Cal whispered. ‘Walter, this guy is blind!’
‘Trust me,’ Stilton whispered back.
The man sitting next to Potts was his logical opposite. A tiny man, his shoulders only slightly higher than the table, his eyes wide and bright, a mass of red hair spiralling off in all directions. Now, he whispered to Potts.
‘No, Mr Stilton. Leckie says we have not seen them.’
‘Monday. It’s Monday I was asking about.’
I.eckie whispered again.
‘We were here Monday but we don’t remember. But Leckie says we know a man who might.’
Another whisper.
‘Hudge,’ said Potts. ‘Hudge was in Monday. We are certain of that. Leckie has reminded us. We distinctly heard his lopsided shuffle. And then we heard his cough. No two men cough alike. Did you know that, Mr Stilton?’
‘A useful tip, I’m sure. About what time?’
‘Nine. It was nine, wasn’t it Leckie? And it was busy.’
‘Did Leckie see who Hudge was with?’
Another whisper.
‘We think he was alone and…’
One more whisper.
‘…and we think it’s your round. A pint for Leckie and a large malt for yours truly, Chief Inspector.’
Stilton grumbled, bought them each a drink, scribbled in his little black notebook and left, looking to Cal quite pleased with himself.
‘Hudge?’ Cal said, when they hit the street.
‘My Czech nark. I do like it when two bits meet in the middle.’
‘What’s a nark?’
‘A grass-a stool-pigeon. Needless to say, nobody else is sure of anything. Some thought they recognised ‘em, nobody was certain. And nobody would say they saw ‘em together. That lot might be dozy, they might even be lying to us, but Hudge, he’s in it for a living. If there was something going on in there on Monday he’ll have seen it. He’s a pro-one of me regulars, you might say.’
‘Then surely you know where he lives?’
‘I did. I went round there today before you were up. Nowt but rubble. Must have caught a packet last Saturday. Only one thing I know for sure, he was still alive on Monday.’
‘And there’s been no raid since?’
Stilton nodded.
‘So where do we go from here?’
‘The shelters. We do the shelters tonight.’
He looked at his watch. ‘It’s half past six. Meet me at the Yard at ten, and we’ll do the rounds.’
‘The rounds?’
‘Aye. Back East. We’ll do the Stepney shelters. Bound to be in one of ‘em.’
§ 31
Cal flopped onto the bed, eased the top button of his pants. He wished he could sleep. Stilton had given him the best part of two and a half hours. Maybe he could sleep. He closed his eyes. It wasn’t going to work. He thought about calling room service. A shot of spirits. That could do the trick. Then the phone rang.
‘Calvin? It’s me. Kitty.’
‘Hello Kitty.’
‘Wossup? You sound flat as my Aunt Flo’s Yorkshire pudding.’
‘I’m lying down. Your old man kind of ran me ragged today.’
This was a lie. It was not the day or the man that had worn him out, but the night and the daughter.
‘I could soon fix that. I get off at nine. I could be over there in a flash.’
‘Kitty, I don’t know how to say this, so maybe I should just say it as it comes. I know there’s a war on, and I figure the war does strange things to the way people behave. Men and women. But before we leap into bed again, don’t you think we should talk?’
‘Woss to talk about?’
‘I don’t know. That’s just the point. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. We met yesterday and we went straight to bed!’
‘No we didn’t. We had dinner with me mum and dad first!’
‘That’s hardly getting to know one another. Kitty, I just think we should try to get to know one another. I think we should talk.’
‘Don’t you like it with me, then?’
‘It’s not a matter of like or not like. It’s a matter of what I’m used to. You’re rewriting the rules. That takes some grasping. Let’s meet and let’s talk, as soon as we both have the time.’
‘Like I said, I get off at nine.’ ‘And I have to meet with your father at ten.’
‘Great. That’s bags o’ time. I’ll see you in the Salisbury at quarter past nine. We can have a drink and a natter.’
This wasn’t what he meant. He wished he could tell her so.
‘The Salisbury?’
‘A pub.’
‘Another one? I thought your father had already dragged me through every pub in London. Good God, how many are there?’
‘Thousands, but this particular one’s in St Martin’s Lane, on the right as you go down. See you there. Quarter past nine. OK?’
‘Kitty, I’m kind of pubbed out.’
‘Yeah-but just for me, eh?’
He felt he couldn’t win this one. His idea was to talk, to discuss, for want of a better word, the protocol of their relationship. Her idea was to prop up a bar and chat to him for half an hour.
‘I’ll be there.’
He listened to the dial tone as she rang off. Lay back on the pillow. He wanted to sleep. He wanted Kitty. He wanted Kitty and everything she had on offer. Why the guilt? What bendable but unbreakable moral imperative had his childhood seared into his character?
§ 32
Just over two hours later, Troy pushed open the door to the Saloon bar of the Salisbury. It was the nearest public house to his house, a minute’s walk away from the tiny Georgian terrace he had in Goodwin’s Court, on the opposite side of St Martin’s Lane. He was looking for Charlie-his oldest friend, they’d met on their first day at an English public school they had both loathed-and they’d stuck together ever since. About the time Troy had joined the Metropolitan Police Force, Charlie had come down from Cambridge with a third in Arabic and had joined the Irish Guards. For the first few years Charlie had shown up in uniform more often than not. Now he was a secret agent, of what precise variety he had never said and Troy had never asked, he wore civvies. Being a spook suited him. He looked like a ladykiller in or out of uniform-well over six foot, a mop of blond curls, dazzling blue eyes-and whilst it was a truism of war that a uniform attracted women like moths to a candle, Troy had never once seen Charlie disadvantaged by the lack of it. He could pull a woman as she handed him the white feather.
Charlie was sitting in a booth on the Cecil Court side, flicking through the News Chronicle, a whisky and soda at his side. He looked up as Troy sat down, eyes bright, a broad smile across his lips. He lit up, a hundred tiny physical responses-all the visible muscles expressing. Charlie was the most affectionate person-man or woman-Troy had ever known. He was clearly, genuinely delighted to see Troy. Troy might well have reciprocated-few people meant as much to him as Charlie-but he did not have the vocabulary of such affection, physical or verbal. He had not the facility with honesty. As his brother Rod put it, he was ‘a colossal fibber’-it was second nature to him to guard the truth, the truth of his own emotions not excepted-and, if nothing else, it made for a dedicated copper.
‘Freddie? What’ll you have?’
Troy hardly drank and asked for a ginger beer.
‘Bollocks. You want ginger beer you can buy your own. Have a drink, for God’s sake. Even if it’s only a half
Troy asked for Guinness. Charlie buttonholed the bloke clearing the empties and ordered half a pint of the black stuff. Troy would leave it sitting on the table, the white head slowly deflating into the black, and with any luck Charlie would never notice.
‘How’s tricks?’
‘Not much fun,’ said Troy. ‘The only good body to show up in a while got nicked from me by old Walter Stilton.’
‘Father of the luscious Kitty, eh? She’s standing at the bar right now.’