The Bee's Kiss(60)

Men of integrity, men with a fire in their belly, men ready to take a term in one of HM’s prisons to flaunt their dedication to a cause – these were men who would be respected by a romantic like Joe but feared by the state.

Joe looked again at the few words scribbled on Bill’s sheet. Words that could ruin a man’s prospects. He sighed. He hoped he hadn’t added two and two and made five.

On closing it, he was struck by the unusual slimness of the file. He’d established that the surveillance sheets were missing. But there was more. Where was the usual clutter? Where were the loose paper-clipped sheets of commendation, requests for leave, sickness reports? Where also was the all-important war record? If this had been lost, Joe could have dictated a replacement, for the time of his involvement with Bill, at least. It would have begun with the words: ‘This man is, in the estimation of his commanding officer, the very best the country has to offer. He is one hundred per cent loyal, fearless, energetic, intelligent and resourceful.’ It could have gone on with illustrations for pages.

Joe was left holding the bones of the sergeant’s file. The flesh had gone somewhere else. He scribbled a note to Charlie to fetch him from the finance department any stipendiary documents and overtime schedules held on the sergeant. He didn’t think interest would have stretched as far as this lowly section. He might strike lucky.

A smart rap on the door interrupted his thoughts and he hurriedly placed the file in a drawer and called, ‘Come in!’

‘Not interrupting anything, sir, I see!’ said Armitage, cheekily surveying the suspiciously empty surface of Joe’s desk. ‘There’s two of us. I’ve got the constable with me.’

Joe pressed the buzzer. ‘Charlie – two more mugs, please.’

They settled themselves purposefully opposite Joe and each took out a notebook. Joe wondered whether to break the news that the case was on the point of being closed down, the hounds called off, and decided to hear them out.

‘We gave up and returned to base when we’d collected the eighth corroborative statement, sir. We started with the name he gave us and we were passed on from one to another – names and addresses. “You really ought to speak to old so and so. He’s bound to remember . . .” That sort of thing. Went like a breeze! I spoke to the gentlemen and the constable interviewed the ladies, seeing as how some of them . . . all of them,’ he corrected at a look from Tilly, ‘were in a state of déshabillé.’

‘This class of person keeps late hours with a correspondingly late rising,’ said Tilly crisply.

Joe could feel for the poor inhabitants of bohemian Bloomsbury being faced with this wide-awake pair before they’d properly surfaced. ‘And could you get any sense out of this dissolute mob?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Armitage confidently. ‘Too befuddled still to make anything up. Some of them were where they shouldn’t ought to have been, if you follow, and very eager to trade an honest testimony for a touch of police discretion. Tap the side of your nose and wink –’ he demonstrated the technique and Joe winced – ‘and they’ll eat out of your hand. Never fails!’

‘And the upshot was . . .?’

‘A majority confirmation that Orlando was where he said he was. Just as he predicted, sir, some swore he wasn’t there at the Cheval Bleu nightclub, others were equally confident that he was.’ He paused and pretended to refer to his notebook. ‘But all those who were at the club tell the same story. It must have made a great impression because they all agree on the details down to the red tights and the mismatched socks. One black, one blue it was, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Looks as though Orlando’s in the clear. As far as we’re concerned, that is!’

Joe nodded. ‘Westhorpe? Any jarring notes?’

‘The same responses, sir. Oh, and to fill in the remainder of Mr Jagow-Joliffe’s night of adventure, we managed to find the blue door he referred to – the house from which he fled to the station to return home.’

‘Yes? And is he lucky enough to have the lady’s corroboration of his unscheduled overnight stay?’

‘Two, in fact, sir!’

‘Two? Two nights?’

‘No. Two ladies. On the same night. The night in question. They remembered him clearly. They had some hard things to say on the subject of Mr Jagow-Joliffe.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It would appear that he failed properly to establish the precise terms of his welcome and by shooting off before cock-crow next morning, he left behind him the distinct impression that he had . . . would the expression be “welshed on the deal”, sir?’