He wondered what impression he’d made on the Commander. And what a turn of fate that he, of all people, should be in charge of the case! Best officer Armitage had come across in the four years of fighting, but that was ten years ago near enough and Armitage was too experienced to think you could rely on past goodwill. He never did. What had Sandilands said? ‘We must have a pint and a chat sometime.’ Oh, yer! Friendly enough but meaningless. Just a polite formula. Armitage’s lips curled in derision. What did he expect his response to be? ‘Delighted! Your club or mine?’ He shrugged his shoulders. Take the Commander for a jar to his own local, the Dog and Duck? That’d show him how the other nine tenths live!

With a cynical smile, he set off east down the almost deserted but still brightly lit street. Nearly all the revellers had gone home or into the smoky dark depths of some nightclub. He passed a couple in fancy dress, wandering drunk and disoriented, hand in hand, shivering and giggling. Armitage approached them, putting on a copper’s voice, firm but jocular. ‘’Allo, ’allo! Captain Hook and Miss Tinkerbell, is it? May I direct you to the nearest taxi stand before the lady’s wings get wet?’ He pointed and pushed them in the right direction and went on his way.

He managed to keep the rhythm of his stride when he first became aware that he was being followed. He did not look back. He slowed to exchange a few words with a street washer. Boots and oilskin apron shining under a streetlight, the workman was directing his powerful jet at the pavement, washing the day’s and night’s accumulated filth into the gutter. He grinned a toothless grin at the sergeant and was pleased to turn off his hose to share a companionable moment.

‘Wild old night, Sarge!’

‘Still – no May flowers without your April showers.’

‘Did you hear who’d won the cup, then?’

‘Some bloody northern team,’ Armitage grinned.

‘Bolton Wanderers!’

‘Sod it! I had a bob on Man. City.’

‘Didn’t we all? Working late, sir?’

‘No rest for the wicked.’

The reassuring platitudes flowed, bonding two fellow workers through the small hours.

Turning to raise a hand in final salute, Armitage took the opportunity to scan the deserted street behind him. Not quite deserted. Three weary ladies of the night were gathered together in a disgruntled group under a lamp on the pavement across the road, screaming abuse at the street washer whose renewed efforts were persuading them to move on down Piccadilly. In the dark alcoves fronting a gents’ outfitters two or three pairs of legs protruded: down-and-outs who hadn’t quite made it all the way to the Green Park railings for the night. The sergeant was a cautious but confident man and he was puzzled. Who was out there? No street thief would take on a policeman even at night. Particularly not a swaggering six-footer like Armitage. He thought for a moment then smiled and walked more carefully on his way eastwards.

In a spirit of mischief he stood for an annoyingly long time shining his torch on to the display of books in Hatchard’s window. He walked on for some yards down the well-lit middle of the road to allow his pursuer a clear look at him, then quickly nipped down Swallow Street, passing the Vine Street nick and coming out into the graceful curve of Regent Street, now deserted. He crossed at once and plunged into the narrow streets of Soho. Glasshouse Street. Brewer Street. The tail was still in place. Armitage grinned. He was enjoying this. Just what he needed. He used all his tricks to get a sight of his follower. He knew these alleyways like the back of his hand. So, apparently, did his shadow. He wondered for a moment whether he was imagining it. But the sensitive spot on his spine was still sending warnings. God! His leg was killing him! Couldn’t keep this up for much longer. It was time to face him out. He turned and looked over his shoulder then walked down the middle of the road towards Golden Square.

He reached his goal – an all-night coffee stall which seemed to be doing good business. Three gents in silk top hats and opera cloaks were talking loudly, sipping fragrant coffee from china mugs. A taxi driver rolled in for a couple of saveloys and a pint mug of tea. A medical student asked for an Oxo and a ham sandwich. Two lean men whose faces he thought he recognized faded rapidly into the shadows at the sight of the police cape.

Armitage approached the counter and looked up into the sweaty, beaming face of the proprietor.

‘Mug of your best java, Zeek, and a couple of those saveloys – they smell good. Keeping busy, I see.’

‘Musn’t grumble. It’ll get busier when the nightclubs turn out. There yer go, Sarge. Mustard with that?

‘No, ta. Do right well as it is. I’ll park me owd bum on that there bench to enjoy ’em.’

He sat down at a rudimentary table thoughtfully and illegally provided on the pavement by the management for revellers too unsteady to hold their mugs after a night on the town. He waited, his back to the stall, a smile on his face.

There it was, the upper-class baritone he’d been expecting.

‘I’ll have the same as the sergeant, thanks.’

Joe put his mug down next to Armitage’s.

‘Shove over a bit! Cigarette first or are we straight into the sausages?’

‘Sausages first, I think, before they start to congeal.’ He noticed with satisfaction that Joe was breathing heavily. ‘Too many hours at the desk, is it, sir?’ he asked innocently.

‘Far too many! God! You’re a hard man to keep up with! Good practice, though! I haven’t done that since I was on the beat.’

‘You haven’t lost the knack, sir. I was well into Soho before I twigged.’

‘Really? Didn’t think I was that good! I must confess I lost you in Bridle Lane. I just guessed you’d fetch up here.’

The two men grinned, open enjoyment outweighing the embarrassment of discovering each other indulging in an activity more suited to a recruit.

‘You’re more at home here than I am, I think,’ said Joe. ‘London man?’

‘Born and bred.’

‘And congratulations on making sergeant, by the way. You can’t have wasted any time?’

‘Five years. No, you’re right, sir. That’s as fast as it gets in the force. Unless . . .’ he added with a sly but obvious sideways look at Joe.

‘I’ll save you saying it,’ Joe interrupted, good-humouredly. ‘Someone once told me I must have had a rocket up my arse to get to my present elevated rank so quickly! True. And the rocket had a name on it! A few years back when I was pounding the beat in the ordinary way – and believe me, Armitage, I’ve done all the basics! . . . ex-officers weren’t spared the training – I had a bit of luck.’ He added slowly, ‘Though it didn’t seem like luck at the time. And it was an odd time. Police unions, police strikes considerably more than a possibility, a good deal of disenchantment in the force . . .’

‘I remember that,’ said Armitage. ‘Before I joined. I wouldn’t have considered it if it hadn’t all turned around.’

‘Not surprised to hear it. Enormous amount of unfairness and injustice and what happened? To my horror, a delegation of the rank and file – my fellow bobbies – waited on me and asked me if I would not only join but spearhead the police union’s protest! Pretty unpromising situation for a bright young chap like me, on the threshold of my new career! Overnight I had the reputation of being a firebrand, a dangerous man . . .’ Joe dropped his voice and added theatrically, ‘an agitator.’

The word, though lightly offered, made Armitage shudder. ‘Bad situation, sir! Promising police career looking a bit blue round the edges? Sacking offence, isn’t it? Union business . . . can get you into trouble.’

‘Certainly did then,’ said Joe. ‘And it wasn’t as though I hadn’t been warned . . . the chap before me who’d complained on behalf of the men – Thomas Thiel, that was his name, ex-Guards officer – had just been dismissed. Sir Edward Henry, the outgoing Commissioner, had got rid of him for fomenting trouble in the ranks. And here I was being invited to put my neck on the same block.’