JON CLEARY
The High Commissioner
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1966
Copyright © Jon Cleary, 1966
Jon Cleary asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780006167051
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2014 ISBN: 9780007554300 Version: 2017–10–12
TO HAM AND JOYCE
Contents
“We want you to go to London,” said the Premier, “and arrest the High Commissioner for murder.”
He sat back, one clawed finger stroking the beak of his nose, a bald-headed old eagle hawk who had made this office his eyrie for twenty-five years. He ran his tongue round his thin dry lips, as if tasting the shock that showed on Scobie Malone’s face. He was seventy years old and fifty years of his hectic brawling life had been spent in politics. He knew and relished the value of shock.
“The Commissioner tells me you detectives are like nuns, you’re usually only allowed out in pairs.” He looked at Malone, then at Police Commissioner Leeds, his hooded eyes glistening with an old hawk’s malicious humour. “Is that because you don’t trust each other, Jack?”
John Leeds had been a policeman for forty years, Commissioner for ten, and he knew how to handle politicians. “Is that what you think of nuns, Mr. Premier?”
Flannery’s laugh was more like a cough of mirth, as if it hurt him. “Are you trying to get me to lose the Catholic vote, Jack? Stone the bloody crows, I wouldn’t mind betting you vote Liberal!” He looked back at Malone. “What do you vote, Sergeant?”
Malone was still getting over the shock of the Premier’s opening remark. After ten years in the force he was not unaccustomed to shocks; but nothing like this had ever been flung at him before. When Flannery had first spoken he had glanced quickly at the old man to see if he was joking; the ugly smile had told him that if there was a joke it was not intended for him. He was still dazed when Flannery spoke to him again, repeating his question. “What do you vote, Sergeant?”
He tried to collect his thoughts, but the question seemed so irrelevant at a time like this. “It depends, sir.”
“Depends? What on?”
Malone saw Leeds’s warning glance and retreated. “I’m not political-minded, sir. I vote by whim, I suppose.”
Flannery stared at him, his eyes suddenly dark and glazed: twice he had come close to defeat on the vote of those who voted by whim, the floaters, the I-don’t-knows of the opinion polls. Then abruptly he grinned, the surprisingly warm grin that had been winning him the women’s vote for years. Malone, watching him, knew that, despite what the newspapers said, women were not always influenced by a politician’s profile or his platform charm: a number of them, often enough to swing an election, voted for a father figure. But I’d have hated Flannery as a father, Malone thought: he’d have been using me as election bait before I was even weaned.
“Well, in a way, Sergeant, you’re going to London to vote Labour. You want to tell him what’s what, Jack?”
Leeds hesitated, then he leaned forward in his chair, both hands resting on his knees. Whenever Malone had been with the Commissioner, the latter had struck him as one of the most