‘But you did it anyway,’ said Armitage with a smile and a nod. ‘Always did lead from the front!’

‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘it didn’t feel much like leadership at the time. Someone behind me kicked my arse and I picked up the cudgels. There I was, agitating away if you care to put it like that, and my name came to the notice of the man at the top, the new Commissioner of Police. I was put up to represent the men in an informal interview with this chap.’ Joe paused and smiled a grim smile. ‘He was General Sir Nevil Macready.’

Armitage’s face stiffened. ‘Blimey! That old war horse.’ He took a bite of his saveloy and chewed thoughtfully.

‘None other. From the siege of Ladysmith to the Easter uprisings, he was used to getting his own way. He was violently against police strikes and had already squashed one in 1918. And now this Big Gun was trained on me! I was summoned to see him in his office. You can imagine how I felt as I entered. But the first thing I saw – and, I must say, for a moment it put me off my stroke – was a poster pinned up on the wall behind his desk. It was one of ours. It said “Macready Must Go!” Bloody cheek! But I liked that. I thought that perhaps, after all, this was a man who was, like us, agitating away too. He didn’t approve of police strikes (not keen myself, as it happens), he did see that there were grievances, did see that the police were a bumbling and incompetent body wandering round the streets of London with a lantern in one hand and a bell in the other.’

‘Past seven o’clock and all’s well?’

‘That’s the sort of thing. Anyway, soldier to soldier – he’d taken the trouble to find out all about me – we put our cards on the table. He listened to all I had to tell him about the front-line copper’s problems and was able to assure me that many of them were already receiving his attention. And, with Sir Nevil, I was to find that this was not just a way of putting an inconvenient matter in cold storage. He’s a man of his word and a man of fast reactions and in no time after that meeting he’d weeded out the injustices of the fines system and the sick pay which were the main bones of contention. He organized a meeting with Lloyd George for several of us union officials at Number Ten and we squeezed out even more concessions.’ Joe grinned. ‘We negotiated a pay rise, war bonuses and widows’ pensions. We even got Thiel reinstated!

‘He had a thousand and one projects on the move, all improving, all practical. Everything from redesigning the officers’ dress uniform to modernizing, motorizing and reequipping the whole force.’

‘I think that’s where I came in,’ said Armitage. ‘When it all started to look more like a career I might enjoy. But – you, sir? Constable to Commander in one easy move? Bit bold, wasn’t it? Must have raised a few eyebrows, if not to say hackles?’

‘It did! But it wasn’t quite that obvious. It was one of several new appointments and it took a couple of years for me to work through. Sir Nevil – and others – had noticed that policing requirements had changed as a result of the war. Men trained to kill and use their resources to stay alive were suddenly unleashed on the world again. Clever, ruthless, experienced men . . .’

‘You could be describing us, sir.’

‘I am.’

‘But – “Commander” – that sounds a bit naval. Was that intentional?’

‘Probably was. It gets me the entrée into whatever corner of society needs to have a torch shone on it. The aristocracy have treated the police – on the rare occasions when they’ve had to have dealings with them at all – as their servants. But a Commander arriving at your front door has to be shown a bit more respect! Sir Nevil invented the title for the benefit of a free-wheeling new division responsible to him and nominally under my leadership. He still runs it on the quiet, though he retired as Commissioner some time ago.’

Joe broke off and gave his sergeant a steady look. He was not unaware that the information was flowing one way. Armitage was remaining politely inscrutable.

‘So, Armitage. I thought you ought to know what you’ve got yourself into.’

For answer Armitage fished around in an inside poacher’s pocket in his cape and produced a small silver brandy flask. He uncorked it and handed it to Joe.

‘Sippers, Sergeant?’ asked Joe, raising the flask.

‘Gulpers, sir!’

Both pleased and disturbed by his encounter, Joe worked his way back towards Piccadilly Circus. A gathering rumble in the night air reminded him how late – or was it how early? – was the hour. The country carts were lumbering down Piccadilly, jogging along on their way to Smithfield, Covent Garden and Billingsgate. When the market bells rang at five o’clock a new London day would begin. He crossed the street, dodging a flower-laden cart heady with the scent of wallflowers and bright with tulips, and picked up a cruising taxi-cab for home. His mind was racing, trying to order the many things he would have to do in a few hours’ time. He peered blearily through the cab window at the now milky sky as they turned on to the Embankment and he wondered if they would get to Chelsea before daybreak. Perhaps he should ask the cabby to loiter on Westminster Bridge so that he could enjoy the moment when the sun rose up from the grey waters of the Thames and brought back life to the capital; the brief moment before the houses and factories started puthering out their wreathing layers of yellow-grey smoke. Nocturne in black and grey perhaps? Variations in black and gold?

A river police launch shot the bridge like a swimming rat, its three-man crew alert and looking out into the oily depths of the river, the sinister grappling iron projecting from the stern announcing their grim purpose. Joe shivered. The sun would rise too late to bring warmth to some poor, cold, hopeless bugger. He was faintly embarrassed that he’d been about to linger, fancifully trying to decide whether the misty grey scene would have been more effectively rendered by Monet or Whistler. Some other day, he decided. And he wasn’t quite in tune with Wordsworth this morning either.

He yawned. Another thing he must do was put through a call to Records before the meeting. He wanted to ask them to look out a file for him. The name on the file would be Sergeant W. Armitage. He wondered whether Sir Nevil’s question mark was the same as his own.

Chapter Six

‘Sir! I’ve been detailed to lend a hand this morning. Constable Sweetman. Attached to Vine Street.’

The eager young policeman in his impeccable uniform was, Joe judged, in his probationary year.

‘Good morning, Sweetman. You have your instructions from Inspector Cottingham?’

‘Yessir. He’ll be here in a moment. I think we’re both early, sir.’

‘You’re aware that I may require you to demonstrate your particular skill?’

‘That’s what I understand, sir.’ He grinned and added, ‘Won’t be the first time.’

‘Good. Then we just have to wait until my assistant, Sergeant Armitage, gets here.’ Joe checked his watch. He was five minutes early.

‘I think they’re just arriving, sir.’

Cottingham strode up looking disconcertingly dapper. Starched collar and bowler hat, spats and smart black cashmere overcoat, he’d dressed for a working day in the West End. Bill Armitage, on the other hand, to Joe’s satisfaction looked more blurred around the edges than he did himself, though the sergeant had obviously taken pains to make himself presentable. His light tweed suit topped off with a sample of the nob’s version of the proletarian flat cap favoured by the royal princes was giving out signals complex enough to hold the attention for a good five minutes. Joe thought his choice was perfectly in tune with the bright spring day and with the task in hand.

They greeted each other with slightly twisted smiles and wry pleasantries, agreeing to get on with the job at once. The four men set out to retrace Armitage’s tour of inspection the night before, circling the building until they reached the façade on the eastern side. They all looked up, eyes following the ledge below the mansard roof and focusing on the one window which had been boarded up. For a moment there was silence as they examined the challenging climb.