“It’s your … it’s Miss Joliffe. She was here looking for you. Her term’s just finished, she said, and she’s off down to your sister’s house for a week or two. She said she’d tried the Yard first and they couldn’t or wouldn’t say where you were. She called in on the off-chance you might be sciving off down here. Anyway, she said she’d be seeing you at home in Surrey this weekend and would explain all then.”

“Explain? Explain what?”

“Didn’t confide. She just said, laughing-like, that she had a bit of a problem.”

Joe groaned. “And we all know what that means, Alfred.”

“Yers. Sorry to bend your ear with all this guff, Joe, but … there was something … she’s a strange girl, anyways … I mean, out of my experience … Gawd, what am I saying? The lass is in a spot of bother, I thought. Twitchy. I told her you’d give her a call this evening. All I could think of.”

“Don’t worry about it, Alfred. She’s always in a spot of bother. Bother sticks to her like chewing gum. She’s probably run out of cash again and needs to buy a hat. It’s Ascot week after all,” Joe said with a lightness he couldn’t feel. “But thanks for the warning. I’ll do as you suggest.”

He put the receiver down thoughtfully. He wondered if the wretched girl would ever call him with nothing but sunny good news. If only she were to ask him for cash, flowers, a night at the theatre, a hat for the races, he’d have been thrilled to oblige. The only help Dorcas ever asked for was in dealing with the baggage of death and disaster that she seemed to drag around after her.

A warning cough and a flick of the head towards the doors from the sergeant snapped Joe out of his gloomy thoughts. He followed the man’s gaze and recognised Truelove about to enter the building. Drawing a finger swiftly across his lips, Joe took a few swift strides and ducked out of sight round the nearest corner. He felt foolish listening in to the conversation that ensued, telling himself that he was a detective and whoever he was, this man was not his friend. Spying on him was a legitimate, though uncomfortable, activity.

Truelove breezed up and stated his business.

Caught with his hand still on the package, the sergeant responded with aplomb. “Well, you timed that perfectly, if I may say so, sir. The Assistant Commissioner left it with me a moment ago before he went up for his meeting with the Commissioner.” His eyes went automatically to the stairs with such conviction that even Joe thought he might catch sight of himself halfway up them. “If you’ll just show me some identification …”

Truelove could not wait. The moment his hands were on the package he tore it open and examined the portraits. Only then did he read the covering note. Joe could not catch the expression on his face but he was intrigued to see him read it a second time and slip it into his jacket pocket. The portraits disappeared into the safety of his briefcase. Lastly, his hand went out and passed a square of white paper to the sergeant. Murmuring his thanks he turned and walked out.

After a safe interval, Joe strolled back to the desk, trying to look dignified. The bemused sergeant was still peering at the five-pound note he’d been given. He held it out to Joe. “You made the gentleman very happy, sir. What am I meant to do with this then? It’s a fiver!”

A week’s wages.

His face creased in sudden suspicion. “I say, sir … not handling anything we didn’t oughter be handling are we?”

“Stolen goods, you mean, Sarge? Not at all! Quite the reverse, in fact. Sir James was so careless as to lose his possessions some time ago and I have just reunited him with his great-great-granny. But I agree—that’s a lot of gratitude to show. However—it was a gift, freely given, and I’ll bear witness to that. You can do one of two things—shove it in the Policemen’s Charity box or take your wife out west for a slap-up meal. Your choice. I’m not going to stand about checking what you do. If anyone else calls I’m down in records for the next hour or two.”

“Oh, sir, nearly forgot with all the hoo-ha …” The sergeant reached under his desk and pulled out a brown jacketed file. “This came by messenger from Cambridge. Do you want me to have it sent up to your office?”

Joe snatched it from him. “At last! I’ll take it down with me. Thank you, Sarge.”

AFTER AN HOUR’S feverish work involving two phone calls to the Suffolk Advertiser, he put in a third call to his old friend Cyril Tate in Fleet Street.

The ex-airman shot his targets with flash bulbs these days, his charm, tact and reassuringly good breeding getting him the close-ups he needed in the glittering world of débutantes, duchesses and divas the public wanted to see and read about. Cyril was trusted. “The soul of discretion, darling! You can confide anything and it never gets out. Unless that was the purpose of the confidence in the first place, of course. His photographs are flattering, too. He goes instinctively for one’s better profile.” No one man knew more about the intrigues at the highest stratum of English life, and his insider’s knowledge, though clasped to his bosom, was occasionally shared with his contacts at the Yard. Several personages, one or two of them royal, owed their reputations or even their lives to Cyril while remaining entirely unaware of the debt.

“Hello there, Cyril! Still dishing it up for the Daily Dirt?”

“Joe? No! I’m contributing to the piles of Fortnightly Filth these days. I’m moving up in the world. Hear you are, too. Congratulations! Hadn’t realised an honest copper could make it so far up the slippery slopes of Mount Olympus. What have you got for me? I can spare a minute or two but be sharp about it—I’m up to my ears in Ascot outfits. Big weekend coming up.”

“I’m rather hoping you’ll have something for me. I find myself involved with one or two dubious characters presently strutting the London stage. You know me—I always perform better when I know the other players’ lines.”

Joe put his questions, listened to the answers and made notes. Finally he could detain Cyril no longer and, promising the usual exchange of information should things resolve themselves, as Cyril always delicately put it, he rang off. He sat on for a few minutes reviewing the case he was building until the unease of the records department staff filtered through his concern.

With a brittle smile, a lady clerk brought him yet another cup of tea and a sergeant asked him politely but pointedly if there was anything else they could possibly supply. They didn’t expect and didn’t welcome the sight of an Assistant Commissioner down here in their dingy but busy space, commandeering a desk and a telephone, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and setting to work. Especially this Assistant Commissioner. Sandilands was a new broom and they said he missed nothing. “Watch it! He’s going through the departments like a dose of liver salts. All fizz and pop and we’re told we’ll all feel better for it in the morning. But watch you don’t end up down the pan. You heard what he did to Flying Squad!” the sergeant had muttered to his fellow officer.

They were watching him out of the corners of their eyes as they sorted, stamped and filed, demonstrating a quiet efficiency. Acknowledging their discomfort, Joe got to his feet, gathered up his things and apologised for his intrusion.

The sergeant had expected peremptory formality. Disarmed by Joe’s smiling thanks for the staff’s assistance, he hurried to hand him his jacket and asked, with some relief: “Did you get what you were looking for, sir?” His interest sounded more than polite—it was a genuine enquiry and he was waiting for a reply.

He deserved one. Joe had not failed to notice the intelligent anticipation with which the officer had accepted the irregular tasks Joe had set him once the wider objective had been sketched out. One of the files he’d thought to hand to Joe had been outside the prescribed area and had turned up a vital piece of information. It would certainly have been missed had not the Assistant Commissioner been sitting, an anxious and demanding physical presence, amongst the troops.