagues taking payment in kind from ladies of the night in return for looking the other way, which was a very euphemistic way to say extorting sexual services and not doing their job.
On Wildsmith’s telling, this Constable Sefton hadn’t even refrained from doing his job once he’d had his way.No wonder Wildsmith was so angry: he’d not just been trapped and abused, but also cheated.
If the graphologist’s account was accurate, of course.Aaron had a deep reluctance to believe it: being in the force with such men would feel like a stain on himself.But it didn’t do to flinch from painful truths, and if you decided that anyone who accused the police was lying, you had stepped onto a path that led to some very dark places.
So Aaron would check up on this Constable Sefton with an open mind, and see if the fellow had any question marks hanging over him.Perhaps that would help him decide whether he could trust a word the graphologist said.
He couldn’t decide that currently, and as a result thoughts of Wildsmith wouldn’t leave him.The way he switched between cockiness, outright aggression, and a sudden vulnerability that the prickliness was clearly protecting.The quickness to laugh, or to anger.The unfeasible claims.The wide, joyous smile.
Not the smile.That was definitely not Aaron’s affair.
He needed to reach a conclusion on Wildsmith for his own peace of mind, and whatever that conclusion might be, he also needed to stay away from him.That conversation in his dingy room had been too much: Aaron had been left speechless, deeply alarmed and, unfortunately, extremely aroused.
Bang like a barn door in the wind.The cocky little swine.
It had been a provocation only.He was sure of that, because an invitation would have been beyond reckless.But the provocation was enough to make any sensible man conclude he should keep away, and Aaron had meant to do exactly that until Wildsmith had turned up at his door.
He’d probably had to let the fellow in, but he didn’t know why he’d asked him to stay; he’d regretted it immediately.It wasn’t as though Wildsmith had wanted to be there.He’d left as quickly as was possible, and with that parting shot.
You’ve never caught me in a professional lie.Maybe Aaron should try to do just that.If he could work out what Wildsmith was and how he was doing it, maybe that would get the blasted man out of his head.
He found an acquaintance at Marylebone police station, one Inspector Cassell, and asked for a quiet word.
“Constable Sefton?”Cassell said.“That turd.”
“Oh.”
“Rotten to the core.Suspended from duty last month.Won’t be back if the DDI here has anything to say about it, but you know what a pain in the arse it is to deal with this sort of thing under the Chocolate Soldier.”
That was Sir William Horwood, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.He’d gained the unaffectionate nickname as a military man who had survived a famously bizarre assassination attempt involving poisoned chocolates; among his many unlikeable characteristics was a flat refusal to believe accusations of police corruption or wrongdoing.It infuriated those who wanted the Met to be better, and also those who wanted it to look better.“What did Sefton do?”Aaron asked.
