‘There are two ways to proceed,’ said Marmion.

‘It wasn’t us!’ repeated Gatliffe. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

‘Listen to me, please. You’re not a bad man, are you? In fact, I suspect that you have more than an ounce of decency in you. That’s why you spared the girl a second ordeal.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘That’s the first way to proceed,’ explained Marmion. ‘I make allegations and you respond with a tissue of lies. We could go on like that all day, Private Gatliffe. The problem with that strategy is that it will bring about your downfall. My colleague, Detective Sergeant Keedy, is interviewing Private Cochran and will meet with the same blanket denial that I’m getting. Your friend will invent an alibi which will differ substantially in detail from the one you’re trying to think up. In other words, we’ll know that you’re lying through your teeth.’

He fixed Gatliffe with a stare. ‘Are you going to tell the same lies under oath in a court of law?’

Gatliffe quailed. ‘It wasn’t me and Ol,’ he said, weakly.

‘The second way is the one that I’d recommend. It will not only save time, it will earn you some favour with the judge and jury. I’m talking about a confession,’ said Marmion. ‘I’m talking about having the courage to admit that you did something terribly wrong and that you’re prepared to face the consequences. We didn’t come all this way to let you slip through our fingers, Private Gatliffe. Back in London, a young woman is tormented by what you and your friend did to her. It’s a permanent wound that will never heal. The one thing that might act as balm to that wound is the knowledge that her attackers have been imprisoned. That’s why Sergeant Keedy and I are here.’

‘I need to speak to Olly,’ said Gatliffe, close to panic.

‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.’

‘We got rights, Inspector.’

‘I’m more concerned with Miss Stein’s rights. She’s the victim here, not you and Private Cochran.’

‘We’re in the army now — you can’t touch us.’

‘I’m afraid that you’ve been misinformed on that point.’

Gatliffe was cornered. His eyes darted and sweat broke out on his brow. His friend’s assurances that they were in the clear had proved groundless. Detectives had pursued them to the front and called them to account. He knew that Cochran would rebut any charges hotly but Gatliffe did not have his friend’s limitless capacity for telling lies. When their respective statements to the police were compared, they would be caught out. The girl would identify them in court. Gatliffe trembled. Instead of returning home as a war hero, he would be dragged back to London under arrest to face trial. Those fevered minutes with a terrified girl had been their ruination.

‘Well?’ said Marmion, watching him. ‘What have you decided?’

‘I need to think,’ said Gatliffe, morosely.

‘Let me remind you what else happened that evening. A mob, of which you may well have been part, attacked the shop owned by Jacob Stein in Jermyn Street. The window was smashed, the place was looted and someone set fire to the premises. Mr Stein — whose daughter was being raped nearby — was murdered. It remains to be seen if you and Cochran were implicated in these other crimes.’

‘We know nothing about murder,’ protested Gatliffe.

‘What about the fire? Did you start it?’

‘No, we never went inside the shop.’

Marmion smiled. ‘Ah, so you were there, after all,’ he said, making a note in his pad. ‘We’re making progress at last. Why don’t you tell me the full story, Private Gatliffe? Do you know what I think? I fancy that you’d like to get it off your chest. Am I right?’

After a lengthy pause, Gatliffe nodded his head.

How had he found her? That was what Irene Bayard kept asking herself. She had never given Ernie Gill her sister’s address in London, nor had she told him about her intention to go there on her return from Ireland. Gill was essentially a friend and work colleague to her, someone with whom to pass the time while they were sailing on the Lusitania together but, on her side, there was no deeper commitment. Irene had never even told him where she lodged in Liverpool. How, therefore, had he managed to turn up on Dorothy’s doorstep? It was disturbing. As far as Irene was concerned, Gill was unwanted and unwelcome, a link with a past she was determined to sever.

He would be back. That much was certain. Gill was nothing if not persistent. She’d had ample evidence of that on board the liner. Rejection only seemed to intensify his interest in her. Since he’d come back in search of her, she needed to have an excuse to get rid of him without even inviting him into the house. Irene rehearsed various possibilities in her mind. Whatever happened, she did not want Gill to meet her sister because it would lead to a flurry of awkward questions from Dorothy. If Irene wanted to preserve the serenity of the house, Gill had to be kept at bay. In her new life, he simply did not belong.

After a second day in search of employment, Irene made her way back home. As she walked down the street towards it, she wondered if he had called again and if Miss James would be waiting to tell her about it. But there was no bell summoning her. All she could hear from the front room was the rhythmical click of knitting needles. She was grateful there had been no second visit from Gill. It gave her a breathing space. While waiting for her sister to get back, Irene sat at the kitchen table and went through the list of jobs on offer. She narrowed the choice down to three. Hearing the sound of a key in the front door, she lit the gas under the kettle then gave Dorothy a smile as her sister entered the room.

‘A busy day?’ she enquired.

‘It’s always busy,’ said Dorothy, wearily, ‘though there’s more trying on than actually buying. We had one woman in this morning who tried on eight pairs of shoes before she decided that she didn’t really need any of them.’

‘I wouldn’t have the patience to deal with someone like that.’

‘It can be frustrating at times, Irene. We’ve had people who dart into the shop to escape a sudden downpour and who pretend they came in search of shoes. All they really want is a place to sit down in the dry.’ She removed her hat. ‘But what about you — have you made up your mind yet?’

‘More or less,’ said Irene.

‘Does that mean you’ve accepted a job?’

‘No, it means that I’ve got three to choose from, Dot. I’m still thinking it over. My guess is that I’ll finish up on the trams or in that toy factory, but there’s a third possibility as well.’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, I was accosted by a lady this afternoon,’ recalled Irene. ‘She noticed me looking at a job advert and asked if I’d ever thought of joining the WEC — that’s the Women’s Emergency Corps.’

Dorothy wrinkled her nose. ‘They’re all suffragettes, aren’t they?’

‘That’s not true, Dot. Besides,’ said Irene, ‘it wouldn’t worry me if they were. She was such a nice well-spoken lady. I had no idea of the range of the work that the WEC do. For instance, they have a kitchen department that’s aided by the National Food Fund. And they join with another organisation to train unemployed girls for domestic service and so on. They also help refugees from abroad by having women who can speak French waiting at railway stations and at the docks to advise them about accommodation and that.’

‘You don’t speak French, do you?’

‘No, but that’s not the point. The service is there. When they see a need, the WEC moves in to meet it.’

‘I think you’re better off on the trams,’ said Dorothy. ‘I’m sure these other people do good work but they’re too strident for my liking. They’re always demanding this and campaigning for that.’

‘Don’t you believe in women getting the vote, Dot?’