‘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.’
At the sound of the name, Molly burst into a fresh bout of tears.
‘There — see what you’ve done.’
Dorrie patted the hand lying on the table beside hers. The other two girls who Lily didn’t know — they must have been new since her time at Paddington — looked uneasy. Their fresh cups of tea stood untouched before them. Ignoring the fuss she’d started, Lily pressed on.
‘Have you talked to the law yet?’ she asked Molly. ‘Have you been interviewed?’
‘How could she?’ Dorrie demanded before her friend had time to answer. She only got back from Streatham last evening. Went to see her old mum, she did. First thing she hears is someone’s topped her feller.’
The answer was as Lily had feared, and it gave her pause. She knew she ought to back off now and leave this to Paddington. Roy Cooper would want first bite of any witness and he wouldn’t take kindly to her interfering. But she was reluctant to abandon the idea that had prompted her to enter the cafe and she told herself one question wouldn’t do any harm.
‘All right, listen now.’ She tapped her teaspoon on the table to get Molly’s attention. ‘This won’t take a second. Was Horace dealing in dodgy cards and ration books still? You can tell me. He’s dead now, so it won’t make no difference.’
Molly delayed her answer while she wiped her eyes; then she shook her head. ‘He’d stopped all that. He told me so himself. Said he’d learned his lesson.’ She choked back a sob. ‘We was going to get married …’
Disappointed by the reply she’d got — she was hoping Quill had been up to his old tricks again — Lily rolled her eyes in disbelief.
‘It was true.’ Molly roused herself. She glared at Lily. ‘Just cause you ain t got no one …
‘Mind your lip.’ Lily scowled. ‘And you too, Dorrie Stubbs,’ she added, catching the big tart’s eye and seeing she was about to add a comment of her own.
‘He’d been getting some money together,’ Molly continued doggedly. He said we was going to get hitched. He’d been working on a job. Proper work, too.’
‘What do you mean — proper work?’
‘Being a private detective and all.’
‘Oh, that …’ Lily swallowed her disappointment. ‘Look, I’m sorry for your loss.’
Feeling she might have been a little hard on the poor cow,Lily patted her arm and rose to leave. Her idea had turned out to be a dud and she was wishing now she had left Molly Minter to the Paddington CID. Word of this chat she’d had with one of their witnesses was bound to get back to them, and there’d likely be ructions.
‘He’d got a client who was paying good money, too.’ Molly wasn’t finished yet. ‘Wads of it, Horace said.’
Wanting to be off, Lily hesitated; her curiosity was piqued.
‘What sort of job?’ she asked. ‘Divorce case?’
‘Nah — missing persons.’ Molly sniffed.
Well, that was no surprise, Lily thought, as she buttoned her coat and picked up her bowl of dripping. For all sorts of reasons the war had led to people disappearing from their usual haunts. (Some had done it on purpose; flown the coop.) The police didn’t have time to look for them, not unless foul play was suspected. From what she’d heard, private detectives were making a mint tracking them down.
‘Who was he looking for, then?’
The question came from Dorrie. Lily had already turned away and was heading for the door. But when she heard Molly’s reply she stopped dead in her tracks and did a quick about-turn.
‘What now …?’ Dorrie began in a petulant tone, but Lily cut her off with a fierce gesture.
‘What was that you said?’ she demanded, fixing her gaze on Molly’s upturned face, peering into her wide, tear-stained eyes. ‘Who did he say he was looking for?’
Delayed by a breakdown in the Underground — he had sat fuming for half an hour stuck between St James’s Park and Westminster — Sinclair was late for his morning conference with the assistant commissioner. It was nearly ten o’clock by the time he limped down the corridor to Miss Ellis’s office with the crime report, and it was plain from the agitated look on Bennett’s secretary’s face when he opened the door that his absence had not gone unnoticed.
‘Oh, there you are, Chief Inspector.’
Middle-aged and fluttery, Millicent Ellis had been a fixture at the Yard for almost as long as Sinclair himself. A small woman with mouse-coloured hair cut to fit her head like a cap and wire-rimmed glasses, she had served as Bennett’s secretary for the past dozen years and was devoted to his well-being.