Page 60 of Strangers in Time

T HE H ITCH

I NSPECTOR, SIR, WE MIGHT have a wee problem.”

DI Willoughby looked up from his desk at the bobby who had helped in the arrest and violent interrogation of Lonzo Rossi. Framed in the doorway, the bulky constable looked quite unsettled.

“What are you talking about, Higgins?” growled Willoughby, who was attempting to correct some reports that were long overdue. He had never much cared for the job’s paperwork.

“It’s the Lonzo Rossi lad.”

“What of him?”

The constable came in and shut the door behind him. He approached the desk timidly. “He don’t seem to be wakin’ up, does he?”

Willoughby lit a small, hand-rolled cigarette and blew smoke off to the side. “What the deuce do you mean he’s not ‘waking up’?”

Higgins shrugged. “Just that. He ain’t eaten much since we brung him in. And he seemed drowsy like when we put him in the clink, shufflin’ and such and losin’ his balance. Threw water on him before to get him up. But now, he won’t wake up a’tall. Tried to rouse him to have his bit ’a dinner, but no luck.”

“Damn! Take me to him.”

A minute later, Higgins slid back the cell door peephole and the DI peered in. Lonzo was on his back on the hard bed, one arm dangling limply over the side.

“Open the door,” ordered Willoughby.

They both went inside. The DI knelt down next to Lonzo and checked his pulse. “He’s still alive at least, if barely.” He slapped Lonzo hard on his battered face several times. “Here now, boy, wake up. Oi, stop pretending. Lonzo!”

Then Willoughby saw the blood hardened in the boy’s nostrils, and on his hair and scalp. He pulled back his eyelid to peer into the unresponsive pupil.

“Do we need to get the doc?” asked Higgins nervously.

Willoughby thought quickly. This was the third prisoner who had been seriously injured during interrogations conducted by him. His superintendent had already given Willoughby a caution about that. If this boy died while in his custody, he might be demoted back to uniform.

“No, we do not. This lad is for the gallows anyway.”

The big constable shuffled his feet and looked down at the stained floor. “But not really, sir. I mean, he didn’t kill nobody hisself. The lorry done.”

Willoughby eyed him severely. “Do I really have to remind you that one of your brethren died? Does that mean nothing to you, Constable Higgins?”

The big man took a step back. “Of course it do, sir. Ambrose Tapper was a good bobby, a fine one, in fact. None better.”

“Well then?”

The man looked nervously at Lonzo. “But if inquiries are made, how he come by his injuries, sir. People might… you know? I don’t want to lose my job,” he added, with an anxious glance at the DI. “I mean, none of us do, do we?”

Willoughby rose and looked down at Lonzo. After a moment’s thought he said, “The bombing the other night?”

“What of it, sir? Wireless says they may come back tonight.”

Willoughby rubbed his stubbly chin and said, “Well then, tonight we’re going to take this lad back to the scene of his crime. And if the Germans do bomb, this might work out all right.”

“But, sir—”

“You will either do your duty, Constable, or be written up.”

Higgins gave a halfhearted salute. “Yes, sir. How will it be done, then?”

Willoughby began speaking quietly.