The second man was a street trader, a fast-talking cockney who swore that he’d been nowhere near the West End at the time. His girlfriend would vouch for him. After ten minutes of verbal jousting, Keedy exposed his claim as an arrant lie and charged him. It was the third man who gave the sergeant the most trouble. Sidney Timpson was a wily character in his twenties who worked as a glazier. Keedy seized on the man’s occupation.

‘So you came to the West End touting for trade, did you?’

Timpson frowned. ‘What you on about?’

‘That shop window you smashed in Jermyn Street,’ said Keedy. ‘It’s a clever way to get business, Sidney. You break someone’s window then offer to mend it.’

‘Is that supposed to be a joke, Sergeant?’

‘I was never more serious. You were seen outside the premises of Jacob Stein yesterday evening.’

‘I’ve never even heard of the bloke.’

‘Do you deny it, then?’

‘Of course I bloody well do. I was out with friends in Shoreditch. You ask the landlord of the Lamb amp; Flag. He’ll tell you that we were drinking there until closing time.’

‘That was well after the incident in Jermyn Street.’

‘We were there all evening.’

‘Do you know a man named Brian Coley?’

Timpson became defensive. ‘Not really — why do you ask?’

‘What about Tommy Rudge, the barrow boy?’

‘Yes, I know old Tommy. He was boozing with me at the Lamb amp; Flag. Tommy will speak up for me.’

‘I don’t think so, Sidney. According to him, he spent the evening with his girlfriend. That was before I got him to admit the lie. Then he named you as being with him and the rest of that mob.’

‘Don’t listen to Tommy,’ said the other, contemptuously. ‘He makes things up.’

‘Then the pair of you have something in common. Right,’ said Keedy, rubbing his hands, ‘where are we? You don’t really know Brian Coley and Tommy Rudge is a liar. Is that what you’re saying?’

Timpson glared at him. ‘Yeah, it is.’

‘Then there must be some mistake in our records.’

‘Eh?’

‘You’ve been a bad boy, Sidney, haven’t you? Our records show that you’ve been arrested on three occasions for being drunk and disorderly. And the person who was arrested with you,’ said Keedy, reading from the sheet of paper in front of him, ‘was the man you don’t really know — Brian Coley. In my experience, you can get to know someone pretty well when you spend a night in a police cell with him. In any case,’ he continued, ‘you and Coley live in the same street. Can the pair of you really be such strangers?’

Timpson was adamant. ‘I was at the Lamb amp; Flag.’

‘Nobody disputes that. You went there with Rudge and Len Harper — after you’d looted that shop in Jermyn Street. Both of them confirm that.’

‘What’s Lenny Harper been saying?’

‘It sounded like the truth to me.’

‘I know nothing about any mob in the West End.’

‘Then how come I have three witnesses who place you there, three close friends of yours who realise just how much trouble they’re in and who decided to come clean?’ He leant across the table. ‘Do you know what I think, Sidney? You were their leader. Coley, Rudge and Harper all look up to you. I think it was your idea to go on the rampage yesterday.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘You actually led the mob.’

‘Piss off!’

‘When they’d had enough to drink, you stirred them up into a rage then took them off to attack a shop with a German name over it. You probably threw that brick through the window.’

‘No, I never!’ howled Timpson.

‘I bet you were the first to clamber in, weren’t you — the first to grab what you wanted? It was your privilege as the leader.’

‘I wasn’t even there.’

‘Then why do three people swear otherwise?’ asked Keedy.

‘Ask them.’

‘It’s no good lying, Sidney. You were seen. That’s how I know that you were the one who poured petrol onto that fire.’

‘That wasn’t me!’ shouted Timpson, unnerved by the charge. ‘It was that bloke in the dungarees. He brought the can with him.’

When he heard what he’d just said, he put his hands to his face and groaned inwardly. The game was up. Under pressure from Keedy, he’d just confessed the truth. There was no way out.

‘Good,’ said Keedy, beaming. ‘I’m glad that we sorted that out. Let’s start all over again, shall we?’

Dorothy Holdstock was both relieved and delighted to see her sister again. Having had no official confirmation that Irene had survived the disaster, she’d been on tenterhooks as she waited for news. It had come in the best possible way — her sister’s arrival on her doorstep. Over a cup of tea, Irene explained how she’d managed to escape drowning. Playing down the role she took in helping others to get safely off the ship, she talked about the chair that she clung to as she waited to be rescued by a boat.

‘It sounds to me as if you owe a lot to your friend,’ said Dorothy.

‘Ernie has always looked out for me.’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘Years and years, Dot.’

‘Is he the one who proposed to you?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Why did you turn him down?’

‘There were lots of reasons,’ said Irene, pensively. ‘First of all, I don’t want another husband. I had a wonderful marriage with Arthur and no man could ever replace him. Second, I discovered that I wasn’t the only female member of the crew that Ernie Gill had proposed to.’ Dorothy was scandalised. ‘And third, much as I like him, he really upsets me sometimes.’

‘How does he do that?’

‘Well, he has a bit of a temper and uses bad language. I think he could turn violent if he was crossed.’

Her sister clicked her tongue. ‘You don’t want that,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, a proposal is a proposal. A woman can’t afford to be too fussy.’

There was deep sadness in Dorothy’s voice because she had never received a proposal of marriage. Irene had been the pretty sister. None of the boys had been interested in Dorothy. Now in her forties, she was a tubby and rather unprepossessing woman who’d given up all hope of finding a husband and settled for being a pillar of the local church, an occasional babysitter and the manageress of a shoe shop. She lived in the little house that she and Irene had jointly inherited at the death of their parents and staved off loneliness by renting out a room to a blind old lady named Miss James.

‘How long can you stay, Irene?’

‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay indefinitely.’

‘What about your job?’

‘I’ve finished with the sea, Dot. It’s had one go at trying to kill me and that’s one too many. I want to keep my feet on dry land from now on.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Dorothy. ‘Though I do wish that I’d had all those adventures you enjoyed — sailing on a famous liner, going to America all those times, getting proposals. I mean, it’s so romantic.’

‘That’s not how it felt at the time. If truth be told, it was too much like hard work.’

‘So what will you do now?’

‘Look around for a job in London,’ said Irene. ‘I hope you don’t mind having me back.’

‘No — of course I don’t. It’s a real treat for me. Besides, you own half the house.’

‘Do you still have Miss James here?’

‘Yes, she’s no bother — keeps herself to herself.’

‘When did she first move in?’

‘It must be almost five years ago.’

Irene smiled. ‘You live with someone for almost five years and you still don’t call her by her Christian name?’

‘No, she’ll always be Miss James to me.’

‘And does she still call you Miss Holdstock?’

‘Of course,’ said Dorothy with mock propriety. ‘I don’t allow any familiarity under this roof.’ They traded a laugh. ‘Oh, it’s so wonderful to have you back again, Irene. When I heard the awful news about the Lusitania, I nearly had a heart attack. I went to church every day to pray for you — and it worked. Thank God you came home on my day off so that I was here when you knocked. I can’t tell you how marvellous it was to see you in the flesh again.’ They heard the tinkle of a small bell. ‘That will be Miss James. I’ll go and see what she wants.’