As she was deciding how to spend the rest of the day, Irene heard the click of the letter box and the thud of mail hitting the carpet. She went out and picked up three letters, checking the names on them as she walked back to the kitchen. Two were addressed to her sister but one was for her and she recognised the handwriting of her landlady in Liverpool. Using a knife to slit open the envelope, she took out a cutting from the local newspaper. Beneath a photograph of a small house whose windows had been smashed in was an article that made her gasp. When she noted the date given in the article, her blood ran cold. It was too great a coincidence. Her mind was racing. She had something much more sinister to worry about now than being followed by a mysterious stranger.

Thanks to the quick response, the damage to the synagogue had been swiftly curtailed. The fire had gained a purchase on the double doors but had been unable to spread before the fire brigade arrived. That did not minimise the shock felt by those who routinely attended the synagogue. Several of them had come to view the smoke-blackened doors and to weigh up the implications of the attack. Joe Keedy was shown the full extent of the damage by Rabbi Hirsch. When he broke away, the sergeant was confronted by Herbert Stone.

‘What are you going to do about this?’ demanded Stone.

‘As you can see, sir, we’ve assigned two uniformed policemen to stand guard here. That will continue around the clock.’

‘It’s too little, too late. We needed protection beforehand.’

‘We had no indication that the place was in danger.’

‘When the situation is highly volatile, as it is at present, then it’s always in danger. You should have foreseen that, Sergeant.’

‘We’re not fortune-tellers, Mr Stone,’ said Keedy, determined not to be browbeaten. ‘We can’t predict the future. The question you should be asking is not why this synagogue was attacked, but why none of the others in London was singled out.’

Stone blenched. ‘Is that true? Ours is the only one?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Keedy was not pleased to see him. He had simply come to take stock of the damage and to see if there were any clues that pointed to the culprits. Unhappily, there were none so far. A man walking his dog reported seeing a lorry driving away at high speed but it could not definitely be connected with the blaze. Detectives were still going from house to house in the vicinity in search of potential witnesses.

Stone clearly took an almost proprietorial interest in the synagogue and, judging by the way the two men talked together earlier, he seemed to be an intimate friend of Rabbi Hirsch. Since he could not avoid speaking to Stone, Keedy took advantage of the opportunity to question him.

‘I understand that you had more than a passing interest in your brother’s business affairs,’ he said. ‘Is that true, sir?’

Stone’s jaw tightened. ‘What if it is?’

‘You even had some say in who was employed there.’

‘Jacob always turned to me for advice.’

‘It was rather more than advice, Mr Stone. When I interviewed Howard Fine, he told me that you’d dismissed him in person.’

‘He should have gone much sooner,’ said Stone with disdain.

‘Why was that?’

‘He did not belong, Sergeant.’

‘Your brother apparently thought he did.’

‘He was the only one who did. Fine was a disruptive influence.’

‘In what way?’ asked Keedy, surprised. ‘He struck me as a rather harmless and inoffensive fellow.’

‘You didn’t have to work alongside him.’

‘Neither did you, sir.’

‘I picked up the vibrations from the other members of staff,’ said Stone, bristling. ‘Burridge loathed him and — though he was far too well bred to voice his concerns — so did Mr Cohen, the manager. Howard Fine was a mistake. That’s why I sent him on his way.’

‘Do you think that he could be vindictive?’

Stone glared. ‘His type often can be.’

‘What exactly do you mean by “his type”?’ asked Keedy.

‘I leave you to guess. But if you’re asking if he should be treated as a possible suspect, the answer is no. Howard Fine wouldn’t have the guts to seek revenge,’ said Stone, contemptuously. ‘As far as I was concerned, his departure was a case of good riddance to bad rubbish.’

‘Yet he was able to find employment almost immediately.’

‘Then he’s someone else’s problem now.’

Keedy was puzzled. When he’d spoken to Fine, there’d been no hint of vengefulness in the man. He’d accepted his dismissal and found more amenable work elsewhere. Evidently, there had been a deeper rift in the Jermyn Street shop than the tailor had indicated. What had actually happened during his time there, and why was Stone showing such animosity towards a man with whom he hardly ever came into contact? What had Howard Fine done to upset him?

Stone shifted the conversation to another former employee.

‘You’re going to ask me about Burridge next, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘I might as well tell you that I wasn’t sorry to see him go. That was no reflection on his work, mind you — it was exceptional. But his manner could be abrasive,’ said Stone. ‘He was respectful towards me and my brother, of course, but Mr Cohen had difficulties with him.’

‘Did he complain about them?’

‘No, Sergeant — David Cohen wouldn’t do that. He never told tales. He believed in settling differences by means of tact and diplomacy.’

‘According to the inspector,’ said Keedy, ‘Cyril Burridge was far from being either tactful or diplomatic. In fact, the wonder is that he lasted so long in your brother’s shop.’

‘He had his virtues,’ conceded Stone, ‘and he knew how to keep his head down whenever Jacob and I were about. When he was given his notice, however, he told me precisely what he thought of me and he didn’t mince his words.’ He smiled, darkly. ‘My back is broad,’ he boasted. ‘Insults like that just bounce off me.’

Keedy wanted to pursue the topic but the rabbi was beckoning Stone over to him. The sergeant managed to get in one more question.

‘How is your niece bearing up, sir?’

‘Not too well,’ admitted Stone. ‘Ruth is still reeling from what happened to her and to her father. She’s still very fearful.’

‘There’s no need to be,’ said Keedy. ‘Gatliffe would never dare to go anywhere near her and Cochran is safely locked up in prison. She has nothing to fear from either of them.’

When the telephone call came, Sir Edward Henry was as annoyed as he was disturbed. After ridding himself of some biting criticism, he left the room and headed down the corridor to Harvey Marmion’s office. He knocked on the door then let himself in. Seated behind his desk, Marmion looked up from the report he was studying. He could see from the commissioner’s expression that something dramatic had occurred.

‘What’s the trouble, Sir Edward?’ he asked.

‘I’ve just had a phone call from the Home Office.’

‘And?’

‘The staff at Wandsworth can’t do their job properly.’

Marmion understood. ‘Oliver Cochran?’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Edward. ‘Somehow — God knows how — he’s managed to escape and is on the run.’

Major Raymond Marmion was such an irregular visitor to the house that Ellen always made a fuss of him when he did turn up. He had called in that afternoon to borrow his brother’s lawnmower and was immediately pressed to have tea, sandwiches and a slice of homemade chocolate cake. To someone who deliberately led a fairly spartan existence, it was a rare moment of indulgence for him.

‘Since I joined the Army,’ he said, relishing the cake, ‘I’ve had to make far more tea than I ever have chance to drink. I just get so much more pleasure out of satisfying the needs of others.’

‘You’re a saint, Ray.’

‘We don’t believe in canonisation.’

‘Well, you should do.’ Ellen cut herself a slice of cake. ‘I hear that Alice came to see you to discuss this mad idea she has of joining the Women’s Emergency Corps.’