‘Bring her in, Miss Jameson. I do need to see her. Might as well get it over and done with.’

While Miss Jameson’s back was turned, he slipped the red marker off the file, considered throwing it away in the bin, then put it in his pocket. The outcome of this interview was by no means certain. And, whatever the result, he had an unpleasant task ahead of him, a task imposed upon him by a pincer movement from above. At Gratton he’d found the courage to make his views clear and they’d heard him out but in the end, as the youngest and least experienced of the assembled strategists, he’d been overruled. Politely, he’d been made aware that his role was one of … what had Churchill said? … implementation, not grand design.

‘Cat’s paw.’ Lydia had it right, as ever. If all went well, they would take the credit. If disaster followed, Sandilands would carry the can.

Joe screwed his eyes closed and conjured up without too much difficulty the face that went with the number on the file. It had made quite an impression on him. The station platform. Smoke and noise. And in the middle of the mêlée, a pretty girl grinning in triumph. Under her bottom one of the West End’s nastiest specimens and in her hat a jaunty rose. Joe smiled as he remembered the scene. He recalled watching the tiger-like silence of the stalk, the swift pounce, the fearless attack. He hadn’t forgotten the eager rush of gratitude for his intervention, delivered in an attractive, low voice. The constable could well be the best England had to offer in the way of womanhood, he thought with a rush of sentimental pride.

And that was something he would have to eradicate from his thinking in this job: Edwardian gallantry. There could be no place for the finer feelings in this ghastly modern world. Chivalry itself had fallen victim to bloody-handed assassins, if he read the situation aright.

Yes, this had to be the right girl. If he were minded to preachify, he might even say that Fate had delivered her into his hands that day at Paddington.

And the next day down in Devon, he had delivered her into the hands of three of the most ruthless men in the land.

‘Look no further, gentlemen,’ he’d said, after a second glass of port. ‘If this is really what you are prepared to do, I think I may I have the very girl for you.’ He’d even announced her name and number. Satisfyingly, eyebrows had been raised, grunts and nods of encouragement had broken out. Warmed by the general approval, he’d undertaken to haul her aboard.

Joe shuddered. He’d saved her from a knifing at Paddington but had probably exposed her to a worse fate.

He’d have to play his cards carefully. He could take nothing and no one for granted. This wasn’t the army where orders were given, received and blindly obeyed. The woman was perfectly free to reject his overtures and scoff at his suggestions. And foul up some well-laid plans.

Lily Wentworth followed Miss Jameson into the room and looked about her. Astutely anticipating a dismissal committee, he guessed. Her eyes rested briefly on him, widened in surprise, narrowed again in distaste and slid down to her boots. Well, if she’d been expecting to see the knight-errant from Paddington, all smiles and panache, she was going to be disappointed this morning; what she’d got was a Sandilands sore and seething with rage. He realized that in his dark-jowled state he presented an unappetizing sight. With not a minute to dash to his Chelsea flat and change, he’d resorted to a quick cold splash in the gents’ washbasins an hour ago. He’d stared back in dismay at his image in the mirror: black stubble, red eyes, and a dark tan looking unhealthily dirty in the morning light, as well as throwing sinister emphasis on the silver tracery of an old shrapnel wound across his forehead. If he’d encountered that face in Seven Dials, he’d have clapped the cuffs on and searched the owner’s pockets for a stiletto.

The cold wash hadn’t gone far towards dispelling the night’s build-up of fatigue and filth. He glanced down at his blood-stained tie and cuffs. His attempts to dab them clean had not been entirely successful. Whose blood? It could have been from any or all of the four victims. Ah, well … she’d probably seen worse down the Mile End Road at chucking-out time on a Saturday night. No need to draw attention to it. He rose to his feet and came round his desk to greet her.

‘That will be all, thank you, Miss Jameson,’ he said genially enough. ‘Go and get yourself a cup of tea or something. You look as though you could do with one. Oh, and while you’re at it, remind PC Jones I haven’t had mine yet. Tell him to bring a tray. Two cups. Milk and sugar. Biscuits too – gypsy creams would be good – not that dog kibble he brought me yesterday.’

The door closed and they were left staring at each other.

‘Sir, I arrived early for my appointment …’

‘Did you now?’

‘I did knock.’

‘Good. Good. Thought I heard something.’

Disconcerted by the fresh-faced, soap-scented presence, Joe went to open another window. That done, he began to pace about in a distracted manner.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Wentworth. We’re running a bit late today. Look here … I’ll get straight to it.’ He began to speak in her general direction. ‘You may have heard … no, how could you? Anyway – there was something of a bloodbath last night in the West End. Admiral shot to death on his doorstep, butler wounded, beat bobby left for dead like a dog in the road, London cabby fighting for his life in hospital,’ he confided in a rush. ‘Carnage on the streets, I’m afraid. You’ll read all about it in the papers, no doubt. It’s just what those hyenas have been waiting for. I’ve been … um …’ he glanced at the telephone sitting in the middle of his desk, ‘involving myself. Rather emphatically. Hard to stand back when one of the victims was a man I counted as my friend. And a friend avowedly under my protection at the time.’

He stopped his pacing and added bitterly: ‘There will be many to ascribe responsibility for the whole shambles to me. Not least myself.’

His flood of alarming information seemed to have rendered the girl speechless. Well, how else might he expect a young policewoman to respond to a throbbing monologue from her superior but with a wise silence? Finally she managed to say softly: ‘I’m so sorry you’ve lost your friend, sir. You must be very distressed. And you must want to be left alone to get on. Would you like me to go away for now? I can come back some other time.’ She took a step back towards the door.

He held up a staying hand. ‘No, don’t go. I shall mourn the admiral later and in my own way. Which is to say with targeted vigour.’ He shot a glance of such deadly intent in her direction that Lily looked aside. ‘Now you’re here, come on over and let’s renew our acquaintance.’

She approached the desk, ignored the chair set in front of it and stood to attention as she’d been trained. Feet a precise eighteen inches apart, straight back, shoulders down, palms to the rear. All very correct. To salute or not to salute? Joe realized she was questioning the protocol. She hesitated for a moment, then, apparently deciding he merited the gesture, gave him a perfect salute.

He managed a grin. ‘Returning mine of the fourteenth, I take it? Thank you. Do sit down and we’ll start again.’

Puzzlingly, the girl stayed on her feet.

Wrong footed by her silence and rigid stance, Joe re-launched the conversation in a welcoming and very English prattle.

‘Looks as though it’s going to be hot again today.’

‘We’ve had the hottest summer for twenty-seven years, I understand, sir.’

‘Yes … When will it end? Pigs keeling over with heat stroke at the county show …’ he offered with a bland smile.

‘Reckless swimmers getting into difficulties in the Serpentine.’

‘But there’s some good news. We have our Prince of Wales back home safe and sound at last.’