“I prefer to approach my subjects a little less directly, Miss Ivanova,” he said, unsettled by her blunt demand. “I like to shuffle up on them sideways like a crab.”

“Call me Julia or Yulia, whichever you fancy. What’s your name, Mr. Plod?”

“The name’s Joe. Joe Plod,” he said and wished for a moment he was in full uniform. He’d discovered that a quiet Savile Row suit and an urbane manner evoked nothing more than disdain from Russian ladies but a show of status and power, the flash of gold braid and the clank of medals evoked respect and an eagerness to please.

Her sudden smile surprised him. The regular features with their high cheekbones and arched eyebrows, the nose defined by a ruler and measured to the millimetre, were straight from an illustration in My Lady’s Couture Monthly. But no high society girl he’d ever met would have been capable of such a hearty grin. He wondered if her laughter was equally uninhibited.

“Well, go on then, Joe. Show me your claws.”

“ ‘Where’s Natalia?’—I was about to ask you the same question. I have no knowledge of her present whereabouts. But I believe you do and I’m concerned that you are being obstructive to our enquiries. So concerned, I’m thinking it would be a good idea to haul you off to Bow Street nick and put you somewhere dark and quiet to think things over.” Well, that little speech wouldn’t raise much of a laugh. It didn’t evoke much in the way of respect either.

“Don’t be daft!” she said. “You and whose army?” she jeered with the confidence of a street urchin caught nicking an apple from a barrow. “You haven’t got grounds. You’re not investigating a crime. No one’s asked you to stick your nose in. She’s not a missing person, you know. Natalia will pop up again when she’s a mind to. It’s none of your business.” She looked at her watch. “Is that all you wanted to say? That you know nothing? Well, I’m just off out to the pictures. I like to keep up with the latest releases. They’ve got King Kong showing at the Empire. Fancy it? I don’t mind going to the flicks by myself in London—it’s usually quite safe if you go in the two and nines and avoid the great unwashed—but it might be a laugh to have a police escort just for once. A good-looking one. No? I’ll love you and leave you then.”

“Sit down, Miss Ivanova! The Home Office finds it has a problem with your passport and immigration details. A problem frequently triggered by a Russian surname and multiplicity of foreign visas. I expect you are aware of British mistrust of your compatriots? The London streets teem with mischief makers, spies and crooks, heads stuffed with incendiary ideas and pockets stuffed with incendiaries. I’m sure your difficulty will be sorted out to your satisfaction in the end but it could take some time,” he improvised.

She capitulated with a hard gaze. “Funny … someone told me this was England and you were a gent. Gentleman cop! Huh! What an idea!”

“You’ve been deceived, Miss. Well, where shall we have our little chat? At your place or at mine? Here over tea and angel cake or Bow Street with bread and water?”

“Stop faffing about and get on with it!”

“What’s your monthly salary?”

“It’s twenty quid a month all found. What’s it to you?”

“Generous. Your mistress must value your services highly.”

“She can afford it.”

“On a ballet dancer’s earnings? Not great riches, I understand, even at the highest levels of achievement.”

“True. The girls are never paid what they deserve.”

“And it’s a short working life?”

“With no pension at the end of it. Unless you can find yourself a rich bloke or scrape enough together to run your own ballet school, there’s no future.”

“But it would seem that Miss Kirilovna has found other ways of supporting herself?”

“Natalia’s not stupid. She’s always had an eye to the main chance. What’s wrong with that? She’s invested her money in business. It brings her a good return. And when she’s had enough of dancing she won’t be destitute. Far from it.”

“And, meantime, the mistress is generous to the maid?”

“Will you stop this! She’s not my mistress! And I’m not her lady’s maid. What do you think this is—a scene from The Marriage of Figaro?”

“Then how should I characterise your relationship? Tell me.”

“I’m a friend. A friend she pays to help her get through her life.”

“A paid companion,” he noted to annoy her further.

She coloured and her speech became tight and controlled. “You could say that, if you chose to be wilfully obtuse. I deal with travelling, interviews, wardrobe, secretarial services … assignations … The company gives support of course but she needs extra. Heaven knows—she gives them extra!”

“How long have you known her?”

“Since we were kids. Eight years old. We met, shivering with nerves, waiting in a corridor with a dozen others to audition for the Mariinsky Ballet School in St. Petersburg. We were smaller and younger than the rest. But we were both accepted. I was a better dancer than Natalia, though she had pushier and richer parents. It didn’t matter. We liked each other. We backed each other up. Even shared our shoes. Two little girls working together are less likely to be picked on than a loner. But there were worse things than hair-pulling and treading on toes. It was a tough, competitive world.”

Quietly evaluating her story, delivered with insouciant brevity, Joe thought he’d wait to hear a bit more before he uttered the word “codswallop!”

“What happened?” he asked.

“This happened,” she said getting to her feet. “Excuse me for a moment.”

She rose with the grace and neat hand gestures of a dancer, pivoted elegantly on one foot, took a deep breath to steady herself and then struck off, hobbling towards Armitage who had settled at a table across the room. The eyes of the other guests turned hastily away in confusion, sliding back briefly to be certain they hadn’t imagined the ugly black surgical shoe with its built-up sole, contrasting shockingly with the neat grey kid court shoe on the other foot. With a rush of emotion, Joe followed her stumbling and jerky walk, able, only too well, to guess the tragic cause of it. He stood, his muscles tensed, preparing instinctively to dash forward and slide an arm under her elbow or about her waist. The urge to shield her from the embarrassed distaste of the room with his own strength and confidence was almost irresistible. He realised a moment before he made a fool of himself that this was a performance that he was meant to witness, not take part in.

Armitage, however, was decidedly in on the act. There was neither discomfort nor pity in the sergeant’s eyes as he watched her approach. His flinty features softened into a smile of welcome as she moved close to him. He stood to greet her. She leaned across the table and whispered something that made the sergeant shoot a glance at Joe and snort with laughter then she returned to her place.

“Polio happened.” At last she answered his question. “Infantile paralysis, they used to call it. I caught it when I was twelve. I was lucky. I didn’t die. But I suffered muscular atrophy which left me with a withered left leg. I was whisked straight out of the company at the first signs, of course. Someone realised pretty quickly that it wasn’t ’flu I had. All hushed up. No one spoke of it in those days.”

“It’s still a whispered word,” Joe said. “There have been many victims in London. And in the States. Their new president himself has battled it—or something like it—for nigh on ten years.”

She looked at him in some surprise.

“It’s not exactly a secret but it’s not done to speak of it. He manages not to let it get the better of him. Admirable chap!”

Julia appeared unimpressed by the struggles of the great and the good and it was clear that she was not seeking sympathy for herself. So, he wondered—but for no longer than a second—what was behind her little display. The girl was a performer still and performers craved an audience. He could only begin to imagine the distress the foul illness must have caused, robbing her at once of her skill and the life she coveted under the limelight. Joe turned the conversation. “You managed to get out of Russia before it all turned bad?”