‘All these bleedin’ Germans ’ave to get their ’air cut somewhere, don’ they? Stands to reason. I’ll bet you anythin’ they all go to this feller off the Strand. Dortmunder. That’s ’is name. Fritz Dortmunder. I mean. Summink like that. I ask you. If that ain’t the name of a German, I don’t know what is.’

‘I don’t doubt Herr Dortmunder is German, Inchball,’ said Quinn. ‘The question is, is he a spy?’

‘He’s more than that! He’s a bleedin’ spy master. See, all the other spies come to ’im to get their ’air cut, don’ they! I’m certain of it. It’s the perfect cover. People comin’ and goin’ all the time without drawin’ suspicion. Chattin’ away in that lingo of theirs. Who knows what they’re talkin’ about? Coastal defences in Kent? The Royal Navy’s new submarine design? Inland lines of communication? Could be anythin’. We don’t know. That’s the point. Why don’ you let me go there, guv? I’ll find out what he’s up to.’

‘And how do you propose to do that, Inchball?’

‘I shall masquerade … as a gentleman in need of a haircut.’

‘And then?’

‘Well … and then we shall see.’

‘I don’t quite understand, Inchball.’

‘We shall see what we shall see, guv. I know how to keep my eyes open, don’t you worry.’

‘For what in particular will you be on the look-out?’

‘What would you say, guv, if a man who was not in need of a haircut – nor indeed a shave! – went into a barber’s, sat down in a barber’s chair, and consented to have a sheet thrown over him and a pair of scissors taken to his neck? This a man, mind, who is in need of neither haircut nor shave. What would you say to that, guv?’

Quinn kept his counsel as to what he would say to that.

‘You would say it was suspicious, guv. And you’d be right. You could even go so far as to say it was mighty suspicious.’

‘How do you know that is what you will see?’

‘I already seen it! Yes! With my own bleedin’ eyes! And shall I tell you where I saw it? At Fritz bleedin’ Dortmunder’s. That’s where.’

Quinn was not entirely sure that he believed Inchball’s tale but in the end he approved the initiative. It would at least keep his sergeant busy for a while. And besides, it was true that Inchball needed a haircut.

Macadam’s enthusiasm for kinematography showed no signs of abating. By the middle of Tuesday, Quinn had had enough. He snatched up the copy of the Kinematograph Enthusiast’s Weekly from which Macadam was fond of reading aloud. The chosen extracts usually propounded the benefits of this or that camera. On the back page, there was an advertisement for the Moy and Bastie Kineto, the latest model to catch the sergeant’s eye. ‘Very well, Macadam. Put in a procurement application for one of those and we’ll see where it gets you. It will have to go up to the top, you know. I can’t approve such expenditure myself.’

‘But you will sign the form?’

A flicker of his eyelids was all the assent Quinn was prepared to give. It was enough for Macadam, whose face lit up with such simple gratitude that Quinn almost felt guilty. He did not expect the application to be successful, and had no intention of going out of his way to support it. And yet, to see a grown man buoyed up with the innocent pleasure of a thirteen-year-old boy promised a toy yacht provoked a kind of nostalgic sympathy.

An unexpected shadow passed over Macadam’s face, his head dipped in sudden reticence. ‘With respect, sir, for all the undoubted virtues of the Kineto camera, and it is a very good camera; you certainly cannot be faulted in your discernment for choosing it … However, for all its virtues, I am not entirely certain that it is the model I would recommend for the department, sir. I have no wish to impugn your judgement …’

Quinn cut him off. ‘Macadam.’

Sergeant Macadam’s eyes widened in hopeless, innocent uncertainty.

‘I don’t care about the damned camera.’ Quinn dropped the journal back on Macadam’s desk.

‘No, sir. I see, sir.’

‘What I mean to say is I shall leave it up to you.’

‘In that case, sir …’ Macadam leafed rapidly through the pages of the Kinematograph Enthusiast’s Weekly as if he feared it would be snatched from his hands again. ‘May I draw your attention to Messrs Butcher and Sons Empire Camera Number Two? It boasts many of the advantages of the Kineto camera which you selected …’

‘I didn’t select it, Macadam.’

‘The Empire Two can hold its own against the Kineto – that is what I’m saying, sir. And yet, it retails at a significantly – a significantly – lower price. What is more, from everything that I have read, this saving is achieved not through any sacrifice of quality, whether in the standard of engineering, manufacture, or the durability of parts. On none of those heads does the Empire Two give ground to the Kineto. Indeed, there are those who would argue that in one or two respects – I don’t wish to overstate the case, sir – in one or two respects only, it has the upper hand.’

‘Very well, the Empire Two it is, Macadam.’

‘Although … you may be wondering why I am not recommending the Empire Number One Camera, also manufactured by Messrs Butcher and Sons.’

‘I would expect that, Macadam. If they produce the Empire Number Two, I should expect them also to produce the Empire Number One.’

Macadam was momentarily thrown by Quinn’s observation. ‘Qu-quite right, sir.’

‘Just complete the procurement form with the details of the camera you recommend and your reasons. I shall sign it and it will go up to Sir Edward.’

‘We shall need a projector too, sir. That goes without saying. As well as film stock and, uhm, there will need to be budgetary provision for processing. I am not sure the photographic lab here at the Yard will be up to it, sir. I could undertake to set up a darkroom myself, of course. It would require further expenditure initially, but …’

‘You are a policeman, Macadam. Not a lab technician. We shall have the films processed elsewhere.’

‘I agree, sir.’ Macadam gave an eager nod of obedience. ‘How long do you think it will take, sir, before we have the camera?’

‘I make no promises, Macadam. It is up to you to make the application as compelling as possible.’

‘Sir Edward is a great believer in innovation. I am confident he will see the benefits to the department. Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if he extended the use of kinematography across the whole of the Met.’

‘We shall have to see.’

‘At any rate, the sooner we have the camera the better. There is no time like the present, after all. It would be invaluable in the present investigation of the German barber. I could, for instance, set up a concealed camera outside the barbershop and film everyone who comes and goes.’

‘Let us get the camera first,’ said Quinn. ‘And then we will decide what to do with it.’

To Quinn’s relief, further discussion was cut off by the arrival of the post boy with the latest bundle of internal mail. There was a note from Sir Edward:

Quinn,

Have arranged for you to talk to a chap at the Admiralty for background and guidance. Present yourself to Lord Dunwich, at the Admiralty Extension, 1500 hours today.

Quinn consulted his pocket watch. He had ten minutes to spare.

EIGHT

Lord Dunwich peered over the screen that separated his desk from the civil servants in his department. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being watched. Even here, inside the Admiralty.

He knew that it was absurd, to think like this. But receiving that preposterous object at the club had shaken him.

He sat down at his desk again, opened the drawer where the object was confined, still in its box. He stared at the box for several minutes, as if gazing at it could help him understand it. Then he closed the drawer. He took the further precaution of locking it and pocketing the key.