‘My word! Can this be the dear old Yard we all know and hate? I thought you had to wear out fifty pairs of boots plodding the streets before they made you a sergeant.’

‘It’s the post-war stir-up,’ Lily said. ‘Talent shanghaied and shoehorned in at the highest level. General Macready, then Brigadier Horwood, made Commissioners … Hor-wood’s only qualification was three days as a Chief Constable of a county force when he was invited to take over. And what they do is appoint younger men in their own image. They favour ex-military. Though Sandilands predates Macready, they say. He’d already done his regular beat-bashing when he was spotted.’

‘Is he good looking?’

Lily considered. ‘I’d say so … if you don’t mind the scar.’

‘Scar?’

Lily put up a hand and mimed raking it across her brow. ‘Tiger claw is what they say in the canteen. Silvery against the tanned skin.’

Phyl stared. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’d mind the scar. Is he much liked?’

‘Oh, yes, he is!’ Lily stopped short. Her response had been too ready and too warm. She tempered it with: ‘Well – as far as any of the upper echelons are ever popular with the men. Here’s your cocoa, Phyl. They like him, first because they actually think they know him – he goes out on the beat with them sometimes and talks to them. Remembers their wife’s name next time they meet and all that rot. And then – he’s active. Gets things done.’

‘You’ve got to admire that.’ Phyl spoke grudgingly. ‘What’s he stirring up at the moment?’

‘Several irons in the fire. He’s all in favour of getting the motorized division going and he’s running experiments – I’m not kidding – with radio telephone systems to install in the pursuit cars. They think soon they’ll be able to direct the drivers from the top floor of the Yard! I talked to one of the sergeants who’s training as a driver for the Flying Squad. He was full of information. Sandilands prides himself on what he calls his “hands-on” style. A bit too literally, according to the sergeant, when the hands in question are on the steering wheel of a car doing fifty miles an hour down Oxford Street. “Terrible driver but halfway human” seems to be the verdict.’

‘And what do you make of him, this half-human Jehu who likes to get his hands on things?’

‘Oh, he presents himself well. Good tailoring but nothing flamboyant. Neat haircut, army wrist-watch. Looks like a soldier in civvies.’ And, reprimanded by Phyl’s arched eyebrow, she added: ‘Well, he has a very nice smile.’

‘So, they say, did Brides-in-the-bath Smith. Is that it? Could be any of ten thousand men in London. He doesn’t seem to have made much of an impression.’

‘He does make an impression. He looks crisp and energetic … you know … fresh out of the shower and looking for trouble.’

‘How tiring!’

‘He eats three gypsy creams in as many minutes.’

‘Well, you’ve got something in common at least. But you can add to your picture manipulative and up to no good,’ Phyl said. ‘All things considered, though, I’d say this toff was worth our attention.’ Her eyes gleamed with intent. ‘But he doesn’t know what he’s taking on. We’ll have him on toast, shall we, Lil? Listen – if he was an officer in the last lot, he’s probably got something to hide. I’ll ask Albert. Albert’s a member of a rather seditious old soldiers’ drinking club in Soho. He can ask about. Follow him. See where he goes after dark. If there’s anything to know to your boss’s discredit, he’ll know it within the hour.’

Albert was Phyl’s chauffeur and debt-collector. His magnificent physique, combined with his deceptively sweet smile, secured instant cooperation from Phyl’s defaulting clients. People seemed to understand at once that, should they demur or cause a moment’s distress for Phyllis Wentworth, his loyalty to his employer would compel him, against all his pacific instincts, to ‘take steps’. Albert’s ‘steps’ were known to be earthshaking.

‘But first I’ll take a quick look through this month’s Society and Entertainment pages … see if I can’t outguess him. Pass it over, will you?’ She settled to thumb her way down the columns. ‘Now, if I were an energetic gent on mischief bent where would I be planning to spend my Saturday night in evening dress?’

Phyl worked her way patiently through the listed entertainments. ‘I see their majesties have opted for the Wagner at Covent Garden. But you say opera’s out. Well then, there’s early keyboard music at the Royal Institution. No? How about a trip down the Mile End Road to the People’s Palace of Delight? They’re staging a variety performance for the Excelsior Philanthropic Society in front of the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk. Ouch! Poor dears. Spending their Saturday night down the Mile End – now that’s philanthropy for you.’

Lily snatched the pages from her. ‘Let’s be serious. Theatre – that’s my best hope. What have we got on offer? … Oh, I say. We could be going to see The Man in Dress Clothes at the Garrick or Partners of Fate with Louise Lovely. Of course, there’s any number of balls on at the moment. One or two charity suppers. Let’s pray it’s not a charity dinner-dance – how dull. Only one of those promises to be the least bit interesting – the Russian émigrés one. At least it’s on at Claridges. Well, where else? Not short of a bob or two, these Russians.’

Phyllis took the listings back again. She fell silent, running her finger along the list of guests expected. ‘Sorry, love. Distracted. I was just checking the runners and riders for the Claridges do. At least ten of these are clients of mine and I’m frantically hoping I haven’t kitted out two archduchesses in similar confections. Bang would go my reputation overnight!’

At last she looked up with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Ouf! I’m in the clear. Right, I think we’re ready to take this chap on. Two things we’ll need: that bunch of keys I left over there on the draining board and a pair of scissors. Oh, and let’s not forget the pumpkin! Not sure whether you’re going to the ball or the dogs, love, but your auntie will get you there in style!’

Chapter Fifteen

Phyl hunted about in the kitchen and, suitably equipped, returned to Lily. ‘We’ll put the shop lights out now. But we’re not going far, just next door. I have something special to show you. Come on.’

Lily looked up at the façade of the shop adjoining. It had twice the frontage of the hat shop and was painted in green and gold with a distinctive curlicued script over the window announcing Madame Cécile. Modes. London and Paris.

‘I say, Phyl, is this all right, what you’re doing? Not breaking exactly as you have the keys, but definitely entering premises without the owner’s permission. Whatever’s Madame Cécile going to say?’

‘Mais Madame Cécile, c’est moi!’ said Phyl surprisingly. ‘The new Madame, anyway. Jacob bought the old one out and installed me in a ready-made business. I liked the name so I thought – might as well keep it. I don’t speak French and that’s a bit of a problem. Well, not much, as the clients don’t have the foggiest either. I’ve employed a French maid – a real one – and she’s teaching me ten useful phrases every day. I’ve been keeping this very quiet for one reason and another. And I’d rather you didn’t mention it to your parents, Lil. Come in. Let me put the lights on. It’s getting a bit dark now – we’ll be having a thunderstorm next. I’ll get Albert to drive you back to your digs. I’ve got the Buick out back.’

Lily entered a space smelling lightly of freshly laid carpet and expensive perfume and looked about her in awe. ‘Crikey, Phyl! I’ve never been in such a posh shop. Ankle deep in Axminster – shall I take my boots off?’ She went to run a hand over the gleaming mahogany surface of the counter, bounced on the tapestried upholstery of a Louis XVI chair and stroked the silken drapery adorning a mannequin. ‘Even your wax doll is too jolly stuck-up to notice me.’ And, suddenly concerned: ‘I say – does Jacob know what he’s doing, taking this on? It must be a very expensive place to maintain. Best part of London … a hundred square yards of showroom and offices to the rear, no doubt.’