‘Dame who?’ grinned Armitage.
‘Except that I shan’t have forgotten.’
‘Still ferreting, sir?’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact I got more than I bargained for down at King’s Hanger.’
Joe outlined the evidence he’d discovered for the existence of the Hive. And Donovan’s involvement.
‘Bugger me!’ said Armitage, round-eyed. ‘Are you telling me that she stood there – the Dame, I mean – and took photos of the girls in flagrante delicto with that . . . that . . .’
‘Lothario?’ suggested Joe.
‘Can’t we get him for something?’ said Armitage hopefully.
‘I wouldn’t like to have to specify the offence on the charge sheet,’ said Joe. ‘Are you curious, I wonder, Bill, as to what’s really behind all this? They obviously had blackmail of some kind in mind – or coercion. I don’t believe money was involved so what on earth could this unholy pair have been extracting from these girls?’
Armitage shrugged. ‘You don’t need to be an expert at differential calculus to work it out. Come on, sir! It’s sex and sadism! They’ve been reading some French books they shouldn’t oughter. But anyway – it doesn’t matter now. I was hoping you’d called me in to say we’d got fixed up with another job?’
Joe side-stepped the question. ‘Power. That’s what it was all about, I’d guess. With evidence like that hidden away and a threat to send copies to . . . parents perhaps? Rich, well-placed members of society with a good name to lose? “Dear Admiral X, You will be interested to see the enclosed art study of your daughter Amelia enjoying the company of a naval petty officer. Signed, A Wellwisher.”
‘Two girls from the Hive committed suicide, Bill, I do believe as a result of this pressure. And that also deserves to be properly investigated. They chose death rather than dishonour for their family but above all they were rejecting something else: whatever it was they would be required to say or do or give when the Dame pressed the button. And what I intend to find out is where precisely was that button and what was at the other end.’
Armitage was silent for a while. When he spoke his voice had taken on a firmness and even steeliness Joe had never heard before. ‘God! You don’t give up, do you? Listen, Captain! I’m telling you! You said to me the other day down in Surrey that you loved your country enough to fight a bloody war all over again if you had to. Well, there’s no need for such a dramatic gesture. You can do your country a favour by doing nothing. Nothing! Is that so difficult? I shouldn’t be saying this but you always were a pig-headed bastard.’ He smiled when he delivered the insult. ‘Tell me you understand, sir. Both our careers depend on it.’
So, the gloves had finally come off.
Joe’s reply was polite, teasing even but deadly: ‘Your career? Now which one are you thinking of, Bill? The career outlined in your doctored CID file? The file that omits to mention your physical impairment? We can forgive them that omission, I think, since there’s nothing wrong with either leg. Nothing to stop you playing a nifty game of alley football with your young Russian pals. And all that clever reverse stepping through Soho on the night of the murder! Perhaps there’s another file that reveals you’re actually an understudy for Fred Astaire? Or is it John Barrymore whose talents you emulate? “Let me do the climb, sir!” All that tight-lipped, white-knuckled drama! I should have asked for an encore.
‘Or have you in mind the file that will never be open to my eyes? What name is stamped on the cover? Foreign Office? Special Branch? MI5? Room 40 . . .’
‘No name,’ said Armitage, shaking his head almost regretfully. ‘No name.’
‘Thought probably not,’ said Joe, heavily. His worst fears had been confirmed with those two words. He patted his pockets, feeling for his cigarettes and encountering the reassuring bulk of his Browning revolver in his left pocket.
‘Cigarette, Bill? No? I think I’ll have one . . . calm the old nerves . . .’
He lit a Players and was careful to hold it in his right hand as he always did.
‘There have been whispers about a department that no one seems to be able to put a name to. One that no one wants to believe exists. Not in this country that we all love. After all, it’s the sort of thing foreigners get up to, isn’t it? Russians, Turkomen, Balkans . . . probably even the Frogs if we did but know it . . . they all go in for a little discreet . . . assassination. But not the British! No, no! Not the British! Remuneration good, is it? What did they pay you for killing the Dame, Bill?’