‘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?’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘This is rubbish! Dangerous rubbish! It’s never going to get an airing outside these walls but even if you could get anyone to listen to this blather, you’ve got absolutely nothing.’
Pleased to have rattled him, Joe pressed on. ‘Oh, but I have. I have evidence of the best sort. The sort that would convince any Old Bailey jury. A big bold thumbprint on the poker that killed her which corresponds with your right thumb, Bill. To say nothing of your right index finger on her throat. Not so clear, that one, but the thumb’s a cracker!’ He picked up his tea mug, saluted the sergeant and set it down again. ‘Fifteen matching details, they tell me. I’ve got whorls and loops enough to hang you with.’
Bill was silent, pale and staring. If Joe had read it right, not even name, rank and number would be forthcoming from the tight lips but he decided to go on needling the sergeant anyway.
‘Why the hell did you get involved with a bunch like this? You’re doing well in the force, aren’t you? What is it? Money? An urge to kill for which you’ve found a legitimate — or, at least, state-approved — outlet?’
He wasn’t seriously expecting a response. Men in this line of work were, according to police folklore (and this was the only source of information), granite-jawed thugs who would go to the grave in silence, taking their secrets with them.
The sergeant shrugged the pressure away. Slowly, the old Armitage smile appeared again and, to Joe’s surprise, he seemed not just prepared but even anxious to communicate something. He considered for a moment or two then began slowly. ‘I never stopped counting the minutes. You think, like most, that we’ve been through the war to end war. We’re rebuilding ourselves. . jazzing our lives away. . lighting up London, trying to forget, but some of us know it didn’t end there where we thought we’d buried it, there in the Flanders mud. We’re under attack still from more than one direction. I used my skills to knock minutes off that war and if I have to use the same skills to buy time from the next one, I will.’
Was there the faintest sneer as he went on? ‘Loving your country isn’t the prerogative of the upper classes, Captain, though I know they think they own the title deeds to the finer feelings. I’ve got less reason than most to feel gratitude to bloody old Britannia — the old bag’s never shown me any favours! But it’s my country and I’ll support it however I can. And that’s not an unthinking, visceral reaction. I question everything, including patriotism.’
‘And you think you’ve come up with the right answers?’ Joe hardly needed to offer encouragement. Armitage seemed eager to unburden himself. The life of a government-paid assassin, Joe reflected, must be a lonely one.
‘In fact, I’d say it’s the lack of patriotism of the flag-waving sort that’s the saving grace of this country. In my class, at least, we don’t much admire the jingle of spurs and the parade of power. Did you notice in this last lot — when we marched, it wasn’t the victories we sang about, it was more likely to be the disasters. It wasn’t our glorious leaders — it was the rotten old sergeant-major we immortalized in bawdy verse.’
‘So unmilitaristic are we, you’d wonder we ever managed to acquire an empire,’ Joe commented mildly.
Armitage glowered, angry to be misinterpreted. ‘Bloody old Kipling would have understood,’ he said. ‘You only have to look at those peaked Prussian helmets to see what I mean. Mad! Try issuing those to the British Army and you’d be greeted with outright guffaws through all ranks. You can’t get away with nonsense like that without breaking up on the British sense of humour.’
‘Good God, man!’ said Joe raising an eyebrow. ‘If you launch into a eulogy on jellied eels I’ll have you chucked into a cell to cool off.’
‘Of course you will!’ Armitage smiled. ‘See what I mean? It’s to keep blokes like you from having to get their hands bloodied again that blokes like me wield the occasional scalpel. You’re not all worth the effort but — where else in Europe would inordinate appreciation of jellied eels be a criminal charge? I’ve thought it through. I have my own philosophy.’
‘A killer with a conscience?’
‘That’s right. For your own good, Captain, we’ve never had this conversation. This goes so high it’d make your head spin. You risk annoying some forceful people. Can’t imagine what the going rate is for making a Commander of the CID disappear but there’s bound to be one.’
‘But what possible danger could she be to the state?’ Joe persisted. ‘Playing Girl Guides with a bunch of silly debutantes and the lout Donovan?’
He was pleased to have provoked the response he wanted.
‘Not silly girls at all! Clever, able, well-trained girls.’ Armitage hesitated, weighing the knowledge that he was exceeding his brief against his understanding of his superior officer which was pushing him beyond his limits. He came to a decision. ‘Girls who, though they were unaware of it,’ he went on, ‘had, in their charming little heads, the power to lose the next war for us.’