‘But how will you get him to talk about anything we want to hear? You can’t exactly get out your notebook between numbers and ask his precise whereabouts on the night of his cousin’s murder. He’s not a fool, though people would like to believe he is.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. Shall I pick you up at eight? Explain to your father, will you? I wouldn’t like him to have any misgivings.’
‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t misconstrue the situation, Commander. Or should I call you Joe now we’re walking out?’
‘Everything all right, sir?’ enquired Charlie, righting the disturbed furniture as he entered to take away the tea tray. ‘Bit of a racket in here?’
‘Perfectly all right. Some of these young women police can be remarkably clumsy. Have you noticed the size of their feet? Don’t seem to know where to put them. No – leave those mugs, will you? Take the rest of the things away but leave the mugs. And here’s a file to go back to its home. Oh, and, officially, I’m out for the rest of the day to anyone except Inspector Cottingham.’
He reached for the telephone.
‘Larry? Look, I’m sorry to bother you again. Tell me – is the department still . . . um . . . expediting work on the Jagow-Joliffe case? No counter order as yet? Excellent! I’ll be bringing you a little extra.’
It couldn’t possibly be the same girl, Joe decided, as he sat next to Tilly in the taxi. A short, spangled red dress and matching shoes, a black velvet wrap clutched around her scented shoulders, huge eyes and red mouth and a general air of lively anticipation made him wonder. No, not the same girl. But, whoever she was, they made a handsome pair, he thought, not unaware that he always looked his best in evening dress. He nervously adjusted his white tie.
The Haymarket was bustling with motor cars and taxis and all seemed to be heading for the Kit-Cat. One hand lightly on his arm, Tilly watched with an assumed lack of interest but with bated breath as Joe presented his credentials at the door and was hurried through with a warm smile and a wink.
The assault on the senses was overwhelming. Joe stood for a moment, enjoying the loud laughter and bold glances, the whirl of colour against the austere black and white background of the men’s evening dress, the musky hot blend of female sweat overlaid by expensive perfume. And all were moving joyfully to the creamy sounds of a jazz band. They were whisked through the milling guests by a maître d’hôtel who led them out on to the gallery where diners were gathering, drinking cocktails at small tables overlooking the huge dance floor below. The sounds of ‘Whispering’, always the band’s opening number, spiralled up from the stage, lifting Joe’s spirits further. With a rush of pleasure he slipped an arm around Tilly’s slender waist and she raised an excited face to his.
‘Oh, Joe! We’re not too late. Isn’t this wonderful!’
She reached up and kissed his cheek, murmuring, ‘They’re right next to us.’
‘I never like to leave things to chance,’ he murmured back, slipping a folded white banknote into the maître d’hôtel’s discreet hand.
‘Un moment, monsieur.’ Their guide spoke to a couple seated at one of the best tables at the edge of the balcony with a good view of the nine-piece band and the dance floor. With many a gesture he was enquiring whether he might impose on them to share their table with two other guests . . . so crowded this evening, you understand . . .
Before a refusal could be risked, Tilly had rushed forward with an excited shriek. ‘Joanna! Well, good heavens! Fancy seeing you here! How wonderful! But I hear you’re engaged now?’
‘Oh, Tilly! Do come and sit with us and I’ll introduce you . . .’
She seemed all too delighted to have company at her table. Perhaps tête-à-têtes with Monty were beginning to lose their charm?
Joe had to fight back a laugh to hear the innocent little girl’s voice identical to the one Tilly had used on the telephone. Joanna was a knockout. She was slim and dark-haired like Tilly with a short nose and full, pouting lips. Her green, heavy-lidded eyes moved slowly and speculatively over Joe. He felt uneasy with her appraisal and fought down an urge to run a finger around his collar. With a sudden smile, she released him from scrutiny and began to perform the introductions.
‘My fiancé, Sir Montagu Mathurin . . .’
‘My friend, Commander Sandilands . . .’
Too late, Tilly heard her faux pas. Surprisingly, it was Mathurin who unwittingly rescued the situation. ‘Naval man, eh? Might have guessed! Put your head too close to the boom, hey, what?’ he laughed, looking at Joe’s scarred forehead.