At exactly twelve fifteen he was given the nod by the maître d’hôtel and he embarked on the next stage of his surveillance. He was being cleared, as arranged, to make a tour of inspection of the exterior of the hotel. Action at last. A real job to do. His muscles began to tense in anticipation. It would be good to escape from this overheated room and overloud laughter to clear his lungs in the sharp London air. But he only had the designated half-hour. He slipped away and, having given a brief nod to young Robert by the lift, he hurried to pick up his bag of equipment from the staff cloakroom. On a wet dark night like this he needed his police-issue flashlight and some protection for his uniform. He couldn’t come dripping back into the party room without raising a few eyebrows even amongst this paralytic mob.
Alert and purposeful once more, Armitage stepped out into the chilly April night.
Chapter Two
Joe Sandilands had just been to a performance of No, No, Nanette at the Palace Theatre. He was in the kind of mood that only a third exposure to those tinkling tunes could bring on. It was always a mistake to ask a girl what she wanted to see. And a carefully timed three-second farewell kiss on a face-powdered cheek was no reward for two hours of tedium. Here he was on the doorstep of her family home in Belgrave Square, the rather grand doorstep of a rather grand house. The house of the Second Sea Lord, he understood. The lights in the hall clicked on in response when she rang the bell.
‘Oh, I say!’ she said in tones of mock surprise. ‘Golly! It looks as though Daddy has waited up. He’s dying to meet you. Won’t you step inside for a nightcap or something?’
Joe explained that he had to dash away to call in at the Yard on his way home and with a hurried promise to ring her the next day he walked as swiftly as manners would permit out of range of a naval engagement. ‘Never more, Nanette!’ Joe promised himself with relief. ‘And never more Elspeth Orr!’
Morosely Joe flagged a passing taxi. Satisfactorily, he did not need to give any directions to the cabby. They most of them now knew him by sight.
‘Had a good evening, Super? No, No, Nanette, was it?’ (Good Lord! He’d been humming out loud!) ‘Couldn’t be doing with it myself but the wife enjoyed it.’
They spent a happy few minutes agreeing that it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be (‘enjoyed that Rose Marie though’) and set off west towards the Victoria Embankment, turned right and drove onwards following the river. Soon the uncompromising bulk of Lot’s Road power station loomed through the dusk and this to Joe was truly home. Amongst the clutter surrounding that unattractive edifice there was a small four-storey block of flats converted from the power station offices and now the property of a retired police sergeant and his wife. Not many could understand why Joe should elect to live in this manifestly unfashionable if not to say squalid corner of Chelsea but their wonder turned to understanding when, trusting themselves to the wheezing rope-operated hydraulic lift, they arrived on the top floor and found themselves with one of the finest views of the river in London with its constant procession of river traffic: sailing barges with red-brown sails crowding the timber-yard, lighters, police launches passing up and down, all to the soothing accompaniment of hooters and sirens and, perpetually, the thresh and rustle of passing tugs.
As he stood at his window watching the navigation lights below and loosening his tie, Joe’s thoughts were interrupted by a series of clicks announcing an incoming call. Well, at least there’d been one good line in the musical. ‘Tea for two’ – how did it go? ‘We won’t let them know, dear, that we own a telephone, dear . . .’
Only one person would ring him at one o’clock in the morning.
Generations of past good living had imparted to his boss, Sir Nevil Macready, a fruity resonance that was unmistakable. ‘There you are, Sandilands!’ he boomed.
Joe could not deny it. His boss knew he kept no butler. But the important thing with Sir Nevil was ever to retain the initiative. ‘Good morning, Sir Nevil,’ he said cheerily. ‘You’re up early! Is there anything I can do?’ This was not such a silly question as might appear because Sir Nevil was quite capable of ringing up at any moment of the night or day just for a chat. But this was not one of those occasions.
‘Got a little problem,’ he said.
An invariable opening. It signified nothing. If the entire royal family had been gunned down at a world premiere this would have been ‘a little problem’. If he’d lost the address of ‘that restaurant where we had lunch the other day’ this would, likewise, have been ‘a little problem’ and one which he would not have hesitated to air with Joe at midnight or even one o’clock. This time however it seemed his little problem was quite a big problem.
‘Just up your street. Incident requiring the most careful handling. Possible military – or I should say naval – implications. You’re the obvious chap for the job so just drop anything else you may be involved with and handle it. Woman got herself bludgeoned to death at the Ritz. Are you familiar with the Ritz?’
‘Reasonably familiar, yes. Are you going to tell me some more about this?’
‘Yes. Ever heard of Dame Beatrice Jagow-Joliffe? Ridiculous name! Ever heard of her?’
‘Er . . . yes, but I can’t think for the moment in what connection.’
‘That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to know!’ said Sir Nevil reprovingly. ‘I’ll have to help you. One of the founding fathers or perhaps I should say founding mothers of the Women’s Royal Naval Service. The Wrens. Alarmingly distinguished but formidable nuisance if you ask me. And evidently somebody must have thought likewise because she’s just been murdered. In the Ritz! Can’t tell you what a hoo-ha there’ll be when the news gets out. Many thought the damn woman was God. Or Florence Nightingale. Or Boadicea or some other heroine of our Rough Island Story, with a wide following – mostly of silly girls – silly old fools too (many of them in the Admiralty), stretching from here to Portsmouth. I spoke to the manager just now and, I can tell you, they’re not giving a damn for Dame Beatrice – all they want is no publicity. I told them I was sending my best chap. Discretion guaranteed. Right, Joe? I’m handing this over to you and we’ll talk about it in the morning. As luck – or good management – would have it, we’ve got a chap in place already. A detective sergeant. You can liaise with him. Um . . .’
There was a pause while Sir Nevil, Joe guessed, rustled through his notes. ‘You’re not obliged, of course, to make any further use of this chap once you’ve taken his statement. I mean – feel free to pick your own team, what!’ A further pause. ‘In fact, there seems to be, perhaps I ought to tell you, something of a question mark against his name. May be nothing . . . Anyway, I’ve arranged for an inspector and some uniformed support for you and I suppose you’d better have a police surgeon . . . oh, and one of those photography fellows you’re so keen on. . . . Won’t be long before the place is swarming with reporters so I suggest you get dressed and go on down there.’
‘I am dressed. I’d only just got home.’
‘Only just got home! Some people live for pleasure alone! If you were any good at your job you’d get an early night occasionally. Oh, and Joe, what was the name of that young woman . . . Millicent something or other . . . Millicent Westwood?’
By a mighty effort Joe deduced that he was referring to Mathilda. Mathilda Westhorpe was a woman police constable. She’d worked with him on a recent job and had obviously impressed Sir Nevil. She’d impressed Joe too. Sir Nevil was not easily impressed but, almost alone of the higher echelons of Scotland Yard, he was at this time tremendously in favour of the women police and during his recent spell as Commissioner had, whilst trimming their numbers, managed to establish them as a regular arm of the force.