Текст книги "The Bee's Kiss"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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‘It was usual,’ said Donovan with a half-smile. ‘Dame Beatrice’s energy and . . . libido, if I may use a technical term? . . . were apt to peak in the early hours. Neatly coinciding with the masculine urges, as I’m sure I don’t need to explain to two men of the world.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Cottingham faintly.

‘So we have you in the back office from midnight onwards, ticking off the hours until it should be six,’ said Joe. ‘Can anyone vouch for your presence there?’

Donovan looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘You could speak to Jim Jordan. The boot-boy. Poor Jim finds it difficult to stay awake through his nightly duties – the lad’s only fourteen. He often brings his boots into my office and works on them there. I keep him awake with stories and merry banter. He likes the company. He was there from eleven when he came on duty until the manager burst in with his news at twelve forty. Jim will be able to confirm that I was there on the ground floor at the time in which you are interested.’

‘And your first act on hearing the news of the murder of your lover was to pick up the telephone and alert the press?’ said Joe coldly.

Donovan shrugged his shoulders. ‘We all need what cash we can come by these days. They pay well. And I wouldn’t flatter myself by calling her my lover . . .’

‘Very well then – client,’ said Joe sharply. ‘How about that? Is that the term a gigolo would use?’

He was pleased to see a flush of anger begin to light up the controlled features.

‘We will of course check on the facts you have given us this morning, Mr Donovan. And perhaps, before leaving, you would allow the constable to take a sample of your fingerprints.’

‘For purposes of elimination, naturally,’ said Donovan.

‘Naturally.’

As he reached the door, Joe spoke again. ‘Donovan? . . . Irish, I believe? Which part of Ireland do you hail from, I wonder?’

‘County Antrim.’

‘Ah? As did Sir Roger Casement? The county would seem to produce its share of . . . handsome men.’

Joe seemed to have at last got under the man’s skin. He turned from the door and spoke quietly, his lilting accent now unrestrained: ‘You’ll be referring to the notorious traitor, Casement? Executed by the British? Yes, I understand him to have been born in Antrim. Now tell me – was not William Wallace born a Scot and Guy Fawkes an Englishman – like your honours? We all have to share our native soil with rogues and villains and misunderstood heroes, don’t we now? Well, gentlemen, if there is nothing further I can do for you, I will return to my duties.’

‘You let him go off? Just like that?’ Cottingham was squeaking with distress. Realizing he was on the point of insubordination he collected himself and hurried on, ‘Sir, was that wise? Weren’t there many more questions we had to put to the bastard?’

‘Hundreds,’ Joe replied calmly. ‘But until I’ve done a bit more research into the character and career of Mr Donovan I’m going to let him run loose. Look, Ralph, when you’ve finished at the Ritz, make a few enquiries at the Admiralty, will you? Check this bloke’s record with the navy. We’ll need to know what rank he reached and why he left . . . how did his path cross that of the Dame . . . what were his specialities . . . you know the sort of thing. I’ll give you a number to ring and the name of a contact.’

‘Won’t be necessary, sir. I have my own.’

Joe smiled grimly. ‘The next time I see Mr Donovan, we’re going to be armed with incontrovertible evidence of his villainy and we’ll be booking him into a room! In Pentonville!’

Joe was still working his way through the reports in his office when the telephone rang.

‘Commander Sandilands? Glad to catch you at your desk for once!’ said Sir Nevil. Without preamble and without his usual bonhomie, he hurried on: ‘Now then, our Wren at the Ritz. Decisions to be made, conclusions to be arrived at. Look, why don’t you pop along to my rooms, shall we say in five minutes? Join me in a cup of coffee.’ There was the slightest of pauses. Was he conferring with someone? Receiving an order? ‘Oh, and it might be helpful if you brought your files on the case with you. Your complete files, Commander.’ Another pause and then, decisively, ‘I’m saying – clear the case off your desk. If you have any officers out in the field on duties related to the enquiry, then call them in at once.’

Joe guessed from the unnatural and strained phrasing that Sir Nevil was not alone in his office. The abrupt use of his rank and surname at the outset was signal enough to Joe that the conversation was being overheard. He would pick up the hint and reply in kind: formally and loudly. He managed to keep his voice level as he replied. ‘Of course, Sir Nevil. I’ll be right along. Oh, look – could we make that in fifteen minutes? I’m in the middle of a briefing here – a briefing which I shall now have to turn around.’

He put the phone down, grim-faced. Joe knew how to interpret this summons. He was being instructed to bury Dame Beatrice.

For a moment the soldier’s automatic reaction to a command had kicked in. His shoulders had squared on hearing the General’s clipped voice and he could have done nothing other than respond as he had. ‘Yessir. Yessir. Three bags full, sir!’ was still the formula. But instinct was warring with training. He’d played for time simply to give himself a chance to think. Dizzily, he stood at his desk gripping the smooth rolled edge but staring into a void before him.

He got his bearings.

He grabbed his briefcase and set it open on the desk. He reckoned he had ten minutes. Swiftly he cast a calculating eye over the Beatrice files and made his selection. Into the case went Cottingham’s scrawled interview notes on Donovan, the Dame’s diary and Westhorpe’s handwritten inventory. He carefully detached the paper-clipped flimsy copies of Cottingham’s typed-up reports, blessing the man for his thoroughness. He emptied the pile of photographs of the corpse and the murder room and selected two for his personal collection. Looking critically at what was left of the evidence files, he thought they looked substantial enough – an impressive coverage for the thirty-five hours that had elapsed since the murder. On a fresh sheet of foolscap he wrote out a quick summary of the depleted contents. He took the trouble to change pens halfway through and squeeze in a supposed omission in pencil. Deciding it looked convincing, he pinned it at the top. He packed the files back into the two cardboard folders in which Cottingham had carried them.

One last thing to do. He lifted the receiver and asked to be put through to the Fingerprint Section. He identified himself and requested the Head of Department. ‘Larry? Listen. In a bit of a rush here . . . Yes! As you say! . . . You’ll be getting a sample via Cottingham. Subject: Thomas Donovan. Process these as soon as you can and send the results by special messenger to my home address. You’ve got it? Good. Buy you a pint next week!’

He locked his briefcase, pushed it under the desk then tucked the files under his arm and set off upstairs.

Chapter Thirteen

Was there evasion behind the clever eyes? Joe thought so as he listened to Sir Nevil’s voice booming at him over the broad desk. ‘. . . grateful as usual, Joe, for the speed and quality of your attack. Good team effort, I hear? And one which enables us to tie up the ends remarkably quickly. Let me know the names of officers who’ve impressed you, will you, my boy? No need to interview anyone else in connection with this sorry business. Did you have anyone else on your list?’

The question was casually put.

Joe replied carefully, reciting a selection of names, some of which he hadn’t the slightest intention of following up. He was watching for a reaction to the candidates on offer. No response to the names of family members, he decided, but he could have sworn he detected the slightest narrowing of the lips when he listed an admiral and a senior member of the Wrens. So that was it. Someone else was aware of the Dame’s colourful forays into bohemian life. If the lurid details got out, it would do nothing but damage to a revered service. Enemies of the state, and they seemed to be ever-increasing and coming from all sides of the political spectrum, might well use such a scandal to attack the country in its most sensitive part – its pride.

Sir Nevil spoke decisively: ‘Don’t bother. No need at all to disturb these people. Let it rest.’ His tone softened as he went on, ‘Look, Joe, there can be no possible question that the CID has pulled out all the stops to account for the death of a highly esteemed lady. The funeral is set for next Thursday at St Martin’s. The top military brass will all be there in support. I believe her mother wishes to keep the ceremony simple and short. In fact she has asked that no uniforms be worn. It’ll be homburgs rather than tricornes on parade. Quite proper in the circumstances – she did not, after all, die on active service. We’re preparing an announcement for the press to coincide with the release of ceremony details. We’ve been lucky – what with the royal birth and the impending strike, they haven’t needed to search about for headlines this week!’

He looked Joe straight in the eye. ‘They are to be told that she was killed while bravely attempting to repel a burglar who subsequently made off with an item of jewellery. Commander Sandilands of the Yard will be reported to be hot on his trail. Just the sort of lurid story the sensation-seeking public will smack its lips over. What do you say, Joe?’

Pitching perfectly the degree of bitterness in his tone, Joe said, ‘I notice you do not seek to know what I think, sir. I will say that I understand. I’ll leave you with the case notes and should it ever be thought appropriate to pursue it further, I hope the reports will be of use.’ He dropped his voice for emphasis. ‘I think you’ll find them well worth reading, sir.’

Sir Nevil’s eyes clouded with uncustomary indecision.

Joe decided he knew his boss well enough to risk an off-the-record remark. Again he spoke quietly, though they were alone in the room. ‘We jumped the gun, sir?’

Sir Nevil gave a fleeting smile. ‘You have it right, my boy!’ he growled. ‘You’ve no idea from how many directions I’ve been prodded since the powers in this land woke up to what had transpired.’ He whistled under his moustache. ‘Damned lucky you kept the lid on it! If you’d spilled all to that reporter on Saturday night, we’d both be for the high jump. Still – that’s what we pay you for – discretion. Can’t discuss it with you, of course, but the Foreign Office, the Home Office, Room 40, the wraiths at MI5 and the Special Branch thugs – they’ve all been holding a knife to my throat. No idea what’s been going on . . . couldn’t tell you if I had.’

Joe replied lightly. ‘Probably all so busy watching each other they didn’t notice the Plod had made off with the case from under their noses.’

‘Must say, I can’t be doing with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ Sir Nevil’s candid old soldier’s face suddenly looked tired. ‘It’s all the go, I know, this shadow-boxing, but I prefer a target out there in front of me, in plain daylight and preferably in range. Old school, what! Time I was dead, I think!’

He added, in a brisker tone, ‘Look, Joe, now you’ve got this report off your hands, why don’t you take a few days’ leave? You’ll need to make an appearance for the funeral – that would be appreciated, I know – but why don’t you take the rest of the week off? Come back on Monday? And why don’t you give similar instructions to your staff, the ones who’ve been involved with all this? Tell them to go off to the country or the seaside – reward for zeal and effort – you can think of something, I’m sure.’

‘Put myself out of the way – is that what you mean, sir?’

‘Of course that’s what I mean! Your ugly mug is not unfamiliar to the lads of the press. All too recognizable! Don’t want them hounding you with their magnesium flashes or whatever those infernal devices are. Not suggesting you flee to Paris or Scotland – just lie low for a bit, eh? Them’s orders!’

‘I have a sister conveniently in Surrey. She’s always saying she doesn’t see enough of me . . .’

‘Capital! Capital! Leave your telephone number down there with my secretary, will you, Joe? And I don’t, I suppose, need to say how much I . . . er . . . appreciate your co-operation?’

His smile faded as Joe closed the door behind him and he remained seated, bushy white eyebrows knitting together in unwelcome thought. His hand reached for the buzzer on his desk and his secretary entered.

‘Miss Holland, one or two memoranda to shoot off, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Of course, Sir Nevil.’ She sat down and her shorthand pad appeared miraculously on her lap, a sharpened pencil poised for the first word.

He glanced with slight irritation at the slim, upright figure over the desk. She was always a few seconds ahead of him and he found it disconcerting. ‘How did she do that?’ he wondered. Whenever she entered or left the room he had the clear impression that she had saluted. Must be the training. He recollected that Miss Holland was an ex-Wren. When the service had been disbanded after the war many of these girls, hand-picked for their intelligence and capacity for hard work, had been snapped up by husbands and one or two by men like Sir Nevil who appreciated their skills and their discretion.

The ‘new shore service’ as it was billed had been founded in 1917, late in the war, under Dame Katharine Furse, ex-VAD who’d already put in three years of service in France. She and a committee of formidably effective and experienced women had to cope with a flood of seven thousand girls who flocked to the white ensign to enlist. It was a wonder they’d had time to kit the recruits out in a uniform before it was all over and they found themselves turned loose with a week’s pay. But in the short year of their existence, the Wrens had impressed and won over the men of the navy from the lowest rating to the highest admiral.

Sir Nevil had witnessed a quite extraordinary scene a year after the war’s end in July 1919. He had attended the Great Peace March through London and, standing in Hyde Park at the finale, he had watched Dame Katharine herself leading the Wrens’ contingent. Stepping proudly in impeccable formation, the girls in blue entered the park and, as they drew level with the Achilles statue, they were greeted by an unrehearsed burst of applause from the admirals who had been leading the main contingent. Sir Nevil’s frosty old eye had moistened. He thought it a graceful tribute to the Wrens’ devotion.

If the highest authorities in the land were prepared to lean on him and pull out all the stops to prevent the good name of the service being besmirched by this . . . this . . . rotten apple – well, so be it! Should he have taken Joe into his confidence? No. Better to play by the rules. Anyway, the chap was sharp enough to have worked it out for himself. And tactful enough not to have made a song and dance about it. What had he said in a meaning way? ‘. . . find the files well worth reading . . .’ Sir Nevil groaned. If Sandilands had done his work thoroughly, he didn’t doubt it. Contents more than likely to stand your hair on end! Good thing he’d asked for the files. Would be dynamite in the wrong hands.

A slight cough from the other side of the desk reclaimed his attention to the job in hand.

‘I’ll address and deliver this myself, Miss Holland. Just type, “Top Secret”, would you? To keep everybody happy. They like that sort of nonsense. And say, under today’s date and time: “Action taken in accordance with suggestions made this day. Closing case. No problems envisaged.” That’s all on that one. Oh, before we move on – there’s a little florist . . . on Jermyn Street, I think it is . . . I want you to order me a wreath for Thursday.’

‘Ophelia’s are generally reckoned to be the best, I think, sir.’

‘If you say so, Miss Holland. And . . . lilies? Do you think lilies? Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds,’ he quoted to himself. ‘Very appropriate.’

Too late, he realized that out of habit he’d spoken the line from Shakespeare’s sonnet out loud.

‘For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds,’ Miss Holland said happily. ‘That was the preceding line so – two points to me, I think!’

They regularly batted quotations at each other over the desk; the game was their only intimacy. But, sensing his dismay on this occasion, she added smoothly, ‘But I take your point and will insist on absolute freshness, Sir Nevil. And the modern lily has excellent keeping qualities, I do believe.’

When Miss Holland had made her phantom salute, turned on her heel and left to return to her typewriter, Sir Nevil took a deep breath and opened the files.

Joe slammed into his office disturbed and angry. He was surprised to find a file sitting precisely in the middle of his desk. Surely he hadn’t missed one in his hasty clearance? A pencilled note attached to the top sheet answered his question:

From Constable Smithson, Documentation Section.

Sorry to have found you out, Commander.

You requested this file yesterday a.m. I experienced some difficulty in location of item which had been removed from dept. without authorization. A further persistent check half an hour ago revealed said file back on shelf. Please note sir that file should be returned a.s.a.p.

Joe smiled and resolved to compliment Constable Smithson on his persistence. The contents had probably ceased to be of any further relevance, following his interview with Sir Nevil, but his curiosity pushed him to open it anyway.

‘Right, Armitage, my lad,’ he said under his breath, ‘let’s see what’s so special about you that there’s a waiting list to read your file!’

He leafed his way through the details of Bill’s acceptance into the force and his subsequent training assessments (outstanding). Joe noted no reference to his disability. His commanding officer’s yearly reports were glowing. Joe recognized the signs. His CO appeared to have nurtured the young constable’s career, putting him through a series of increasingly demanding and varied assignments. A pattern was emerging. Bill was being groomed for a high position in the force.

The file ended abruptly with an entry on Armitage’s success in closing the Wapping Steps murder case. There was no written reference yet to the death at the Ritz.

‘A question mark by his name,’ Sir Nevil had said vaguely. Joe couldn’t see one. Had the damaging remarks been removed? Patiently, Joe started again at the beginning, trying to view the material through Sir Nevil’s eyes. At the very front of the file was glued the statutory form summarizing the subject’s character and achievements. One comment held his attention. Bill’s fluency in foreign languages, acquired during his war service and a year’s wandering around Europe immediately following his demob, was commented on, predictably, with favour. This would have distinguished him from the other recruits and been regarded as an indicator of his ability. But a footnote dated September 1925 took this further.

Bill was reported to be taking lessons in the Russian language. With a Russian native. Place and times of meetings were attached, it added helpfully. Joe searched the file, even upending it and shaking it, but the advertised surveillance sheets were missing.

So that was it. Bolshevism. The bogeyman of the British. More feared than the Fascisti at the other end of the spectrum, the Bolsheviks had replaced Anarchists as everyone’s bête noire. If Bill did indeed have red tendencies he would find his promotion blocked, his movements vetted, his whole career in jeopardy. The man could not be unaware of the arrest only six months ago of the whole executive of the Communist Party of Great Britain. The twelve top members had been unceremoniously bagged by the Branch and put on trial immediately.

Joe had gone along to the Old Bailey to witness the proceedings. All were brought up before Sir Archibald Bodkin and found guilty of some pretty serious charges including incitement to mutiny. All were found guilty. The five ringleaders who had previous convictions were sent down for twelve months, the other seven, with unexpected leniency, Joe thought, were offered the choice of six months in Pentonville or their freedom against a guarantee of good behaviour. To everyone’s surprise the men had conferred for a few seconds in the dock and unanimously agreed to accept the jail sentence. An impressive show. Joe, and others more influential than he no doubt, had been impressed and – yes – alarmed. Bodkin’s generous gesture, his warning shot across the bows, had misfired.

Men of integrity, men with a fire in their belly, men ready to take a term in one of HM’s prisons to flaunt their dedication to a cause – these were men who would be respected by a romantic like Joe but feared by the state.

Joe looked again at the few words scribbled on Bill’s sheet. Words that could ruin a man’s prospects. He sighed. He hoped he hadn’t added two and two and made five.

On closing it, he was struck by the unusual slimness of the file. He’d established that the surveillance sheets were missing. But there was more. Where was the usual clutter? Where were the loose paper-clipped sheets of commendation, requests for leave, sickness reports? Where also was the all-important war record? If this had been lost, Joe could have dictated a replacement, for the time of his involvement with Bill, at least. It would have begun with the words: ‘This man is, in the estimation of his commanding officer, the very best the country has to offer. He is one hundred per cent loyal, fearless, energetic, intelligent and resourceful.’ It could have gone on with illustrations for pages.

Joe was left holding the bones of the sergeant’s file. The flesh had gone somewhere else. He scribbled a note to Charlie to fetch him from the finance department any stipendiary documents and overtime schedules held on the sergeant. He didn’t think interest would have stretched as far as this lowly section. He might strike lucky.

A smart rap on the door interrupted his thoughts and he hurriedly placed the file in a drawer and called, ‘Come in!’

‘Not interrupting anything, sir, I see!’ said Armitage, cheekily surveying the suspiciously empty surface of Joe’s desk. ‘There’s two of us. I’ve got the constable with me.’

Joe pressed the buzzer. ‘Charlie – two more mugs, please.’

They settled themselves purposefully opposite Joe and each took out a notebook. Joe wondered whether to break the news that the case was on the point of being closed down, the hounds called off, and decided to hear them out.

‘We gave up and returned to base when we’d collected the eighth corroborative statement, sir. We started with the name he gave us and we were passed on from one to another – names and addresses. “You really ought to speak to old so and so. He’s bound to remember . . .” That sort of thing. Went like a breeze! I spoke to the gentlemen and the constable interviewed the ladies, seeing as how some of them . . . all of them,’ he corrected at a look from Tilly, ‘were in a state of déshabillé.’

‘This class of person keeps late hours with a correspondingly late rising,’ said Tilly crisply.

Joe could feel for the poor inhabitants of bohemian Bloomsbury being faced with this wide-awake pair before they’d properly surfaced. ‘And could you get any sense out of this dissolute mob?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Armitage confidently. ‘Too befuddled still to make anything up. Some of them were where they shouldn’t ought to have been, if you follow, and very eager to trade an honest testimony for a touch of police discretion. Tap the side of your nose and wink –’ he demonstrated the technique and Joe winced – ‘and they’ll eat out of your hand. Never fails!’

‘And the upshot was . . .?’

‘A majority confirmation that Orlando was where he said he was. Just as he predicted, sir, some swore he wasn’t there at the Cheval Bleu nightclub, others were equally confident that he was.’ He paused and pretended to refer to his notebook. ‘But all those who were at the club tell the same story. It must have made a great impression because they all agree on the details down to the red tights and the mismatched socks. One black, one blue it was, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Looks as though Orlando’s in the clear. As far as we’re concerned, that is!’

Joe nodded. ‘Westhorpe? Any jarring notes?’

‘The same responses, sir. Oh, and to fill in the remainder of Mr Jagow-Joliffe’s night of adventure, we managed to find the blue door he referred to – the house from which he fled to the station to return home.’

‘Yes? And is he lucky enough to have the lady’s corroboration of his unscheduled overnight stay?’

‘Two, in fact, sir!’

‘Two? Two nights?’

‘No. Two ladies. On the same night. The night in question. They remembered him clearly. They had some hard things to say on the subject of Mr Jagow-Joliffe.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It would appear that he failed properly to establish the precise terms of his welcome and by shooting off before cock-crow next morning, he left behind him the distinct impression that he had . . . would the expression be “welshed on the deal”, sir?’

‘Ah! The ladies were expecting some more tangible souvenir of their encounter than a trace of Bay Rum on the pillow?’

‘Exactly!’

‘You’d better have this, sir,’ said Armitage, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘List of the names and home addresses of all the contacts we spoke to. And brief notes on what they said. Just for the record.’

Joe took the sheet and decided the moment had come to bite the bullet and tell them what instructions he had received from his head of department. Looking at the eager faces before him, he knew his task would not be an easy one. Carefully he outlined his interview with Sir Nevil and waited for their response. For a moment they sat in silence, eyes downcast. Then they exchanged a brief look. Neither, for a change, seemed to want to speak first.

Finally, Armitage said in a level voice, ‘Sorry to hear that, sir. Goes against the grain being cut off like that right in the middle of something. I thought we were getting somewhere.’

‘That, I suspect, is the nub of it, Bill. Someone doesn’t want us to get any further. And we are not encouraged to wonder why or who.’

‘Don’t need to wonder, do we? Obvious really. We ought to have expected it as soon as we found the Dame was a bit dodgy. The Admiralty put pressure on Special Branch via Room 40 – though they’re not supposed to – the Branch duly report directly to the Commissioner himself. He picks up the phone and asks Sir Nevil what the devil he thinks he’s doing allowing one of his best blokes to poke about inside this anthill. Upshot – you get pulled off the case and now we’ll never get to interview old Monty Mathurin. Pity that . . . I was looking forward to it.’

Joe grinned with relief. ‘Very philosophical approach, Bill, and I’m sure you have it right. Westhorpe?’

Westhorpe would not be prepared to take lightly her dismissal from a case where she had shone and her abilities had been acknowledged. But training and good manners carried her over her disappointment. ‘A pity, I agree. But there are larger issues even than the Dame’s killing. I can see some good people might be embarrassed by the findings we were making – so lightly, I now have to think. And the official story is very credible. The burglary turning to violence, I mean. It really has always seemed to me to be the most likely explanation. You could say they’ve just made us take a short cut but we’ve arrived at the right destination.’

Some of the assurance faded from her voice as she added, ‘I have enjoyed working with you, though so briefly, sir. And with the sergeant.’

‘And may I return the compliment? said Joe sadly. ‘Who knows? Perhaps we may find ourselves working together again should someone find himself stabbed at the Strand . . . garrotted at the Garrick . . .’

‘Clubbed at Claridge’s?’ suggested Westhorpe. ‘I could help with that!’

Joe smiled. ‘So – it only remains for me to pass on Sir Nevil’s instruction to take a few days’ paid leave. You are required to fade into the background. Disappear. Can you manage that?’

‘I’ve got an aunt runs a boarding house in Southend,’ said Armitage dubiously. ‘She’s not too full at this time of year.’

‘No one sends me away from the capital,’ said Westhorpe firmly. ‘Of all the cheek! I shall get Daddy to have a word with Sir Nevil.’

Joe couldn’t be quite certain that she was teasing him. ‘Two further matters to clear up before you make yourselves scarce. Individual things – I’d like to see you one at a time, if you wouldn’t mind. Won’t take long. Tilly, go and sit in the corridor for a moment, will you, while I speak to Bill and then I’d like a word with you.’

In some surprise, Tilly withdrew, leaving Joe facing his sergeant.

‘Your career, Bill . . . there’s something I want to discuss with you.’

Before he could go further, Armitage had adopted a defensive posture. ‘There aren’t any problems, are there, sir?’ His voice had an edge of anxiety. ‘I suppose you’ve had a look at my record? It’s clear, isn’t it? Have they got me for the leg?’

‘Is there something else that’s troubling you, Bill? Something you fear may be on file against you?’

‘As a matter of fact, there is. Been meaning to bring it up but there never seemed to be a right time. I’ll come straight out with it and perhaps you can advise me what to do . . . Every Tuesday evening after work I go to a flat in Bordeaux Court, that’s off Dean Street. It’s a neighbourhood favoured by immigrant families, sir.’

‘Know it well.’

‘There’s a Russian émigré lives there. He does a bit of waiting at tables and teaches Russian in his spare time. At least he did until trade dropped off after last year’s hue and cry after reds under the beds.’ Armitage’s head went up in defiance. ‘Nobody was asking me but I thought that whole thing was a load of bollocks. A set-up, sir. I learn Russian. The language – nothing to do with politics. Always been keen on languages. This chap’s a good teacher. Inspiring. And I count him my friend.’