‘There’s a Russian émigré lives there. He does a bit of waiting at tables and teaches Russian in his spare time. At least he did until trade dropped off after last year’s hue and cry after reds under the beds.’ Armitage’s head went up in defiance. ‘Nobody was asking me but I thought that whole thing was a load of bollocks. A set-up, sir. I learn Russian. The language – nothing to do with politics. Always been keen on languages. This chap’s a good teacher. Inspiring. And I count him my friend.’
‘I appreciate your honesty,’ said Joe. ‘And, on a personal level, I can sympathize with what you say – but have a care, man! These are strange times. The country’s like a champion boxer who’s damn nearly been knocked down in the final round and knows he may have to pick himself up in time to fight another challenge to his title before he’s recovered. There are some who think the gauntlet’s already been thrown down.’
‘And some who think the real enemy’s closer to home. The union s, the strike they’re threatening next week. Could lead to panic and witch hunts . . . people denouncing their neighbours. Could be nasty. Civil War all over again? With the divide along class lines this time? We never did have our French-style revolution over here,’ said Armitage gloomily.
‘Have you seen the news from Parliament this week? “Rigorous measures” are being proposed to counter red tendencies in HM forces. Apparently, the loyalty of the army and navy are thought to be in danger of being undermined by what MPs are calling “the cunning and devilish ways of the communists”. They’ll be looking at the police next . . . indeed, I believe we are already under scrutiny. And I don’t much like the intemperate tub-thumping they’re having printed in the newspapers. Just take a look at today’s Mirror, Bill! Stirring stuff!’
He passed his copy over the desk. ‘I don’t often dole out advice,’ said Joe, ‘but – leave it, Bill. Leave it over. Don’t give them anything. Spend your Tuesday nights at the dogs or at the pictures. It wouldn’t be a good idea to bring down the attention of the Branch on you.’
He watched Armitage’s face closely as he mentioned the Special Branch. The political police force bridged the gap between the Met and the Intelligence Service and, surely, if anyone was taking an unhealthy interest in the sergeant, it was the Branch.
What he saw in the handsome face was not alarm or suspicion but, surprisingly, concern. Bill grinned and shook his head. ‘And I’ve never given you advice, Captain, but just this once, I’ll say: let this case go. I know what you’re like. The words bloody-minded ferret come to mind. Leave it, sir!’
They smiled at each other and shook hands.
‘Show Westhorpe in, will you?’
With Armitage’s advice still sounding, unheeded, in his ears, Joe broke into a charming smile and asked briskly, ‘Tilly. Do you happen by any chance to be free this evening?’
Guardedly she replied, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I shall be free – in the changed circumstances, sir.’
‘Jolly good! Right then. Why don’t you slip into your glad rags and I’ll take you out to a supper dance? We’ll go and cut a rug or two at the Embassy, shall we?’
Chapter Fourteen
Joe was pinned to his chair by the sudden flare of astonishment she turned on him. But, in a second, this gave way to amusement and she replied flirtatiously with a good deal of fluttering of eyelashes, ‘Oh, but sir! This is so sudden!’
Then, knowingly, ‘Who are we trailing? Monty?’
‘The very same! I’m no longer officially allowed to chat to the fellow so we’ll have to work our way around it.’
‘Can you be sure he’ll be at the Embassy tonight?’
‘No. Not certain. Inspector Cottingham has established that nightclubs are where he generally spends his evenings and this one is his favourite but . . .’
Her eyes flicked to the telephone. ‘Can you get an outside line on that?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘May I?’
She took a notebook from her bag and leafed through it then picked up the receiver and in a starched voice asked the operator to connect her with a number she read out. A few moments later, Joe was surprised to hear her asking in a breathless, little girl’s voice, ‘Oh, hello? Jenkins? Joanna here. Look, I’ve gone and forgotten where Monty asked me to meet him tonight. Drat! This is a terribly crackly line! Can you hear me? What have you got in his diary? Was it Ciro’s? No? . . . Oh, silly me! Yes, of course! Thank you, Jenkins. You are a poppet!’