He relished her astonishment for a moment. ‘I’m a detective by inclination. I still poke about, making enquiries. Military Intelligence during the war. It leaves its mark, don’t you know. Once a busybody, always a busybody. I took time to speak to old Stan on my way back through Paddington. He was very happy to talk about you. And I was more than happy to hear his eulogies. I’m going to confess to you, Miss Wentworth, that, though I rather relish the influence my rank brings me, I’ve been promoted out of step with my interest … if you follow me. I find there’s a sight too much form-filling, committee-sitting and politicking in it to please me.’

He accompanied his speech with a rueful smile. It seemed to alarm rather than reassure the girl he was directing it at but he pressed on anyway. ‘However – we’re not here to talk about my career. I want to propose a change of direction for you, Miss Wentworth. I don’t know where this nonsense about redeployment to the north comes from. You are in no way bracketed with that reprobate Halliday.’ He leafed through the file and found the sheet he wanted. ‘Halliday … Yes, here we are. He has indeed been sent north – to Yorkshire for re-training – and no one’s expecting to see him back in the metropolis again.’

Joe read on for a while, absorbed. ‘Your ex-partner had some pretty unkind things to say about you, I’m afraid.’ Silently, he scanned the vindictive phrases meticulously recorded by his superintendent, flinched, and decided not to reveal them. Common as cat shit and twice as nasty … Gift of the gab … Looks like the bleeding fairy on the Christmas tree – but don’t turn your back on her or you’ll find out what her wand’s for …

‘You must be awfully glad he’s gone, Miss Wentworth. Not quite sure what they’ll make of him in Yorkshire – more of a man, one would hope. No – I propose to deploy you in a different area, though still within the city of London. I have in mind a different role for you. And a different partner.’

He waited until, intrigued, she turned her eyes back to him before announcing with a mock bow and a broad smile: ‘Myself. Now – two exhibits.’ He shuffled his files again and produced a photograph. ‘What do you make of that?’

She seemed stunned but she took the photograph with a shaking hand and studied it. It provoked a spontaneous reply. ‘It’s a posed group photograph. Centre front I see an elderly and distinguished gentleman in the uniform of a high-ranking police official …’

‘He’s Chief Constable of the Lancashire Constabulary,’ Sandilands supplied. ‘Philip Lane. Fine fellow. Go on.’

‘And the lucky man has surrounded himself with a retinue of twenty or so pretty women. All young. Under thirty? I’d have said women policemen if they weren’t in mufti. Silk stockings, smart shoes, lovely frocks …’ She paused for a moment, appreciating what she was seeing. ‘And they all look very pleased with themselves.’ She must have caught the flash of humour in his eye and dared to add: ‘Especially the Chief!’

‘Oh, Lane’s having a happy time. He dislikes the women’s uniform as much as I do. And there’s something else we agree on – those women are indeed in the police though they are not being used, as they are here in the Met, in a social service role. Escorting schoolchildren across the road, prising illicit couples apart with a crowbar in the park, sitting on sparrowhawks … that would seem to be the limit of our expectations of the women’s patrols, Miss Wentworth. Tedious, degrading stuff. No, my friend Lane employs his girls as part of the detective force. Look at their faces. Sharp as a pin, every last one of them! You could send any of those women in like a terrier down a foxhole and she’d flush out her prey.’

‘They’re detectives, these women?’ Incredulity and envy were blended in her tone.

‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked at her sharply, pleased with her reaction. He thought he was beginning to understand what made this girl tick. And her interest chimed with his own. He would have no problem in fostering it. ‘You’re impressed by these young ladies?’

‘I’ll say! Detectives! I hadn’t realized it was possible. Lucky women!’

Joe smiled in quiet triumph to hear the longing in her voice. He was seeing his way through to his goal at last.

‘I believe, along with Philip, that the talents of you and others like you are being under-used in the force,’ he confided. ‘But the Geddes Axe has swung over the police service as much as other public services – we have a four-year war effort to pay for, after all, and we musn’t grumble, Wentworth, must we? But your numbers have been halved – you’re reduced to fifty now, I believe, and the ultimate target is a mere twenty. And that doesn’t please some of us. I, for one, am determined to hang on to the core of exceptional women remaining to us and pray that Nancy Astor can work her magic in Parliament to get the women’s contingent reinstated.’

Daring and undisciplined. A view contrary to that of the Commissioner himself. That would make her think and wonder.

He gave her a glance across the desk, the calculation in the eyes meant to be offset by the smiling lips. Joe thought grimly that he was probably recreating the effect, in his present state of dark dishevelment, of an ancient Greek reveller he’d seen decorating a vase in the British Museum. Bearded, knowing, conniving and with the same winsome smile, the Attic figure had been leading a garlanded heifer. With one reassuring hand he caressed the silken flank, with the other he tugged on the rope, urging the animal forward up the Sacred Way. If you walked round and inspected the far side of the vase, you could see that they were only steps away from an altar where they were confidently awaited by the priest who stood at the ready, sacrificial knife raised.

‘Your name, Miss Wentworth …’ the smiler with the butcher’s knife administered a further calming pat, leaning confidingly towards her though there was no one else in the room, ‘has come to the top of the dismissals list, as I would imagine you’ve calculated, perceptive girl that you are. And that’s exactly what I ought to be doing this morning – handing you your cards and showing you the door. You were aware of this, of course?’

He waited for her nod before going on. ‘But it’s my opinion that you would be a loss to the force and I’m suggesting a way of circumventing the necessity to terminate your contract. I propose a scheme which, rather than striking your name from the roll, will put it in brackets and move it sideways, so to speak … something on those lines,’ he finished vaguely. A slashing hand mimed the expunging of her name and was followed by a demonstration of the bracketing: two cupped hands moving with the care of a cricketer’s to draw aside and bring to safety.

Lily’s eyes followed them, mesmerized. Large, brown and capable hands. The message they were conveying was easily understood. In the small space between them lay her career. It could be dropped or held firm and she was powerless to decide the outcome.

She made no comment and he pushed on. ‘But further, I think there should be a change in the character of your employment. I’ve chosen you, Miss Wentworth, to help me out. In a rather unusual duty. It’s all a bit hush-hush. Got a dainty summer frock, have you? Well, I want you to mothball that ugly blue outfit you’re wearing, get into mufti and do a bit of undercover work for me.’

‘What? Like a spy, you mean? Like Mata Hari?’

Joe managed not to smile at her innocent remark but his reply was light and teasing: ‘Something like that, perhaps. But I don’t envisage you making an appearance, like that unfortunate lady, before a firing squad. And seducing generals would be an entirely optional activity. No – I simply want you to blend in with the surroundings I’m going to pop you into. I want you to help me sort out a little problem I find I have.’