Her scornful laughter was cut short as Armitage leaned across the bed. With a quick flick of his strong wrists he flung off the sheet and stared stonily down at her as she wriggled helplessly, clutching at her shell-pink celanese shift. His voice was soft, polite and totally chilling. ‘Don’t try sounding off like that, Edith. It would be the last unwelcome noise you ever made.’

Choking back his rage and disgust, Armitage scrambled into his clothes and made for the Russian Steam Baths in Brick Lane to wash away the night’s sourness. They’d be open by now. When he was thoroughly cleansed he would go home and change into something suitable for his morning’s assignment. He’d go through the motions, carry out Sandilands’ instructions to the letter and a fat lot of use it would be. Armitage knew where the case was going.

He grimaced as he remembered a chequered schooling in a drab Victorian building a few streets away from here. His best mate who sat on his form was a special kid. Clever was an understatement. Especially when it came to arithmetic. He could always figure out the answer in a flash. In his head. He didn’t need to work it out on his slate. One day he’d sung out the answer to a problem before the teacher had even finished chalking it on the board. The teacher had swung round, purple with rage, and accused Dickie of cheating. He’d called him out to the front for ten whacks with the ruler. Armitage had protested. ‘But sir! That’s not fair! Where would he get the answer? None of us knows it!’

And he had joined Dickie at the front for ten cuts for insolence. Armitage clenched his fists. The pain still burned. But it had taught him a valuable lesson that the teacher had no suspicion of. Never appear to get ahead of the boss. Walk a pace behind, looking over his shoulder. Let him think he’s making the running and tell him how clever he is when he gets there in the end. It might take longer but at least you’ll come out of it smelling of roses.

He wondered whether to broach the subject of his Tuesday night activities with Sandilands. Better to hear an explanation from his own mouth probably. Up-front, honest, nothing to hide. That’s the tone that worked with the Commander. Sandilands was clever – worldly even, he would have said. Nothing much would surprise him. Yes, he’d bring it up before he was challenged. No need to chuck old Edith in the Thames. Not yet.

Chapter Twelve

Joe left his taxi at Westminster Bridge and continued on foot along the river, shouldering his way through the crowds of workers beginning to flood across the bridges from the rail and underground stations. In they came, a stream of black bowler hats and overcoats, moving like iron filings inexorably drawn to the magnet of the city. He approached New Scotland Yard from the Embankment, ducking through the high wrought-iron gate left permanently wide open, day and night, to welcome members of the public. He paused, in a ritual that had developed over the seven years he had been presenting himself at the building, to cast an offended eye on the streaky-bacon stone and red brick layers of Norman Shaw’s Scottish Baronial confection before hurrying up three flights of stairs to his office overlooking Horseguards and the crowding tree tops of St James’s Park.

A figure lurking by his door stepped forward with a cry of welcome. Inspector Cottingham, Joe reckoned, must have the most sensitive moustache ends in the business. They quivered at the slightest emotion and at this moment they were vibrating with excitement. His assistant had obviously been lying in wait for Joe in the corridor and he followed him unceremoniously into his office, juggling two bulging cardboard folders from arm to arm. ‘Glad to see you in early, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, sir,’ he said jovially, standing to attention on the other side of Joe’s gleaming walnut desk.

‘Sit down, Ralph. Put your stuff here,’ said Joe, clearing a space. ‘Good Lord, man! It’s only seven thirty. Cup of tea?’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a young officer appeared at the door.

‘Usual, sir? Times two?’

‘Thanks, Charlie. Mugs’ll do.’

‘Good day in Surrey, sir?’ Cottingham’s query was polite, expecting no more than a brief response.

‘Excellent. One or two people I need to follow up on. One’s booked in for nine this morning – the Donovan you tracked down. Will you sit in on the interview?’

‘Delighted, sir. And while we’ve got him down there we can get his prints.’

‘Ah! You’ve got something back from Forensics to match them with? Already?’

Cottingham’s moustache was now demonstrating puzzlement. ‘Yes. Already. Look, sir . . . is there anything you want to tell me about this case? Or are you just going to leave me with my shirt tail flapping in the breeze and say nothing?’

‘What’s your problem, Ralph?’

‘Well, I never thought you’d hear me say it but – speed and efficiency! I ask for something and the reply is, not the usual, “You’re joking, of course? Not before Tuesday fortnight at the earliest . . .” No, it’s more like, “Certainly. At once. Anything more we can do?” Really, sir, if the king had been assassinated, it couldn’t be slicker!’

Joe chortled. ‘Tell me more.’

‘And all this at the weekend. And overnight. You know what that entails. People brought in specially. The best people. Home Office involvement. And all that means overtime. Heavy expenditure! The top brass are telling us to cut down dramatically but here they are signing a blank cheque, it seems, to push this one through. What’s going on? Do I put it down to the Sandilands magic?’

‘Sorry, Ralph. Whatever else – not that! I’m as puzzled as you are. I can only guess that the urgency is created by the two words “Wren” and “Ritz”. Dame Beatrice was quite a character, I’m beginning to see. Friends in high places; friends in low places. And a good deal of mystery surrounding her. I’ve honestly no idea who’s up there pulling strings but, like you, I become suspicious when doors fall open before you’ve knocked. I think, Ralph,’ Joe looked consideringly at the anxious face across the desk, ‘when we’re offered a Trojan horse, we’d do well to take a good look at its undercarriage! Until someone decides to take us into his confidence all we can do is play along. But at least we can stay alert and watch each other’s back!’

Cottingham nodded and got straight down to business. He opened a file. ‘First things first. Autopsy. Findings exactly as initial examination at the scene indicated. Skull cracked. Probably on the second blow. Profile of the wounds matches the profile of the poker found on the roof. Killer right-handed. No other findings to take us by surprise. Definitely wasn’t raped. Definitely wasn’t virgo intacta.’ He handed the report to Joe.

‘The murder weapon. The poker which formed part of the set of fire irons, sir. Condition as new. Since central heating was installed not many guests call for an open fire. And the management discourages it – fire hazard and all that – but they keep them there in the hearth for the look of it and because people expect to see them there. Microscope analysis reveals blood and hairs attached to the business end. The hairs match the Dame’s and analysis of the blood gives us a Blood Group III. Rather unusual. Only twelve per cent of the population are Group III and this too matches that of the Dame. So far, so good.’

He paused tantalizingly. ‘Fingerprints. The boys have done a good job. Must have worked through the night. At least three sets have been photographed and recorded. All from the handle end. Two sets are small, probably ladies’ and probably the prints of chambermaids. The third set . . .’

Joe sat forward, fighting down the urge to hurry him on.

‘Large. A man’s prints, sir. Thumb and two partial fingers clear as day. Oh, and you’ll see they managed to lift a fingerprint, index finger, right hand, off the victim’s neck.’