enjoy yourself.’
He waited until the young man had gone, then followed him back into the hall and stood watching, hands in pockets, while the dancers slowly circled the floor. He was lost in thought, however, and failed to notice Helen’s wave as she passed by; nor did he see the kiss his daughter blew him. It was only when a massive figure finally positioned itself directly in front of him, demanding his attention, that he was forced to return to the present.
‘Will!’ Madden collected himself with a start. ‘I was about to come looking for you.’
‘Were you, sir?’ Stackpole’s broad smile belied his tone, which was disbelieving. ‘You looked like you were miles away.’ Out of his uniform for once, the Highfield bobby was sporting a dark suit of ancient cut fraying a little at the edges.
‘No, really. I’ve a question for you. A problem, rather …’
‘Let’s hear it, then.’ Stackpole drained the glass he was carrying in a single swallow.
‘How difficult would it be to discover the whereabouts of a young woman living not too far away from here — at least that’s my assumption — name unknown, but Polish by origin?’
‘An alien?’
‘Oh, yes. And in much the same sort of situation as Rosa was, I imagine.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Stackpole frowned.
‘I’ve just learned they were on the same train going up to London that day. This other girl was taking some food up with her, just as Rosa did. So she’s probably living in or near a village rather than a town. And somewhere down the line from here, because she was already on the train when Rosa boarded it.’
Stackpole pondered the question. ‘Have you got a description of her?’ he asked.
‘Not a very good one. She’s about Rosa’s age, but redhaired. Nothing beyond that.’
‘Polish, though — that’s the point.’ The constable nodded wisely. ‘It won’t be too difficult. A few telephone calls should do the trick.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Wherever she is, she must be registered with the police. She’s an alien after all. And if she’s living in a village or in the countryside, she’ll have done that with the local bobby, same as Rosa did with me. It’s just a matter of checking the stations where the train stops and talking to the bobbies involved. I know most of them, by name at any rate, at least as far as Petersfield. I’ll start calling in the morning.’
‘Would you? I’d appreciate that. It’s not something I want to bother Mr Sinclair with, not at this stage. I’m just curious …’
‘Curious, sir?’
‘I’ve just been talking to that young pilot over there, the one with the scarred face. He was also on the train, in the same compartment as the girls, in fact. I think Ash may have looked in for a moment when they stopped at Guildford. Shown his face. Something happened there. The pilot noticed it. Rosa may have recognized him, and if so it would explain why he moved to kill her so quickly afterwards. What I want to find out is whether Rosa said anything about it to this other girl.’
Stackpole was silent, taking in the information. Then he shrugged.
‘Can’t see that it’ll help much with the investigation, sir, even if you do find out. Nor with the hunt for this fellow Ash.’
‘That’s true.’
Madden acknowledged the fact with a rueful smile and a nod.
‘It’s why I don’t want to bother the chief inspector. He’s got enough on his plate. But apart from the air-raid warden Rosa bumped into in Bloomsbury, this girl was probably the last person she spoke to, and if so, I want to know that.’
He nodded to himself, as if in response to some unuttered thought.
‘I want to hear what passed between them.’
24
It had stopped snowing when Lily woke up the next morning, and after snatching a mouthful of breakfast with Aunt Betty in the kitchen — Uncle Fred wasn’t on duty until later that day and was still snoring in bed — she went out with a bowl of beef dripping wrapped in greaseproof paper in her hands and a list of errands in her pocket. The dripping was to be delivered to Ada Chapworth, who had a house in Star Street, fifteen minutes’ walk from Orsett Terrace where the Pooles lived, in return for four pig’s trotters, which Lily was then to take to the Harwood residence, just across the Edgware Road, in Marylebone, where she would receive in exchange from Ellie Harwood half a pound of sugar, a jar of home-made cherry jam and three eggs.
‘And make sure none of them’s cracked,’ Aunt Betty had told her niece before she set off. ‘That Ellie’s a sharp one.’
Ever since rationing had been introduced, the trade in bartered goods had grown steadily, and with the shops, despite the approach of Christmas, emptier than ever, housewives had learned to exercise their ingenuity. Lily didn’t bother with it herself — she tended to eat her main meal of the day, unappetizing though it usually was, in a police canteen — but she knew how much it meant to her aunt to keep up standards at home and she was happy to do her the favour.
As luck would have it, however, her route to Mrs Chapworth took her down Praed Street, and as she went by the Astor cafe she stopped for a moment to peer through the steamed-up window. Four women were sitting together at a table at the back of the cramped room, and, having paused to check their faces, Lily tucked the bowl of dripping safely under one arm and pushed the door open.
‘Merry Christmas, ladies.’
She crossed to where they were sitting, collecting a chair from another table as she went and signalling to the apronclad man behind the counter with a nod and a gesture that she wanted teas served all round. As she sat down, one of the tarts spoke up.
‘Look what the cat dragged in. Where’d you get that coat? Down the flea market?’
The speaker was a heavily built woman whose breasts bulged over the top of her low-cut dress. The garment she referred to was Lily’s ‘utility’ coat. Being off-duty she wasn’t wearing her uniform and she ignored the jibe.
‘Hello, Molly,’ she said, addressing her remark to another of the group, a younger woman with peroxide hair who was sitting by the wall. Red-eyed and tearful, she hadn’t looked up at Lily’s approach, just gone on staring into her empty teacup. ‘I want a word with you.’
‘Let her be. Can’t you see she’s upset?’
The first woman spoke again, her tone more belligerent now. When Lily again failed to respond, she went on, What you doing here anyway, Poole? This isn’t your patch any more.’
Lily turned her head slowly to look at her.
‘What did you call me?’ she asked in a tone of disbelief.
The woman slowly went red under her gaze. She shifted her ample body in her chair.
‘Constable Poole, I meant …’ The words were spoken in a mutter.
‘And don’t you forget it.’ Lily continued to stare at her without expression for several seconds. ‘Now keep it shut, Dorrie Stubbs, or I’ll put you on a charge.’
‘For what?’
‘Sticking your nose in where it’s got no business.’
Lily wasn’t short of experience in dealing with tarts, and although she felt sorry for some of them, she’d learned to keep up a hard front. It was true they had a rotten life, but they’d chosen it themselves, or most of them had, and for the same reason: bone idleness. And you couldn’t give them an inch, she knew, because they’d take it; and anything else they could get their hands on.
‘Now if you want another cup of tea, here it comes — ’ she’d seen the counterman approaching with a loaded tray — ‘if not, bugger off. I want to ask Molly something and I don’t want any interruptions.’
‘What you want with me?’ In spite of her quiet sobbing, Molly Minter had been listening. The mascara was running down her cheeks from the corners of her eyes as she looked up. ‘I don’t know nothing.’
‘You knew Horace Quill if I’m not mistaken.’