“I see,” Bloggs said. “So if you’re right, and Die Nadel had been through Germany’s equivalent of Eton and Sandhurst, we’ve probably got a picture of him.”

“Almost certainly. Spies are notoriously camera-shy, but they don’t become spies in school. It will be a youthful Die Nadel that we find in Middleton’s files.”

They skirted a huge crater outside a barber’s. The shop was intact, but the traditional red-and-white-striped pole lay in shards on the pavement. The sign in the window said, “We’ve had a close shave—come and get one yourself.”

“How will we recognize him? No one has ever seen him,” Bloggs said.

“Yes, they have. At Mrs. Garden’s boarding house in High-gate they know him quite well.”

THE VICTORIAN HOUSE stood on a hill overlooking London. It was built of red brick, and Bloggs thought it looked angry at the damage Hitler was doing to its city. It was high up, a good place from which to broadcast. Die Nadel would have lived on the top floor. Bloggs wondered what secrets he had transmitted to Hamburg from this place in the dark days of 1940: map references for aircraft factories and steelworks, details of coastal defenses, political gossip, gas masks and Anderson shelters and sandbags, British morale, bomb damage reports, “Well done, boys, you got Christine Bloggs at last—” Shut up.

The door was opened by an elderly man in a black jacket and striped trousers.

“Good morning. I’m Inspector Bloggs, from Scotland Yard. I’d like a word with the householder, please.”

Bloggs saw fear come to the man’s eyes, then a young woman appeared in the doorway behind him and said, “Come in, please.”

The tiled hall smelled of wax polish. Bloggs hung his hat and coat on a stand. The old man disappeared into the depths of the house, and the woman led Bloggs into a lounge. It was expensively furnished in a rich, old-fashioned way. There were bottles of whiskey, gin and sherry on a trolley; all the bottles were unopened. The woman sat on a floral arm-chair and crossed her legs.

“Why is the old man frightened of the police?” Bloggs said.

“My father-in-law is a German Jew. He came here in 1935 to escape Hitler, and in 1940 you put him in a concentration camp. His wife killed herself at the prospect. He has just been released from the Isle of Man. He had a letter from the King, apologizing for the inconvenience to which he had been put.”

Bloggs said, “We don’t have concentration camps.”

“We invented them. In South Africa. Didn’t you know? We go on about our history, but we forget bits. We’re so good at blinding ourselves to unpleasant facts.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well.”

“What?”

“In 1939 we blinded ourselves to the unpleasant fact that we alone couldn’t win a war with Germany—and look what happened.”

“That’s what my father-in-law says. He’s not as cynical as I. What can we do to assist Scotland Yard?”

Bloggs had been enjoying the debate, and now it was with reluctance that he turned his attention to work. “It’s about a murder that took place here four years ago.”

“So long!”

“Some new evidence may have come to light.”

“I know about it, of course. The previous owner was killed by a tenant. My husband bought the house from her executor—she had no heirs.”

“I want to trace the other people who were tenants at that time.”

“Yes.” The woman’s hostility had gone now, and her intelligent face showed the effort of recollection. “When we arrived there were three who had been here before the murder: a retired naval officer, a salesman and a young boy from Yorkshire. The boy joined the Army—he still writes to us. The salesman was called up and he died at sea. I know because two of his five wives got in touch with us! And the Commander is still here.”

“Still here!” That was a piece of luck. “I’d like to see him, please.”

“Surely.” She stood up. “He’s aged a lot. I’ll take you to his room.”

They went up the carpeted stairs to the first door. She said, “While you’re talking to him, I’ll look up the last letter from the boy in the Army.” She knocked on the door. It was more than Bloggs’s landlady would have done, he thought wryly.

A voice called, “It’s open,” and Bloggs went in.

The Commander sat in a chair by the window with a blanket over his knees. He wore a blazer, a collar and a tie, and spectacles. His hair was thin, his moustache grey, his skin loose and wrinkled over a face that might once have been strong. The room was the home of a man living on memories—there were paintings of sailing ships, a sextant and a telescope, and a photograph of himself as a boy aboard HMS Winchester.

“Look at this,” he said without turning around. “Tell me why that chap isn’t in the Navy.”

Bloggs crossed to the window. A horse-drawn baker’s van was at the curb outside the house, the elderly horse dipping into its nosebag while the deliveries were made. That “chap” was a woman with short blonde hair, in trousers. She had a magnificent bust. Bloggs laughed. “It’s a woman in trousers,” he said.

“Bless my soul, so it is!” The Commander turned around. “Can’t tell these days, you know. Women in trousers!”

Bloggs introduced himself. “We’ve reopened the case of a murder committed here in 1940. I believe you lived here at the same time as the main suspect, one Henry Faber.”

“Indeed! What can I do to help?”

“How well do you remember Faber?”

“Perfectly. Tall chap, dark hair, well-spoken, quiet. Rather shabby clothes—if you were the kind who judges by appearances, you might well mistake him. I didn’t dislike him—wouldn’t have minded getting to know him better, but he didn’t want that. I suppose he was about your age.”

Bloggs suppressed a smile—he was used to people assuming he must be older simply because he was a detective.

The Commander added, “I’m sure he didn’t do it, you know. I know a bit about character—you can’t command a ship without learning—and if that man was a sex maniac, I’m Hermann Goering.”

Bloggs suddenly connected the blonde in trousers with the mistake about his age, and the conclusion depressed him. He said, “You know, you should always ask to see a policeman’s warrant card.”

The Commander was slightly taken aback. “All right, then, let’s have it.”

Bloggs opened his wallet and folded it to display the picture of Christine. “Here.”

The Commander studied it for a moment, then said, “A very good likeness.”

Bloggs sighed. The old man was very nearly blind.

He stood up. “That’s all, for now,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Any time. Whatever I can do to help. I’m not much value to England these days—you’ve got to be pretty useless to get invalided out of the Home Guard, you know.”

“Good-bye.” Bloggs went out.

The woman was in the hall downstairs. She handed Bloggs a letter. “The boy’s address is a Forces box number,” she said. “Parkin’s his name…no doubt you’ll be able to find out where he is.”

“You knew the Commander would be no use,” Bloggs said.

“I guess not. But a visitor makes his day.” She opened the door.

On impulse, Bloggs said, “Will you have dinner with me?”

A shadow crossed her face. “My husband is still on the Isle of Man.”

“I’m sorry—I thought—”

“It’s all right. I’m flattered.”

“I wanted to convince you we’re not the Gestapo.”

“I know you’re not. A woman alone just gets bitter.”

Bloggs said, “I lost my wife in the bombing.”

“Then you know how it makes you hate.”

“Yes,” said Bloggs. “It makes you hate.” He went down the steps. The door closed behind him. It had started to rain….

IT HAD BEEN RAINING then too. Bloggs was late home. He had been going over some new material with Godliman. Now he was hurrying, so that he would have half an hour with Christine before she went out to drive her ambulance. It was dark, and the raid had already started. The things Christine saw at night were so awful she had stopped talking about them.