Monday, May 11, 1953
“Unfortunately, the man now going by James Sullivan, he… well, he appears to have absconded from his probation.” Detective Inspector Hilary Comyns spoke in a tone of casual contrition, as if Mr. Sullivan were a dog he’d allowed off the lead.
“I shall visit his last-known address, of course. And question those with a vested interest in—”
“You think they’ve got to him, I suppose?” Roderick Smythe, Queen’s Counsel, gave a rueful grimace. “Damned nuisance if so. I thought all reasonable measures had been taken?”
“Indeed they had, and at this stage I can find no evidence that our measures were breached, or that Mr. Sullivan was exposed as an informant. Of course, we—”
Smythe stood up. “Sorry, old chap, duty calls.” Sighing like a theatrical old-timer about to tread the boards for the umpteenth time, he tapped his gleaming pate; he had to don his wig.
“I shall leave the matter in your capable hands. It goes without saying, of course, that without the fellow’s testimony, things are looking very shaky indeed. ”