‘Can I go now?’ asked Price, cheekily.

‘You’ll go when I tell you.’

‘What did I say? Policemen always have to order you about.’

‘Don’t you like orders?’

‘No, Sergeant, I don’t — unless I’m getting paid to obey them, of course.’

‘I have to say that Mr Hambridge was much more pleasant to interview.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Price, smirking, ‘Fred is Fred. He’s nice to everyone whereas I speak as I find. And I told you at the start — I don’t like police stations.’

‘That means you’ve been inside a few,’ guessed Keedy. ‘I wonder why. Have you been a naughty boy at work — putting poison in the soup or serving ground glass in the omelettes? Do you know what I’m beginning to wonder?’ he continued, leaning across the table. ‘I’m getting a very strong feeling that you might have a criminal record. Am I right, sir?’

The smirk disappeared from Mansel Price’s face. All of a sudden, he looked profoundly uncomfortable.

Having spent so much time behind the driving wheel throughout the day, Alice Marmion was glad to return to the depot and park the lorry beside the others. As she and Vera Dowling got out and stretched their legs, they were spotted by their supervisor. Shoes clacking on the tarmac, Hannah Billington strode across to them. She was a striking woman of middle height and indeterminate age, shifting between her mid thirties and late forties, depending on how closely she was scrutinised and in what light. Her husband was a brigadier general, in France with his regiment, and there was a distinctly military air about Hannah as well. Her back was straight, her head erect, her voice crisp and peremptory. But it was the fierce beauty of her face that caught the attention, the high cheekbones thrown into prominence by the way that her hair was severely brushed back. While the other women looked incongruous in their baggy uniforms, Hannah seemed always to have worn a tailored version and it enhanced her sense of authority.

‘Did everything go well?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Alice. ‘Apart from one or two problems, that is.’

‘Oh — what sort of problems?’

‘They were mostly to do with language. Four of the refugees were Walloons who couldn’t make head or tail of my French and there was a group of Russian Jews from Antwerp in the group as well. But I think we got through to them in the end, didn’t we, Vera?’

‘Yes,’ said Vera, nervous in the presence of their superior.

‘Life would certainly be easier if we all spoke the same language,’ said the older woman, briskly. ‘It would have to be English, of course. Some of the regional dialects we get from Belgium are real tongue-twisters.’

‘How many more will there be?’ wondered Alice.

‘Oh, they’ll continue to dribble out, I suspect. It was far worse when the war first started. We had a quarter of a million Belgian refugees then. It was like an invasion. There was even talk of founding a New Flanders in Britain. Heaven forbid!’

‘I don’t know where we managed to put them all.’

‘Neither do I, Alice, but we did it somehow and we’ll have to go on doing it. All the hotels and boarding houses are full up and so are lots of barns, warehouses, pavilions, racecourses, exhibition halls and skating rinks. My husband’s golf club has just been commandeered for accommodation.’ She brayed happily. ‘Not entirely sure that he’d approve of that.’

‘The War Refugees Committee is doing a wonderful job,’ said Alice.

‘And so is the WEC. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What about you, Vera?’

‘Yes, Mrs Billington,’ said Vera, meekly.

‘Can’t you sound a bit more positive?’

‘What we do is … very important.’

‘It’s absolutely vital and shows just what women can achieve when we all pull together. Unlike other wars, this one isn’t something that’s happening in a distant country. It’s just across the English Channel and we have to cope with the after-effects. As the refugees flood in, we have to absorb them somehow.’

‘I’ll have to start learning more languages,’ said Alice.

‘Your French is really good,’ said Vera, ‘and far better than mine. When the war is over, you’ll be able to teach it.’

‘I may not go back to teaching.’

Vera was surprised. ‘What else will you do?’

‘Wait and see.’

‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s far too early to make plans for what we’ll all do when the war finally comes to an end. Our task is clear. We must concentrate on day-to-day priorities. And while we’re on the subject, Vera, I’ve got some more work lined up for you this evening.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Vera, uncomfortably.

‘I know that you prefer to be with Alice but she can’t always hold your hand. You must learn to be more independent. Alice has already warned me that she wouldn’t be available for an evening shift.’

‘Actually,’ said Alice, ‘that’s not true.’

‘Oh?’

‘Things have changed, Hannah.’

‘You said that you were doing something with your parents.’

‘That was the idea,’ said Alice, opening the door of the lorry to reach inside. ‘But there’s been a slight complication.’ She brought out a newspaper and passed it to Hannah. ‘We picked this up earlier.’ As the other woman read the headline in the Evening News, Alice was fatalistic. ‘My father has been put in charge of that investigation. Family life just doesn’t exist when he’s working on a murder case. In other words,’ she went on, concealing her disappointment, ‘I’m ready to work on into the evening. It may be weeks before I see my father again.’

It was a case of third time lucky for Marmion. A study of the electoral roll told him that there were three families by the name of Skene living in Lambeth. At the first two addresses he drew a blank, but the last one finally introduced him to the woman in the sepia photograph. Caroline Skene was in the front room as the car drew up outside her house. When she saw him get out of the vehicle, she went to the door and opened it. He raised his hat courteously, showed her his warrant card and asked if he might have a private word with her. Though she was mystified, she admitted him and they went into the front room. At his suggestion, she sat down and he took the chair opposite her. The photograph had not done her justice. She was an attractive woman in her mid thirties with pale, delicate skin and she was well dressed, as if expecting to go out somewhere. Marmion sensed that they were alone in the house and he was relieved. In the presence of her husband, it would have been impossible to question her properly.

‘What’s this all about, Inspector?’ she asked, apprehensively.

‘I’m afraid that I have some bad news to pass on.’

She sat forward. ‘It’s not my husband, is it?’

‘No, Mrs Skene.’

‘There have been so many accidents at his factory. A man had his hand cut off last week. I’m terrified that it will be Wilf’s turn next.’

‘This is not about your husband,’ said Marmion.

‘So why have you come?’

‘I believe that you know a young man by the name of Cyril Ablatt.’

Her cheeks coloured. ‘I think you’re mistaken, Inspector.’

‘Let me ask you again,’ he said, patiently. ‘I appreciate why you’re so reticent but it’s important that you tell the truth.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Does the name of Cyril Ablatt mean anything at all to you?’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

He reached into his pocket for the photograph. ‘This is getting a little embarrassing, Mrs Skene. If you’ve never heard of him, how can you explain the fact that we found this photograph of you in his bedroom?’ He held it up for her to see. ‘I don’t need to read out the message on the back, do I?’

Caroline Skene was dumbstruck. She’d been caught. A friendship that was very precious to her had been discovered by a detective. When kept secret, it was a source of constant pleasure. Now that it had been exposed, however, it suddenly seemed to be morally wrong and faintly ridiculous. There was no point in trying to brazen it out when he held the evidence in his hand. All that she could hope to do was to limit the damage.