‘These aren’t bad, considering the circumstances,’ said Joe. He had produced his gallery of the Hive members and, to provide Cyril with the full picture, had fitted round one of the faces a frame he’d managed to hide from Dorcas as she fed them on to the flames.

‘Practical rather than professional but, I agree, not bad. Indoor shots always difficult. She used artificial light, I’d say, looking at the shadows – two sources – but I think, not flash powder. That would be dangerous anyway in a tight space with so much Eastern drapery to go up in flames. I wouldn’t try it. Look at those tassels!’

‘There were two large wall lights on the back wall,’ Joe offered. ‘Very large. Would have looked more at home in the Tivoli Cinema.’

‘Ah. If you’d checked the bulbs you’d have found they were a thousand watts. That’s what Wilding uses. And the camera? It would have had to be something small and unobtrusive for this sort of game. I’d say these girls were drugged or drunk and probably didn’t know arse from elbow at the time, but I can’t see her fitting out this little snuggery with cumbersome studio equipment. What sort of range are we talking about? Eight, ten feet? It’ll turn out to be one of those new Leica 35 mm jobs. Neat.’

‘It’s the subjects I’m really interested in, Cyril.’

‘Right. Tell you what – hand them to me one at a time and you can write their names on the back – if I know them. Oh, by the way – the bloke with the starring role in this little peep show I’d swear is Donovan. I expect you know that? Can’t claim to have an intimate knowledge of the chap’s rear elevation but there are clues that might help. Have you noticed the Elastoplast where a tattoo would be and the mole on his right shoulder blade?’

Joe handed him the first of the card-mounted photographs.

‘Well! Who’d have thought it? Joan Dennison! I am surprised!’

‘Just the names, thank you, Cyril.’

‘Right. That one’s Portia something . . . you know . . . daughter of that judge . . . hanging judge . . . “Blackcap” Blackman! That’s it!

‘This one? Sorry, no idea. Never encountered her before. Perhaps one of the others would be able to fill you in?

‘This one looks familiar . . . Ah yes, well, she would, wouldn’t she? This was the jumper. Leapt off Beachy Head. Lettice Benson.’

Joe passed him the one he’d reserved for last.

‘And this is the other suicide girl. Took an overdose of her dead mother’s painkillers that’d never been cleared out of the bathroom cabinet. This is the one I told you about. The one who spilled the beans to her father. Brave lass! Lovely girl,’ said Cyril thoughtfully. ‘Marianne Westhorpe. She lived up in Mayfair somewhere.’

‘I know where she lived,’ said Joe.

‘Can’t help wondering why only five out of the eight were subjected to this,’ said Cyril.

‘Clever scheming,’ said Joe. ‘The psychology of the group. I expect each victim was given to understand that she was the only one involved. Some of the eight would be behaving naturally because for them there was no problem. Each of these poor girls would have been living in her own private hell, unable to confide in or question the others. She would be unsupported, totally alone, hugely vulnerable.’

‘You’ll tread carefully, Commander?’

‘Of course. Kid gloves. Reassuring avuncular manner. But don’t forget I haven’t yet established the whereabouts of those negatives. Shan’t rest easy until I have.’

‘And Donovan? What have you got planned for him?’

‘I’d like to say “police boot in the groin, swiftly followed by the clink of cuffs” but he’s on someone else’s shopping list. There are others more elevated than I am who will be taking a close interest in Donovan and his future career. Though if we were to meet head on in a dark alley, I’m not sure he’d ever come out at the other end. Another pint, Cyril?’

Returning to the Yard to write up his notes on the Zanuti-Lendi silver theft enquiry, Joe was not surprised to find on his desk a series of orders hastily handwritten, cancelling all but essential activities and directing him to strike-emergency duties. His roster apparently resumed the next day and was to send him to the Palace to oversee security arrangements against an insurrection by the mob.

He finished his notes, wrote up his diary, sighed and came to a decision. He took up the telephone and was surprised to find that his hand was shaking. He asked the operator to connect him with a number in Mayfair.

At least the Westhorpe butler no longer affected not to know him. ‘Miss Mathilda is indeed at home, sir, today being her day of leisure,’ he intoned, unable to refrain from putting gentlemen callers on the wrong foot. ‘If you will wait a moment, I will ascertain whether she is available to come to the telephone.’

A moment later a drumming of feet, a clatter as the earpiece was picked up and Tilly’s eager voice: ‘Joe! Sorry – Commander! How good to hear you again! Can I do anything? That Clubbing at Claridge’s we spoke of – has it come about already?’

‘Sorry, Tilly. No. Ordinary crime fizzles out when there’s a war on or even a strike. Nothing more exciting to offer you, I’m afraid, but dinner. How about it? I’d like to see you again. On Friday. Would Friday be a good day? Will you be free?’

‘Friday?’ There was a pause then, regretfully, ‘No, sorry, Joe, I’ve already got an engagement that day.’

‘Then,’ said Joe firmly, ‘it will have to be tonight. And I’m making that an order, Constable! I’ll pick you up at seven. Better warn your father.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

‘Where are we going?’ Tilly asked excitedly, settling into the Oxford.

She was looking extraordinarily attractive, he noticed, and felt flattered that she had taken the trouble. Her outfit was of the very best, discreet but costly, he would have thought. A short, oyster-coloured silk dress, a row of pearls, a black cashmere wrap and an immaculately made-up face – did he deserve this?

‘Somewhere special,’ he said, threading his way through the streets of Mayfair.

Reaching their destination, he handed the keys to a commissionaire and held out an arm to Tilly.

‘The Ritz?’ she said wonderingly as she stepped out. He was pleased to hear the disappointment in her tone as she added, ‘You didn’t say we were still working, sir.’

‘Well, it may not be unadulterated pleasure, having dinner with the guv’nor,’ he smiled, ‘but it’s not work. I think I told you, and I say again, the Jagow-Joliffe case is closed. Done up in pink string and filed away from sight for the next seventy-five years. It seemed appropriate to wrap it all up here where it all started. And we’ll get a jolly good dinner. We’ve deserved it!’

He glanced approvingly at the reflection in the many glittering mirrors which flanked their progress to their table. He almost wished Cyril were on hand to record the occasion but he remembered that no camera flash journalists ever breached the defences of the Ritz. Probably all off in Hyde Park, anyway, busy snapping the militant aristocracy.

As they settled, he looked around, grateful that the management had been as good as its word and given him what he had asked for – a discreet table at some distance from the others.

In spite of Joe’s agitation the evening seemed to be going well. Tilly was calm, attentive, responsive and amusing. The perfect partner. Joe thought she would undoubtedly be granted Maisie’s seal of approval on this showing. Maisie’s? His own, too. For a desolate moment he was aware of a void in his life, a loneliness, and played with the thought of returning from such an evening with such a girl on his arm and no need to say goodnight. ‘Listening to too many popular songs,’ he decided. ‘Brace up, Sandilands!’

They chattered happily through three courses and Tilly looked relieved when Joe suggested to the waiter that they might like a pause before the desserts were presented. Now or never. Joe reached into his pocket and produced a white card. He watched Tilly’s face as he put it down in front of her.