‘I wouldn’t advise such a course of action, Edith. Listen – tell you a story . . . last week one of our lads was reported for having it off with some trollop in the park. It was broad daylight and he was wearing – well, half wearing – his uniform at the time. A crowd gathered. Certain amount of public disorder broke out. Bets being placed . . . underage ruffians shouting encouragement . . . you can imagine the scene. What do you think happened? A mild reprimand. On that scale my governor will buy me a jar of ale when he’s sent you off with a flea in your ear. Not a good idea to snitch on the police, Edith. We look after our own.’
She rallied and then attempted a last defiance, her pretty face twisted into ugliness by petulance. ‘Well, they might be interested in hearing what you get up to on Tuesday nights, my lad! Ha! Didn’t know I knew that, did you? I thought you might’ve got yourself a fresh piece on the side and I followed you. I saw where you went and asked about a bit. Very surprising! Nobody likes your kind! Things like that can get you into a lot of trouble. Someone might end up with a red face if ’is bosses found out. Very red! Now – what’s ’is name? That officer you’re so fond of? Sandilands! That’s it! I’ll go down the Yard and have a word with him!’
Her scornful laughter was cut short as Armitage leaned across the bed. With a quick flick of his strong wrists he flung off the sheet and stared stonily down at her as she wriggled helplessly, clutching at her shell-pink celanese shift. His voice was soft, polite and totally chilling. ‘Don’t try sounding off like that, Edith. It would be the last unwelcome noise you ever made.’
Choking back his rage and disgust, Armitage scrambled into his clothes and made for the Russian Steam Baths in Brick Lane to wash away the night’s sourness. They’d be open by now. When he was thoroughly cleansed he would go home and change into something suitable for his morning’s assignment. He’d go through the motions, carry out Sandilands’ instructions to the letter and a fat lot of use it would be. Armitage knew where the case was going.
He grimaced as he remembered a chequered schooling in a drab Victorian building a few streets away from here. His best mate who sat on his form was a special kid. Clever was an understatement. Especially when it came to arithmetic. He could always figure out the answer in a flash. In his head. He didn’t need to work it out on his slate. One day he’d sung out the answer to a problem before the teacher had even finished chalking it on the board. The teacher had swung round, purple with rage, and accused Dickie of cheating. He’d called him out to the front for ten whacks with the ruler. Armitage had protested. ‘But sir! That’s not fair! Where would he get the answer? None of us knows it!’
And he had joined Dickie at the front for ten cuts for insolence. Armitage clenched his fists. The pain still burned. But it had taught him a valuable lesson that the teacher had no suspicion of. Never appear to get ahead of the boss. Walk a pace behind, looking over his shoulder. Let him think he’s making the running and tell him how clever he is when he gets there in the end. It might take longer but at least you’ll come out of it smelling of roses.
He wondered whether to broach the subject of his Tuesday night activities with Sandilands. Better to hear an explanation from his own mouth probably. Up-front, honest, nothing to hide. That’s the tone that worked with the Commander. Sandilands was clever – worldly even, he would have said. Nothing much would surprise him. Yes, he’d bring it up before he was challenged. No need to chuck old Edith in the Thames. Not yet.
Chapter Twelve
Joe left his taxi at Westminster Bridge and continued on foot along the river, shouldering his way through the crowds of workers beginning to flood across the bridges from the rail and underground stations. In they came, a stream of black bowler hats and overcoats, moving like iron filings inexorably drawn to the magnet of the city. He approached New Scotland Yard from the Embankment, ducking through the high wrought-iron gate left permanently wide open, day and night, to welcome members of the public. He paused, in a ritual that had developed over the seven years he had been presenting himself at the building, to cast an offended eye on the streaky-bacon stone and red brick layers of Norman Shaw’s Scottish Baronial confection before hurrying up three flights of stairs to his office overlooking Horseguards and the crowding tree tops of St James’s Park.
A figure lurking by his door stepped forward with a cry of welcome. Inspector Cottingham, Joe reckoned, must have the most sensitive moustache ends in the business. They quivered at the slightest emotion and at this moment they were vibrating with excitement. His assistant had obviously been lying in wait for Joe in the corridor and he followed him unceremoniously into his office, juggling two bulging cardboard folders from arm to arm. ‘Glad to see you in early, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, sir,’ he said jovially, standing to attention on the other side of Joe’s gleaming walnut desk.