Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“But it’s falling into place. You’ve established a link between your dead girl and your still-alive senator. The chain runs straight through to this abortion clinic.”

“A possible link. Won’t hold water, Lydia. I need something more tangible before I can mount a raid. I’ll bet my boots that’s where Natalia’s holed up but we have nothing yet to associate the dead dancer with St. Catherine’s. And we have a hint that the place is foreign-owned. German.” Joe didn’t reveal that his source was a London cabdriver. “It’s all a bit sensitive. I can’t just send in the coppers, even armed with a search warrant. I can ask for questions to be asked of Companies’ House and the precise ownership established, however.”

“You’ll have to get Bacchus to help you then. Your super secret special squad will leap at the chance to go in and kick a few Teutonic shins.”

Joe grimaced. “It would make a change from Irish and Russian shins, I suppose. Who’ve you been talking to—that old firebrand, Churchill? Something more diplomatic is called for, I think. And Bacchus has his hands full for the next week or two trying to keep Balkan factions from cutting each other’s throats on English soil. I wouldn’t have the words to ask him to spare men for a raid on a ladies’ health clinic.

“This maid that you followed—she seems to have the entrée. Any use to you? What did she take with her? Bunch of grapes? Copy of War And Peace? Spare knickers in a Vuitton weekend case?”

“None of those. And that’s a bit odd. She had nothing more than a small handbag with her when she rang the bell at St. Catherine’s.”

“What a cheek—choosing St. Catherine for your patron.”

“Is she significant?”

“There’s more than one Catherine. The most famous one—she of the wheel, from Alexandria, is a very proper person to name yourself for. One of the harder-working saints in the canon. She’s the one most people will assume is presiding over the place along with countless churches, colleges and cats’ homes. But there’s another one: the Swedish Catherine. Her speciality is protection against abortion and miscarriage. This is quite a joker you’re dealing with, Joe.”

“Lydia, this swirling madness is beginning to crystallise and take on a shape of reason,” Joe said. “And I think I preferred the madness.”

CHAPTER 15

Julia opened her eyes wide, snapping awake, knowing, as she always did, exactly where she was and that the time was five o’clock, the start of her working day. A precious hour to herself to bathe and dress and get ready for the day before waking Natalia.

No Natalia! No more routine! The thought brought relief and made her smile. But she had to make a start. She stifled a yawn and remembered enough of the night before to avoid stretching her aching limbs. She wanted no mewling and groaning to give her presence away.

A chink of daylight was already cutting through into the room at the edge of one of the carelessly drawn curtains and in the very far distance she could just make out the gentle buzz of the hotel getting ready for the day. The sounds reminded her that, of her many lapses the previous evening, she’d forgotten to put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. She eased her way out of bed and moved quietly to the door. She managed to get it open without a sound and hung the warning over the doorknob. Half the staff in the hotel, she suspected, were on somebody’s payroll and she wasn’t experienced enough in that shady world to be able to spot them. The best she could do was keep all dubious strangers away from her for as long as possible.

The dubious stranger at present lying dead to the world in the centre of the double bed—she had no intention of attracting his attention either.

Just distinguishable in the grey light, the Vionnet dress and her french knickers were lying in a heap on the floor in lascivious liaison with the black leather strapping of her boot. In disgust, she gathered them into a bundle and left them by the door to make her exit swifter. Now for the tricky bit. She tittupped jerkily back and listened to his regular breathing. Too regular? At that moment, he grunted, scratched his bum and turned over. His head was now turned to his left and she smiled to see that the exposed side of his face still bore the marks of her palm and fingers from the almighty wallop she’d given him in the corridor. One of her best. Julia didn’t like violence but she’d grown up surrounded by it and had learned ways of controlling it, even using it judiciously. There was a kind of man—her father one of them—who wouldn’t hesitate to slap a woman about. They were too many but easily identified and the only way to get the better of them was to show you weren’t going to stand any of their nonsense.

She’d seen a film about tigers at a Saturday matinee for kids and it had changed her life. A female with two tiny cubs to protect had had to fight off a marauding male which threatened to kill them. The spitting fury of the attack the female launched while the male was still flexing his muscles and showing off had sent him reeling away. Both animals knew he had the power to win a stand-up fight but the steely intent in the eyes of the tigress had warned him that he’d emerge victorious but torn and bleeding—possibly to death. Julia had never had anything younger and weaker than herself to protect but she’d quivered and snarled and fought in spirit along with that tigress and knew that she was capable of the same passion.

Whack first, was a good plan. Not such a risky thing for her. Just about the only advantage of her condition. Nobody would raise a hand to a cripple. It was a rare man who let himself get within touching distance of her anyway. They usually gave in with bad grace at the challenge to their authority and accepted that they’d run up against a stronger will or they took off at once because they were looking for someone weaker to bully.

William Armiger seemed to come into neither category. He certainly hadn’t taken off and he hadn’t backed down either. He’d just laughed and made a grab for her. And she’d made her first mistake. She’d sheathed her claws. For a moment, staring at his handsome face, she was tempted to climb back into bed and repeat her mistakes.

Most faces softened in sleep when all defences were down. This one didn’t. It was all clear-cut brows, hard planes, smooth surfaces. The only flaw was the turgid mark she’d inflicted herself. Her hand went out automatically in a swiftly controlled impulse to rub it away. Too late now. A perfectly shaped head. Even the ears were neat. Where’d he sprung from? How had a man like this grown up so straight and limber amid the privations, the dirt and the disease of the pre-war East End? They were still there, in their teeming thousands, undersized, undernourished Londoners with rickety legs, raw lungs and rotting teeth. Though occasionally one got away and prospered. She’d compared Agent Armiger to Cary Grant, she remembered, carelessly, just to annoy Sandilands and show off that she was up to the minute with the movies, but she hadn’t been wide of the mark. That lovely bloke now parading around Hollywood was carving out a career for himself personifying Aristocracy, at least make-believe aristocracy. Julia had met samples of the real thing in three continents and they didn’t look remotely like Mr. Grant. He was never out of a tuxedo and top hat these days, surrounded by smart-mouthed, adoring beauties in white ostrich feathers and diamonds but, truth to tell, his childhood had been spent in England, in misery and poverty. If he didn’t have the same cleft chin and warm dark eyes, Armiger had the identical air of confidence and self-belief.

Julia remembered that William’s eyes were grey and penetrating. He wasn’t an easy man to lie to. If he’d gone along with Sandilands’ suggestion of catching her out in the matter of King Kong, she would have been unable to meet his eye and she’d have been sunk. Why on earth had he shielded her? So that she’d owe him a favour? Because he wanted to let her run a little farther like a wounded rabbit for sport before exposing her? Out of pity—that was more likely. Whatever the reason, he’d given a fine lesson in good-humoured courtesy to Gentleman Joe, who’d accepted it with good grace. She lingered, wondering, half-hoping the eyes would flick open and flood his features with laughter and lust.

She looked away from him with regret. She was wasting precious time. Things to do. She found his trousers and felt in the right hand pocket where he’d put the keys she needed. Kingstone’s suite. Kingstone’s telephone. The switchboard was manned through the night here. She should have no problems.

Bill half-opened an eye to watch her neat bottom disappear round the door. Now what the hell was all that about? He was tempted for a moment to leap up and haul her back; women never left him in the lurch the morning after. Losing his touch? He hadn’t thought so. It had all gone very well—better than he was expecting. At the recollection, he rolled over and snuggled his nose into the pillow she’d just left. Yes, it had been bluebells all the way. Light and joyful. She’d made him laugh and that was a first for Armitage. He’d never encountered that before. An earful of guilty sighing and doomful regrets were the usual price he paid for a night’s adventure. But here she was, nicking his keys and slinking off across the corridor. Just as well, perhaps. He groped for his wristwatch. Just after five. A busy morning ahead and at least he wouldn’t have to spend time raking over the events of the night before.

Still, he could have spared half an hour. Perhaps she’d heard the phone ring? She’d be bound to answer it. Bill had no illusions—all the girl’s loyalties were to her mistress, bloody hysterical Natalia, and, he could have sworn, to Kingstone himself in equal measure. He sat up and smoothed his cheek. Bloody woman! She’d never have put a hand to Kingstone’s craggy features even if he gave her cause. What made her think she had leave to make his face sting? Armitage remembered the bee and grinned. He’d paid up front for his pleasure.

INSPECTOR ORFORD WAITED impatiently for first light. He was getting pretty fed up with this stretch of riverbank. A detective sergeant could have done this particular bit of the investigation with no problems and reported back to him but—and he suspected that this was a trait he had in common with the assistant commissioner—he was a chap who liked to keep his own hand on the tiller.

Orford had taken encouragement from his short acquaintance with the new assistant commissioner’s methods. He seemed to be a man you worked with, not for, and the inspector approved of that.

At a nod from the inspector, his escorting uniformed constable, a young copper who’d been left on duty in the area overnight, stepped out towards the boat. “Site’s been cleared, sir, following removal of body. Nothing much to see. What are we looking for?”

“Chalk marks, Constable. You go and get started here at the blunt end and work your way round. Use your torch.”

“Right, sir. See you at the prow in a minute.” A second later, the constable’s excited voice sang out: “Got something, sir! Here—look. It’s a bit faint but them’s letters. Scrawled across the transom.”

“Know your boats, do you?”

“Naw! Only from Sunday afternoons on the boating pool at Southend. Look—he’s made himself a door to get in and out. That’s nifty!” He pointed to the flat rear of the boat and waggled one of the halves to illustrate. “It’s his front door and he’s put his name over it.”

They peered at the almost obscured chalk marks.

“Two words, sir,” the constable breathed. It’s ‘Ab … Ab … three more letters then: on … om … at the end. Second word’s ‘Hope.’ Absalom Hope! That’s him!”

“No, lad.” The inspector spoke gently, not wishing to dampen the young man’s enthusiasm. “It’s the boat’s name. Just where you’d expect it to be, on its rear end. He’s called it the Abandon Hope. Poor bugger! Turned out to be a suitable sentiment in the circumstances. It’s from Dante’s Inferno. Italian poem. A long one. The warning at the entrance to Hell: Abandon hope all ye who enter here. It was my old school motto,” he added jokingly. He copied the two words into his notebook.

The constable gave the governor an admiring look. This was what a grammar school education did for you. “Italian, eh? Fancy our lad knowing that, sir! They didn’t find any books in his crib.”

“He had the latest copy of Paper Doll in his pocket. Surprising what you read in pulp magazines these days. It’s not all naked ladies and racing tips. They all have their ‘culture corner.’ Here—hang on, lad! We’re not off yet! There’s four sides to a boat—port and starboard but outside and inside as well. Help me roll it over.”

“Cor! There! On the smooth bit along the keel. We could have missed that, guv. Now we’ve got letters and numbers. ALM 145. Registration number of a motor car?”

Orford looked over his shoulder back at the row of gas lamps on the embankment. They were all still alight apart from the one that had been nobbled.

“The motor vehicle that parked over there three nights ago? The motor that brought the body down here for burial. Our poor old sailor boy twigged there was something wrong going on, wriggled out to check the registration plate, wriggled back in again and chalked up the number for future reference.”

“Fair enough. Very public spirited. Didn’t do him any good though. They must have seen him, and done him in.” The constable looked about him, suddenly nervous.

“It’s going to do us some good though. He may not have died in vain. Records will be able to give us the name and address of the owner of the vehicle and we’ve got ’em! Bagged! We’ll have something to tell Sandilands when he strolls back in from his weekend.”

He put a tick in his notebook, turned the page and scanned his notes. “Right. One down, one to go,” he muttered. “Next on the menu: shepherd’s pie and rice pudding. Gawd!”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Stomach contents. Last meal eaten by the girl they buried down there in the mud.” He pointed with his pencil. “A ballet dancer, she was.”

“Doesn’t sound much like what a dancer would eat. Don’t they feed ’em lettuce leaves?”

“You’re not wrong, lad. Weighty stuff—pie and pudding! Can’t see the Covent Garden canteen offering that to the chorus line, can you? Wreaks havoc with your grand jeté. So—where d’you go in London to get that combination of rib-sticking fodder, Constable?” he asked idly.

“My Gran’s, sir. On a Tuesday. That’s home cooking where I come from. Beef joint, Sunday; cold cut, Monday; minced up for shepherd’s pie, Tuesday. Regular as clockwork. Rice pud’n every day. Always one on the go in the bottom oven.”

“Thanks for that. If all else fails, I’ll stick your granny in the frame as an accessory to murder.” He looked at his watch. “Six o’clock. Time your relief turned up. Tell him when he comes there’ll be a police photographer in attendance to record the chalkings. And when he’s done, that’s it, we’ve finished here and you can all bugger off. I’m off about my other chores now. Well done! Now go and get your bacon buttie, lad.”

THE RIVER POLICEMAN was waiting for him, quivering with suppressed excitement, at reception when Orford got back to the Yard.

“Got him, sir! I’ve identified your dead sailor.”

He took his notebook from his pocket. “I nipped down the river on one of our launches and visited the Empire Memorial Hall over in Limehouse. British Sailors Society. It’s a rescue mission for seafarers who’re down on their luck and need a billet for the night. They’ve got two hundred and twenty cabins and they’re all full every night. So full they have to turn men away. The bloke on reception thought he recognised him from the corpse photo but he couldn’t swear to it. Beards and earrings not uncommon there. If it’s who they think he is, he’d spent a week with them on being kicked out of the navy. Not for bad behaviour he thinks. He was a quiet customer. Not a drinker and he gave them no trouble. Never tried to smuggle a tart in. Just another bit of naval flotsam and jetsam. Turned off because of the cuts. Anyhow, his allotted time ran out at the hostel and he had to make room for someone else. He came back again a week later. Same thing. He was getting to be a regular. They had no idea where he went on his off days. But they did have a name for him and the name of his last ship.” He handed over a notebook and pointed to a page. “It’s all there, sir, with dates.”

“Well thanks a lot, Eddie. We can nail this one then. We’ll get his details from the Admiralty now we know who we’re talking about. Poor bloke. Not a nice way to end your days. Some vicious sod broke his neck they say.”

“Thought as much.”

Orford looked down at the book in his hand and looked again. He burst out laughing. “Well, well! Up yours, Dante! And stuff me! Able Seaman Absalom Hope, eh? I feel we’ve been introduced.”

CHAPTER 16

Joe’s landlord eyed the ringing telephone with disfavour. Seven o’clock on a Saturday? Inspector Alfred Jenkins (Retired) was expecting his daughter-in-law to arrive with her two little boys any minute to do his weekly scrub and polish while he played games with his grandsons. He’d got two new Dinky cars to give them. Latest models. That was how his Saturday mornings were spent and he didn’t welcome any disruption.

But then it occurred to Alfred that it might be a call from his tenant and he hurried to pick up the receiver. Joe hadn’t come home last night. Not an unusual occurrence; the poor bloke led a demanding professional life and in his private life—well, he was no hermit, was the politest way of putting it. Alfred had got used to his upstairs tenant rolling home at a late hour doing a fair imitation of Berlington Bertie, reeking of brandy, tie askew and lipstick on his cheek. He’d calmed down a bit since that girl had got her claws into him. The three o’clock in the morning appearances had been less frequent and the lipstick seemed to have changed colour.

Odd though. Joe usually warned him when he was going to be away from home overnight. He’d snatch up the weekend bag he always kept at the ready behind his door and go whistling off. He was fanatical about his security and Alfred enjoyed playing the role of guard dog. When he was at home, no one got near his young tenant, and Alfred was usually at home. A tough and uncompromising man, the scars of the bullet wounds that had brought about his early retirement from the Met were not visible but somehow they were perceptible to those who needed to be intimidated. He was very familiar with police life and London crime. He knew most villains respected the sanctity of a copper’s home life in an old-fashioned way, but at the elevated level where Sandilands worked, the villains were of a different order. Alfred suspected that the assistant commissioner’s name appeared, scrawled in chalk, on certain high security cell walls in Wormwood Scrubs, and probably topped lists inked in a scholarly hand into the back of leather-bound, gold-clasped diaries on desks in Westminster.

He picked up the receiver and gave no more than the exchange number. He heard the reassuring sound of a woman’s voice. Not lovely Lydia and not that cocky little Dorcas Joe was entangled with. The stranger asked if she was speaking to the janitor. A snooty woman with a plum in her mouth. Confident. Middle-aged. He didn’t much like the sound of her so he gave her his rank: “Detective Inspector Jenkins, retired, here, madam.”

“Oh, even better! Jenkins! Just the man I wanted! Glad to catch you, Inspector. This must be the assistant commissioner’s landlord I’ve got?”

“Yes, madam. And whom have I got?” he asked with an hauteur that suggested he objected to an assumption of intimacy with a female stranger.

There was tinkling laughter as she picked this up and: “So sorry! This is Phoebe Snow. Assistant Commander Sandilands’ private secretary. I’m ringing from the Yard.”

“Well, you’re unlucky today, Miss Snow. I’ve no idea where he is. I just know he’s not at—”

“I know he’s not at home,” she interrupted crossly. “That’s the problem. He’s not here either and he was meant to be. Someone’s mightily displeased, you can tell him when he surfaces again. I wasn’t able to warn him when he rang in just now. I’m not alone in the office,” she added mysteriously in a low voice. Someone in the background cleared his throat. “He wants me to pick up some overnight things and have them brought down for him. I have a list of items he needs so if you’ll just let me into his apartment in … say … half an hour, I’d be most grateful. If by any chance I get caught up here—I’ll send a chap down. That’ll be … hang on a tick …” She referred to someone else in the office and then: “Kerry Onslow can do it. Be sure to ask to see his warrant card. The boss is fanatical about security, you know. Got that? Half an hour.”

Jenkins went up to Joe’s flat in the lift, unlocked and found the weekend bag standing at the ready in its usual place. He checked the leather luggage label that was always attached to the handle. His sister’s address in Surrey was the one currently on show there. It usually was. Left over from last time. His home from home. Thoughtfully, Jenkins untied it and slipped it into his pocket. He locked the door firmly behind him and went back downstairs.

“May I speak to Assistant Commissioner Sandilands if he’s with you?” he asked Marcus’s butler a minute later. “Urgent. It’s his landlord here in Chelsea. Name of Jenkins.”

“Hello, Alfred, Joe here. You catch us still at the breakfast table. Got a bit of trouble have you?”

Joe listened with increasing alarm to an account of Alfred’s phone call and his reaction to it.

“First—you were quite right to be wary. My secretary is indeed Phoebe Snow but she’s never at the Yard on a Saturday and she has a delightful Welsh voice which no one would describe as ‘plummy.’ So, effectively, you’ll find yourself greeting a stranger in about twenty minutes. A stranger? What’s the betting they send their Mr. Onslow? Mr. Onslow will be expecting—after a quick, token, matey flash of a forged warrant card—to be shown into my room to rummage about getting together some of my possessions from an imaginary list. And what’s the betting he won’t be by himself? Look—I don’t want them anywhere near my room. But—above all—I don’t want them anywhere near you and your family. I know your circumstances on a Saturday. These aren’t East End thugs, hired round the back of the Fighting Cock in Seven Dials for twopence ha’penny; they’re certainly international no-goods, probably with protection at a diplomatic level and possibly armed. They’ve killed already and I have their next target down here with me. I want you and your family to move out. That’s an order, Alf, and I want it executed in the next ten minutes. This is the Assistant Commissioner speaking, not your friend and tenant.”

“Think on, Joe. If I stick a ‘Gone Fishing’ notice on the door, they’ll smell something fishy all right. It will just put off their next visit. They’d be back again later in a filthy temper. I’d rather know who and how many and when and get off on the front foot.”

Joe was silent for a moment. “Makes a lot of sense, Alf,” he said. Alfred could almost see him break into a grudging smile. “In fact, I remember having said much the same thing myself on one or two occasions. Very well. But two things: get the family out of there and get back-up in. Any thoughts?”

“I can ring the local nick and have two mates here in five minutes. I know the beat boys. They sometimes call in for a cup of tea and a chin-wag round about this time of the morning. If your friends call by, they might be a bit put off their stroke to find the lobby full of uniformed Plod,” Alfred said cheerfully.

Joe’s heart sank at the thought of two pink-cheeked, unarmed bobbies squaring up to the squad of professional killers he suspected his opponents could field.

“Listen, Alfred …” There was a pause as Joe gathered himself to say, “There’s one more thing you can do for me and I want no arguments! I want you to put that address label back on the bag before you hand it over.”

After a moment’s puzzled hesitation, Jenkins grinned. “Of course. Doing a bit of tiger hunting are we? I’ll ring you back when they’ve taken delivery.”

THEY ARRIVED EARLIER than expected.

The pair strode confidently into the lobby of Alfred’s shabby but spacious Georgian house, flicking an eye over the black-and-white tiled hall and its occupants. A professional eye, Alfred judged, as they didn’t show by the bat of an eyelash that they were at all disconcerted to find themselves faced by a lady mopping the floor, two small boys racing their toy cars from one end to the other and three policemen. One was retired and in his shirt sleeves, the other two were decidedly still operative and in full uniform. One constable, one sergeant, both holding mugs of tea. They’d been sitting on the stairs, cheering on the boys and now they rose to their feet, effectively blocking any access to the upper floor.

“You made good time, gentlemen! Very prompt. But that’s the Met for you—always ahead of themselves,” said Alfred, moving from his apartment door to greet the newcomers jovially. “Alice!” he called to the woman whose mop seemed to be advancing dangerously close to the two pairs of shining city brogues. “That’ll do fine. Give us a bit of space, will you, love, and go and start on the ironing.” Next, he shouted to his grandsons: “Oy! Sid and Ian, put those cars down. Look, here’s your Saturday sixpence. Go to the shop and buy yourselves some aniseed balls or something.”

“Ooh, ta, Granpa!” The boys abandoned their toy cars and hurried out, arguing the merits of treacle toffee and gobstoppers.

“The lads are just taking their morning break before they go on duty,” he said, indicating the uniformed pair. “Can I get you two a cuppa? I can squeeze two more out of the pot. No? Right. Oh, before you tell me how I can help you—a bit of ID, if you wouldn’t mind?”

With a bored gesture, each man drew a Metropolitan police warrant card from his pocket and held it in front of Alfred’s eyes.

“Right then, let’s see who’ve we got,” said Alfred, calmly putting on the spectacles he kept dangling around his neck on a string. “The boss is a stickler for protocol.”

“Don’t we know it!” gritted the leader of the two, with an unconvincing attempt at camaraderie. “Kerry Onslow. Inspector Onslow. How do?”

Onslow made no attempt to offer his hand. But then—you’d be careful about putting one of those expensive new blond leather driving gloves into a sweaty underling’s palm, Alfred reckoned. “And this here’s my sergeant. Now if you wouldn’t mind. We’ve got a list of stuff …”

“Say no more! I can save you the bother. The boss had got his things all ready to go himself. I’ve brought them down for you.” He walked to the door and picked up the leather bag.

Onslow’s face darkened and he seemed about to object.

Alfred laughed. “See here,” he said, indicating the luggage label. “Efficient as ever! He’s even put his address on it. But don’t you go leaving it hanging about anywhere. If that bag doesn’t get to that destination in one piece, he’ll have your guts for garters. And he’ll know where to come looking.”

“Meaning?” The single word had the power to crack a jaw.

“Meaning I shall have to ask you to sign this ’ere bit of paper. A receipt. I don’t know what’s in that bag … could be the Koh-i-Noor diamond or a duchess’s knickers. You never know with Sandilands. But I’m not going to get the blame if something goes astray … Sure you understand,” he added ingratiatingly as Onslow, smirking, conceded and took the receipt book.

Having signed with a flourish, Onslow raised an eyebrow to his companion. The two men tipped their hats in a short derisive gesture and turned to leave. Onslow took the trouble, Alfred noticed, to put his size thirteen foot right onto one of the small Dinky cars, squashing it like a cockroach, before they slipped out.

“WELL THEY DIDN’T hang about, the minute they got their hands on the bag,” remarked the police sergeant a moment or two after the door swung closed behind the plainclothes men. “I wonder what you’ve just handed them, Alf.”

Alfred didn’t confide his fears. He cleared his throat and murmured: “We’ll just have to wait a bit now.”

They waited for the longest five minutes of Alf’s life. He spent them on the doorstep, looking to left and right until, with a grunt of relief, he saw his grandsons sprinting towards him down the street. He gathered them up in a hug and dragged them inside. They fought their way free, pink-cheeked and excited, and the older of the pair began to speak.

“Got it! I put the number in my car-spotting book.” He handed a small dog-eared book to Alfred. “Sorry we were so long, Granpa—they’d parked it round the corner …”

“Round two corners,” corrected the smaller boy. “But we found it! They didn’t see us. We tagged along with old Mr. Sparks and his Missis on their way to the shops.”

“AR 6439? That it?” Alfred read out the last number entered.

“No. That’s a Riley. Grey one. Bloke had stopped to get a packet of Woodbines from the corner shop. I put that in on the way back. Common or garden. Not like the one your visitors got into! Cor! That’s the one above. ALM 145.”

“Description of vehicle, sonny?” The sergeant dignified the occasion by producing his own notebook and licking the end of his pencil. He was all benevolent attention.

“It was a Maybach DS8 Zeppelin. Black. Four-seater.” Sid’s eyes glazed over in memory of the extraordinary vehicle.

“A what was that again? Zeppelin? Wasn’t that a bomber plane in the war?”

“Naw! It’s an airship. A dirigible.”

Sid broke into the police officers’ exchange of views. “Naw, mister! It’s a motor car. We saw one when Granpa took us to the exhibition at Earl’s Court. First I’ve ever seen on the road.”

“It’s a monster!” said Ian. “A big, black monster! You should have heard it growl when they started up!”