Chapter Fourteen

They had arrived a little after five o’clock, dressed up to the nines in Sunday best. Fiona had sense enough to realise that she must make a good impression on the Peabodys, if only for her brother’s sake. In the back of her mind, however, was the thought that she might be better placed than Kenny to take advantage of the invitation and unearth some valuable information to pass on to Winstock.

The Peabodys too were all dolled up. Bernard wore a navy blue suit and a shirt with a scratchy collar while Lizzie, apron cast aside, was in a floral dress that fell almost to her ankles. She had raided her jewellery box and was draped with beads and bangles that clicked and jangled every time she moved. She was graceful for such a large woman, though, with a soft, cat-like face that reminded Fiona, rather, of her late-lamented grandmother.

Rosie, the fiancée-to-be, had gone all ‘modern’ in a slim blue dress with a long vee collar of cream linen. She wore make-up, a touch on cheeks and lips, a little pencil to accentuate her eyebrows. She seemed pleased to see Fiona again and was, of course, delighted to have Kenny in her home at last.

The first half-hour was awkward but by the time they sat down at table and Lizzie and Rosie served up soup the atmosphere had thawed and Bernard had been lured into talking about the perils and privations of army life, a subject broad enough, Fiona thought, to keep them going through supper.

‘A wee bird tells me,’ he said, as he carved away at the roast, ‘that you’re thinkin’ of a career in the army.’

‘I’d hardly say a career, Mr Peabody,’ Kenny answered. ‘But it occurred to me that if I’m going to be called up eventually I might as well go now.’

‘Now?’ said Fiona. ‘That’s a new one.’

‘Soon,’ Kenny said.

Bernard slipped slices of hot roast beef on to warm plates and Rosie, smiling, handed them to the guests. Big bowls of boiled potatoes, tinned beans and bright green garden peas were already on the table and Kenny, not standing on ceremony, helped himself. He was rather too relaxed, Fiona thought. Mention of his plans didn’t throw him off his stride. He reached eagerly for the gravy boat.

‘Won’t you be able to stay put?’ Bernard said. ‘Surely the police will be a reserved occupation.’

‘There’s been no announcement to that effect,’ Kenny said.

‘Somebody’s got to keep law an’ order on the streets, war or no war.’

‘What about you, Mr Peabody?’ Fiona said, ‘Will you stay where you are when war’s declared?’

‘Maybe there won’t be a war,’ Lizzie said.

‘Oh, yes, there will be a war,’ said Fiona. ‘Hitler’s determined on it. He’ll push and push until Chamberlain’s left with no option but to take us into conflict. It’s the Teutonic cast of mind, you see.’

‘The what?’ said Lizzie.

‘The German press is filled with praise for the Chancellor and, on the whole, supports the precept of conquest rather than conciliation,’ Fiona said. ‘I was reading just the other day in Der Tag that Hitler’s about to deliver an ultimatum to Beran…’

‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ said Lizzie.

‘The Prime Minister,’ Bernard said.

‘I thought Mr Chamberlain was the Prime Minister.’

‘Prime Minister of Czechoslovakia,’ said Bernard.

‘Oh!’ said Lizzie. ‘Aye, I didn’t hear you the first time.’

Bernard said, ‘Where will we make a stand, do you think?’

‘Poland,’ Fiona answered promptly. She was aware that she was showing off and had lost Lizzie Peabody entirely but was unable to check herself. ‘Soon our Foreign Office will make pledges and forge military alliances, after which we’ll be committed whether we like it or not.’

‘Unless Hitler honours his promises,’ said Rosie.

‘Hitler doesn’t know the meaning of the word “honour”.’ Fiona paused. ‘Franco’s got Spain in his pocket. Before you know it there will be a political and military pact between him and Hitler.’

‘And Mussolini too?’ Bernard said.

‘Oh, Mussolini won’t want to be left out,’ said Fiona. ‘He might be wishy-washy when it comes to making decisions and he’s worried about what Hitler might want to grab next but…’

‘Adolf would never invade Italy, would he?’ Bernard said.

‘Probably not,’ said Fiona. ‘He’ll save Italy for later.’

‘Later?’ Rosie said.

‘After he’s grabbed everything else,’ said Fiona.

‘You’re really very well informed, Miss MacGregor,’ Bernard said. ‘Tell me, why do you take such an interest in what the foreign newspapers have to say?’

Fiona shrugged, a ladylike lift of the shoulders.

‘Part of my job.’ She gave Bernard a quick, almost flirtatious glance. ‘There’s a lot more to police work these days than quelling a bit of a rent riot in Gordon Street or keeping traffic moving along the Dumbarton Road.’

‘What are you interested in,’ Bernard said, ‘specifically?’

‘Italy, mainly,’ Fiona said.

‘Not Germany?’

‘Italians,’ Fiona said. ‘Mainly Italians.’

And Kenny said, ‘Fiona, for God’s sake!’

She sensed that she had overstepped the mark and concentrated on cutting up her beef for a moment or two before she glanced in Bernard’s direction once more. Far from being offended the man was smiling. He put down his knife and fork, rested his chin on his hand and stared at her with something akin to admiration.

He said, ‘What about Americans?’

‘Americans?’ Fiona said. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘How about you, Kenny?’ Bernard said. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

‘I’ve an inkling,’ said Kenny, ‘just an inkling.’

‘So it’s not merely the problem of the Italians we have to deal with, is it?’ Bernard said. ‘One Italian in particular.’

Prudently Fiona said nothing while Kenny chewed and swallowed, put down his knife and fork and said, ‘I was going to wait until later to ask you, Bernard, but since you’ve raised the subject, now’s as good a time as any. I’d like to marry Rosie, if she’ll have me – and take it from me the Italian need not be a problem.’

‘How can you stop him being a problem?’ Bernard asked.

‘I’ll resign from the Force.’

‘Drastic, very drastic,’ Bernard said. ‘What about you, Fiona? Will you stay with the CID and continue to burrow into our family’s affairs when your brother becomes part of that family?’

‘No,’ Fiona said. ‘I’ll go too.’

‘Go where?’ said Kenny, surprised.

‘Into whatever service will have me,’ said Fiona.

‘Haven’t you discussed this between you?’ Bernard said.

‘No,’ Fiona answered. ‘But if Kenny pulls out then I’ll have no choice but to do the same. It would be far too awkward otherwise.’

‘Isn’t it awkward now?’ Bernard said.

Lizzie cleared her throat. ‘Can this not wait? Your dinners are gettin’ cold.’

Bernard raised a hand, not threateningly, to quiet his wife. He said, ‘Tell me something, Fiona; how long do you think it will be before we go to war with Adolf?’

‘Why ask me?’

‘You’re the resident prophet,’ Bernard said. ‘What’s your forecast, your estimate – three months, six months, the end of the year?’

‘We’ll be at war before the year’s out,’ Fiona stated.

‘Yes, that’s how all the signs are pointing,’ Bernard said. ‘If and when it happens I’ll also be out of a job and won’t be working for the Italian any longer.’

‘Bernard!’ Lizzie said. ‘What d’ you mean?’

‘Who’s going to buy houses when bombs are falling?’ Bernard said, ‘The housing market’ll go into cold storage for as long as the war lasts. Lyons and Lloyd’s may as well close its doors for all the business it’ll do, an’ not even our mutual friend will be able to prevent it.’

‘Our mutual – who are you talkin’ about?’ said Lizzie.

‘He means Dominic, Mammy,’ said Rosie, quietly.

Bernard said, ‘Rosie, do you want to marry this man?’

‘I – I – Yuh-yes.’

‘There’s your answer,’ Bernard said.

‘It’s not so simple as all that,’ Fiona put in.

‘Aye, but it is,’ said Bernard.

‘There are,’ said Fiona, ‘still impediments.’

‘Fiona, please,’ Kenny said.

‘That’s up to you, to you and Kenny,’ Bernard said. ‘If you want to make Rosie happy then it’s up to you to get rid of the impediments.’

‘I don’t know quite what you mean,’ Fiona said.

‘Kenny does, don’t you, son?’

‘Yes.’ Kenny nodded. ‘Are those your terms, Mr Pea – Bernard?’

‘Simple terms for a simple solution,’ Bernard said. ‘Once that impediment’s been removed we can fix a date for the wedding and find you a place to live.’

‘It is not your wedding, Bernard!’ Rosie said. ‘Please do not interfere.’

‘Your dad’s right to interfere,’ Kenny said. ‘Don’t blame him for it.’

‘Is this,’ said Lizzie, ‘an arrangement? I mean, are you engaged now?’

‘I do believe we are,’ said Rosie.

And at that moment the doorbell rang.

*   *   *

‘Janet!’ Lizzie swayed. ‘My God! Our Janet. What’re you doin’ here?’

‘I’ve come for to talk t’ Frank.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Frank Conway. Don’t try tellin’ me you don’t know where he is.’

‘Frank’s dead, Janet. He’s been dead for twenty years.’

‘Let me in. I need to see for myself.’

‘See what, Jan?’ Lizzie said. ‘Look, I’ve got people here.’

‘You’re hidin’ somethin’ from me,’ Janet said. ‘I’m comin’ in.’

‘Bernard,’ Lizzie shouted.

Too late: Janet brushed her aside, stepped into the tiny hall and bumped into Bernard just as he emerged from the living-room. There was a scuffle as Bernard and his sister-in-law confronted each other. Lizzie, already distraught, tried to drag Janet back. Surprise was on Janet’s side. She gave Bernard an almighty shove. When he staggered back, she tore herself from Lizzie’s grasp and chased him into the living-room, peered at the three people at the table and then, raising her arm, pointed a finger straight at Kenny and snapped, ‘You!’

Kenny got up so clumsily that the table grated and shook and a fork clattered to the floor.

‘I might’ve known it,’ Janet hissed. ‘Thick as thieves, the lot o’ you. Keepin’ Frank from me. Where is he? Is he not here?’

Bernard put a hand on her shoulder but she shook him off with such ferocity that he jerked away as if he’d touched a naked wire. Rosie shrank down in her seat crushed by the angry scene. One eyebrow raised, Fiona watched the strange, shrewish little woman, her brother and Bernard and Lizzie Peabody all begin shouting at once.

‘She’s gone mad at last. Frank – Frank’s been dead for…’

‘You tell her, Mr Policeman. He’s got Frank’s picture.’

‘What the hell is she talkin’ about?’

‘Killed in the war, he was.’

‘Dead? Not him. He’s come back for me at last.’

‘What’s wrong with her? Bernard, what’s this she’s sayin’?’

‘Ask him, ask him,’ Janet continued to point at Kenny. ‘Where is he? Have you got him locked away upstairs?’

‘There is no upstairs,’ Bernard said. ‘Frank’s not here, Janet. I swear.’

‘Frank’s still dead,’ said Lizzie. ‘Isn’t he, Bernard?’

Then silence.

Rosie cowered down, chin almost touching the table’s edge. She followed the shouting-match as best she could, eyes darting from the frightening figure of her aunt to her stepfather then up at Kenny who had said not a word so far. One thing was clear, her termagant aunt and her fiancé-to-be knew each other: Kenny and Aunt Janet McKerlie weren’t strangers.

‘Be careful, Janet,’ Bernard spoke at length, his voice steady. ‘I’m warning you to be very, very careful what you say here.’

‘Me? What about him? He’s Mr Policeman, didn’t you know?’

‘Yes,’ said Bernard, totally calm now. ‘We know he’s a policeman.’

‘An’ did you know he’s got Frank.’

‘I haven’t got Frank,’ said Kenny. ‘I told you, I’ve no idea where…’

‘Frank’s dead, long dead,’ said Lizzie, adamantly ‘He died in the trenches.’

‘Dearest,’ Bernard said, ‘that may not be the case after all.’

‘You mean Frank’s still…’ Lizzie began.

‘Alive, yes,’ Janet spat out.

And Lizzie, without any warning, swooned dead away.

*   *   *

Peace reigned in the bungalow in Raines Drive. The children had been fed and bathed but it was too early for bed and they’d been allowed to amuse themselves as best they could. Cross-legged in front of the gas fire in the bedroom, May and June were playing cards, the pack of Happy Families centred on the rug, little fans of cards held neatly in their hands. They were gambling for peppermints and grimly competing with each other for once.

Mellowed by the excitements of the afternoon and with a little bag of liquorice bullets all to himself, Angus lay full-length in front of the coal fire in the lounge, browsing over a copy of The Dandy, chortling quietly to himself and wiping black saliva from his chin with the sleeve of his dressing-gown. Almost asleep, April lolled angelically on her mother’s knee and uttered no complaints.

Babs stroked her daughter’s fine feathery hair with one hand and held a cigarette in the forked fingers of the other, puffing at it now and then as eloquently as a character from ‘Private Lives’.

Mummy and Daddy in big moquette-upholstered armchairs on each side of the fireplace, the standard-lamp behind Daddy, shade tilted to keep the light from baby April’s eyes: the adults’ conversation was restrained, not argumentative but had an undertow, a tiny grating edge of agitation that Angus failed to notice.

Jackie said, ‘I dunno what I’m gonna do without him.’

‘He’s only joinin’ the army, Jackie, not vanishin’ into thin air.’

‘He could be gone for three or four years.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Babs. ‘He’ll be back home every weekend.’

‘It’s Gloria, that bitch Gloria. He’s runnin’ away from Gloria.’

‘I could say he’s runnin’ to meet his destiny,’ Babs declared. ‘But I won’t.’

‘What the bloody hell does that mean?’

‘Language, Jackie.’

‘He can’t hear me. He’s not listenin’.’ Jackie blew out smoke and gazed fondly at his son. ‘Know what else Dennis is doin’? He’s liquidatin’ his assets.’

‘Sounds painful,’ said Babs.

‘Cut it out. It ain’t funny.’

‘I know it isn’t,’ Babs said. ‘You’re not the only one’ll miss him.’

‘He said somethin’ odd this afternoon. Told me t’ look after you.’

‘That was nice of him.’

‘He thinks you’re one in a million.’

‘Well, I am,’ said Babs.

‘If you had it all again, Babs, would ya marry Dennis instead o’ me?’

‘Is that what’s botherin’ you?’

‘Would ya?’

‘You picked a fine time to ask, Jackie.’ Babs blew smoke towards the hearth. ‘Nope, I’d still choose you. There! Is that better?’

‘Is it the truth, but?’

‘Are you askin’ if Dennis an’ me…’

He glanced at her. She saw not the lazy bewildered sort of expression that she had grown used to over the years but genuine fear. She was tempted to tell him that Dennis was only a man upon whom she depended for advice but she remembered the hours together in the cab of the BSA, how she’d sensed that Dennis wanted her, not just to kiss and caress but to be his wife. There was no envy in Dennis, no malice or scheming. He was too decent for his own good. He would go off into the army without knowing that she wanted him too and that their friendship could so easily have become something more intimate.

‘No, no, no,’ she said. ‘Dennis would never do that to you, Jackie.’

‘Would – would you?’

‘No.’

Supposin’ it was the other way round,’ Jackie said, ‘supposin’ it was me goin’ off to join up?’

‘The answer would be the same.’

‘Supposin’ I got killed, would you marry Dennis?’

‘Settin’ aside the fact that Dennis already has a wife,’ said Babs, ‘I couldn’t marry him ’cause the law wouldn’t allow me to marry your brother.’

‘He’d look after you better’n me.’

‘You look after us just fine, Jackie.’

‘Things are a bloody mess, Babs. Without Dennis they’ll get even worse.’

‘No, they won’t,’ said Babs. ‘I won’t let them.’

‘What can you do about it?’

‘Just you wait an’ see,’ Babs said. ‘I’m not a Conway for nothin’.’

The fear faded visibly and instantly and the uncertain little smile that he used to hide his inadequacies appeared at the corner of his mouth.

‘What’ve you got up your sleeve, sweetheart?’

‘Plenty,’ said Babs.

‘Just what are you up to?’

She hesitated then, holding April to her, leaned out and flipped the cigarette into the fire. She hadn’t intended to divulge her plans to Jackie – she was unsure just how deep his loyalty to Dominic lay – but Dennis’s departure would change things dramatically and she needed Jackie on her side now.

She said, ‘How d’ you fancy takin’ over from Dominic Manone.’

‘Are you nuts?’

‘Maybe goin’ into partnership with somebody who knows the ropes.’

‘Like who?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Somebody like John Flint, maybe.’

‘You are nuts.’

‘He’s worth a heck of a lotta money, our Dom?’

‘Yeah, but it’s his money, not ours,’ Jackie said.

Babs eased her daughter down across her lap. Her little pink fists opened and closed and her lips made sucking motions. She was asleep, though, fast asleep, only dreaming of the breast.

‘What if Dominic ain’t around?’ said Babs.

‘Dom’s not daft. He won’t join up, not him.’

‘No, but he might be sent to prison.’

‘You’re kiddin’!’ said Jackie in alarm. ‘Have you heard somethin’? Has that guy Rosie’s goin’ with told you somethin’?’

‘If there’s a war an’ Italy sides with Hitler, Dom will be sent away.’

‘No he won’t. He’s a Scot, not an Eye-tie.’

‘He’s a crook, Jackie. Face facts.’

‘Nah, he’s not. He’s just like you an’ me really.’

Babs shook her head. ‘Jackie, Jackie, Jackie.’

She watched her husband’s eyes narrow. He squinted at her with that foxy look that indicated that he had been struck by an idea.

He said, ‘You wouldn’t shop him, would ya?’

‘God, no! ’Course I wouldn’t shop him. All I’m sayin’ is, if Dom does happen to get lifted an’ shipped off for the duration then somebody has to run his business, part of it anyway. By rights that somebody should be us – I mean you.’

‘What if I’m called up an all?’

‘With four kiddies?’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Jackie.

He was interested and hadn’t recoiled in horror. Babs wished now that her plans had been riper, that she could have told him just what Dominic Manone was worth and what parts of the empire he, Jackie Hallop, was capable of operating and what parts would be sold off, or leased out, to Johnny Flint.

My God, she thought, I’m waiting for Hitler, actually sitting here hoping Adolf will start dropping bombs soon: a thrill of guilt and excitement passed through her and she felt the fine, blonde hairs at the base of her spine stir and rise as if somebody – Jackie – had stroked them.

Jackie said, ‘Trouble is, Dom goes, the business falls to Polly, not us.’

‘Polly will need a man to help her run it.’

‘Tony Lom…’

‘Another crook, another Italian. He’ll be gone too.’

‘I don’t like the idea o’ workin’ with Flint.’

Typically, Jackie had accepted the proposition without knowing anything about it. He was relying on her already, taking her word as gospel.

Babs said, ‘Flint knows the ropes. He’ll still be on the streets when everybody else is in the trenches or behind bars. Johnny ain’t gonna serve in anybody’s army but his own. There’s big money here, Jackie, big, big money. We deserve a piece of it, don’t we? God, what do we owe Dominic Manone? He soaked my Mammy for a debt that wasn’t her debt in the first place, an’ he’s rooked you for the best part o’ ten years. You think he set you up in the garage…’

‘Salon.’

‘… salon then, for your benefit. He did it for profit, his profit.’ Babs eased the baby into the crook of her arm and sat back. ‘Manone would screw anyone for a few miserable quid. That’s how he made his pile. Shouldn’t be him livin’ in a mansion with nurses an’ nannies an’ cooks at his beck an’ call. Should be us, you an’ me. If the coppers do send him up the river, why shouldn’t we get what we can out of it?’ She paused to gauge the effect of her oratory, then added, ‘My God, he isn’t really even British. When the shootin’ starts it could be one o’ Manone’s cousins puts a bullet through our Dennis’s head.’

‘Babs, for God’s sake don’t say that.’

‘True, though, innit?’

‘Maybe. I dunno. Maybe it is.’

She inclined her head towards Angus who was patiently sucking the sugar-coating from a liquorice bullet. ‘Think of him, him an’ the girls. Don’t they deserve the best we can give them, war or no damned war?’

Jackie was convinced, still a shade wary perhaps, but convinced.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You’re right. So what d’ ya want me to do, Babs?’

‘Nothin’ just yet,’ Babs said.

‘When then?’

‘I’ll tell you when,’ said Babs.

*   *   *

Cold water applied via a clean handkerchief soon brought Lizzie to her senses. Kenny and Bernard had lifted her from the floor and placed her in an armchair by the fire, a cushion under her head. In her confusion Rosie had abrogated all responsibility, had allowed Fiona to unbutton her mother’s dress and loosen her stays, to hold her plump wrist and check her pulse against the ticking of Bernard’s wristwatch. On the plates on the table the wreckage of Sunday night dinner cooled and congealed. In the kitchen an apple sponge bubbled and charred in the gas oven and the kettle on the stove screamed. The living-room seemed packed with bodies, strangers thrown together so that she, Rosie Conway, felt crushed by them. She couldn’t find a voice, couldn’t ask questions, as if all her training, all her practice, all that she had ever learned had been struck away.

Kenny touched her. She looked up.

‘She’s all right, Rosie,’ Kenny told her. ‘It’s only shock. She’s not hurt.’

‘Hurt,’ said Janet, though Rosie didn’t hear. ‘She’s not the one who’s hurt.’

Lizzie blinked, struggled, held out her arms to Bernard who, stooping eased her into a sitting position. ‘Put your head between your legs, dearest.’

‘Nuh, I…’

‘Here I’ll help you.’

‘Nuh, I … What … what happened?’

‘You fainted, Mrs Peabody,’ Fiona said.

‘Fainted?’

‘Conveniently,’ Janet said.

Supporting herself on Bernard’s arm Lizzie drew in several deep breathes, then said, ‘Turn off the oven.’

‘The what?’

‘The oven, Bernard, turn off the oven.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Fiona offered and clopped off into the kitchenette.

A moment later the kettle stopped screaming and the strong hot smell of burnt sponge wafted into the living-room.

‘I’ve spoiled your dinner,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’m – I’m sorry.’

‘Just you take it easy, Mrs Peabody,’ Kenny said. ‘Dinner’s not important.’

‘Never mind her an’ her dinner,’ Janet said. ‘Where’s my Frank? You said you’d find my Frank.’

‘I said nothing of the kind,’ Kenny told her angrily. ‘I don’t know where Frank is. All I have is a photograph and your word for it that it is Frank Conway.’

‘I knew he couldn’t be dead,’ Lizzie moaned. ‘I knew I should never have got married again. Oh, Bernard, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

Then Rosie found her voice, felt it tearing at her lungs, clawing up into her throat. She had no memory of how her voice sounded only sensations in the muscles of her throat. She tucked her legs beneath her and hoisted herself to her feet.

‘YOU KNEW,’ she shouted. ‘KENNETH, YOU KNEW THAT MY FATHER WAS ALIVE AND YOU DID NOT TELL ME.’

‘No, Rosie, no. I had – I had a photograph of a man, another name, I didn’t have a clue that he was your – was Frank Conway.’

‘You liar. You did,’ said Janet. ‘I told you who he was.’

‘YOU USED ME, KUH-KENNY MACGREGOR. YOU JUST USED ME.’

‘Aye, an’ I’ll wager you didn’t take my word for it,’ Janet addressed her niece, not the policeman. Rosie followed the movement of the thin lips with difficulty. ‘I’ll wager you asked somebody else too. Who did you ask, Mr Policeman? Him? Bernard Peabody? Did you tell him that Frank was alive?’

‘No, of course I didn’t tell Bernard,’ said Kenny. ‘Didn’t tell anyone.’

But Rosie saw how Fiona looked away and knew that Kenny was lying.

‘HOW COULD YOU DO IT? HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME,’ she cried, shouting so loudly that she felt the words ring in her deaf ears. ‘GET OUT OF OUR HUH-HOUSE. BUH-BOTH OF YOU. GET OUT. GET OUT.’

‘Rosie, I didn’t mean to…’

‘Wait, dearest, wait,’ Bernard said but when he approached her, she raised not just her arm but her fist to ward him off.

‘MY DADDY. WHERE IS MY DADDY?’

‘Kenny,’ Fiona said, quietly. ‘I think we’d better leave.’

‘No, I don’t want Rosie to think I…’

‘I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN, KENNETH MACGREGOR. I JUST WANT MY DADDY.’

‘Aye,’ said Aunt Janet, very clearly, ‘but your Daddy doesn’t want you.’

*   *   *

They rocked knee-to-knee in the front compartment of the tramcar and Kenny chain-smoked one cigarette after another as the almost empty vehicle swayed and rattled back towards the city. He had been shocked by Rosie’s rejection and the haste with which Bernard Peabody had bundled them out of the house. The engagement was clearly off and would never be on again. No remission was possible, no appeal.

Fiona felt sorry for the deaf girl but tinting her pity was a faint egotistical satisfaction that she had been right all along and that Kenny, dazed by love, had handled the whole thing badly. She sat primly, solemnly, hands on top of her handbag observing his restless distress, waiting for him to speak. He dropped his third cigarette to the floor of the cabin and trod on it. She looked down at the flattened butt, at his polished shoes, size twelve: policeman’s feet, her mother had called them long before Kenny had thought of joining the Force.

‘I’ll resign. I’ll resign tomorrow first thing.’

‘Why?’ Fiona said.

‘If I resign perhaps she’ll have me back.’

‘Kenneth, I really don’t think…’

‘What else can I do under the circumstances?’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Fiona said, though she knew it was. ‘That horrid, spiteful little woman did the damage. Did you see her enjoying herself, revelling in the misery she caused her sister?’

‘My fault,’ said Kenny. ‘I brought the McKerlie woman into it. I should never have done that. I should have left well alone.’

‘How could you leave well alone?’ said Fiona, impatiently. ‘You had a job to do. Lord knows, you gave her enough, that girl.’

‘I thought you liked her?’

‘I do. I did, but…’

‘I love her.’

‘Well, she doesn’t love you any longer, that much is obvious.’

‘No, no, please don’t say that.’

‘Kenneth, pull yourself together.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Try.’

‘I’m going to resign. I’m going back home.’

‘Home?’ said Fiona.

‘To Mam and Dad.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a spotty adolescent, Kenneth. You’re thirty-four years old, a grown man, a sergeant in the CID.’

‘I wish to God I’d never got involved.’

‘What? With Rosie Conway?’

‘No, with the Special Investigation Branch.’

‘Bit late for regrets now, isn’t it?’ Fiona said. ‘I thought you were going to enlist in the army or the air force, or something. Now you tell me you’re sneaking off to Islay to lick your wounds.’ She tapped his knee quite forcefully. ‘What did you hope to gain by not telling anyone about Harker?’

‘I thought I might be able to get rid of him without anyone finding out.’

‘Well, that was pretty stupid of you,’ Fiona said.

Her lack of sympathy galled him, rendered him less distraught than defensive. She didn’t doubt that he would hear the girl’s voice clacking in his ear for months to come, that he would waken in the night shaking with the nightmare of rejection. But that, after all, was the stuff of romance, at least in Fiona’s book. Hurt, suffering and loss were just part of the price one paid for falling in love and she was glad it had never happened to her for she was pragmatic enough to realise that happy endings were few and far between.

‘Where is her father anyway?’ Fiona asked.

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t lying. I have no idea where he is.’

‘Might it not be sensible to find out.’

‘For what?’ said Kenny. ‘To please that nasty wee woman?’

‘Kenneth, he’s a criminal.’

‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

‘Obviously he doesn’t care about Rosie or he’d have made some effort to see her by now.’

‘Do you think that’s why Rosie’s so upset?’

Fiona sighed. ‘She’s upset because she failed to grasp the fact that you’ve a job to do and have other obligations beside her. Harker and Manone are up to something that threatens our nation’s security and it’s your duty to stop them.’

‘I wondered how long it would take you to mention my “duty”.’

‘Look,’ Fiona said, ‘if you insist on resigning from the SIB at least do something constructive before you go.’

‘What?’ said Kenny, suspiciously.

‘Track down this Harker fellow and hand him over. With luck you might even catch Manone in the same net. Finish the job you’ve started. After all it can hardly matter to the Conway girl now, can it? You’re not doing anything – unfair.’

‘I suppose that’s true.’

‘How reliable are your leads?’

‘I’ve one fairly reliable contact.’

‘Then pressure him. Who is it – Lombard?’

‘Heck, no.’

‘You aren’t going to tell me, Kenneth, are you?’

‘No.’

‘You will use him, though, won’t you? It’s such a waste otherwise,’ Fiona said. ‘Such a dreadful waste of all our hard work.’

‘I suppose it is,’ said Kenny and took refuge from his sister – and his conscience – by lighting another cigarette.

*   *   *

At half-past nine o’clock on Monday morning two gentlemen from the Housing Committee turned up at Lyons & Lloyd’s. No longer mere humble borough councillors, they came armed with badges of authority and sheaves of credentials signed on behalf of the Crown by a minion in the Scottish Office. Swollen with new-found importance, they exuded an air of officiousness that Bernard would have found amusing at any other time on any other day.

Bernard, however, was in no mood to be patronised. He had spent a dreadful evening trying to console his wife and stepdaughter and answer their hysterical accusations of disloyalty. He’d also had the thoroughly unpleasant task of ejecting Janet McKerlie from the house and, because courtesy demanded it, walking her to the bus stop. She had gone on at him as if he’d betrayed her trust when the plain fact was that he hardly knew the woman and had never met Frank Conway. He was stewing with rage by the time Janet’s bus arrived, and had stalked about the streets of Knightswood for almost an hour before he’d calmed down enough to risk returning home in the fond hope that Lizzie and Rosie would have calmed down by then too. No such luck: the rest of the evening and much of the night had been taken up in consoling his grieving stepdaughter and trying vainly to assure his wife that their marriage remained valid and intact.

Rosie had been too fevered to go to work on Monday morning.

Bernard had promised that he would telephone Shelby’s and report that she would not be in that day. He had made his own breakfast and, with Lizzie still closeted in the small side bedroom with Rosie, had gone off to catch an early train without daring to say goodbye.

He was furious at being cast as the villain of the piece, furious that all the love and trust he had built up with Lizzie’s daughter had been shattered in a single evening by a malicious old spinster and the machinations of Dominic Manone. ‘I hate you, Bernard,’ Rosie had shouted at one point. ‘I hate you. I hate you,’ and he had no reason to doubt that she meant it.

He was still seething when he reached Breslin and too overwrought to be diplomatic when the borough councillors swaggered into the estate office. He refused to bow the knee to their badges or the signatures on their request forms, couldn’t bring himself to be civil to these petty administrators who would undoubtedly revel in the backstage war and be the first to kowtow to the Nazis if by any chance the war was lost and Scotland fell into the hands of the enemy. He despised their tight shiny suits, their bowler hats, their arrogance, and made no attempt to hide his feelings. He might even have come to blows with the younger of the two if Allan Shakespeare hadn’t arrived to smooth the councillors’ ruffled feathers, escort them into his office and, with a scowl in Bernard’s direction, order up tea and biscuits.

‘What was that all about?’ Sandra, the typist, enquired as she stuck the kettle on the little gas-ring in the cupboard behind her desk. ‘You weren’t very nice to them.’

‘They’re looking for empty properties to requisition.’

‘For what?’ said the girl.

‘Refugees.’

‘Refugees? What does that mean?’

‘To house folk who’ve been bombed out.’

‘Temporary accommodations, you mean?’

‘Temporary or permanent, who knows? Once they get their hands on a property then there’s no saying when it’ll revert to private ownership again.’

‘Bombed out?’ Sandra raised a neatly-plucked eyebrow. ‘Well, well!’

Bernard stepped into the closet, emerged with his hat jammed on his head and his overcoat tossed over his arm, went to the street door yanked it open.

‘Where on earth are you going?’ Sandra said.

‘Out,’ said Bernard and, slamming the door behind him, set off on foot for Blackstone Farm.

*   *   *

‘I’ll say this for you, Sergeant MacGregor, you’ve some nerve arriving uninvited at my house at this hour in the morning. What if my husband had been at home?’

‘But he isn’t, is he?’ Kenny said.

‘Fortunately for you, no, he isn’t.’

‘Why is it fortunate?’ Kenny said. ‘I mean, he’s a civil sort of chap if Christmas is anything to go by. I’m sure him and me could have had a nice chat over coffee and cigars.’

‘A nice chat about what in particular?’ said Polly.

‘You,’ Kenny said. ‘You and Tony Lombard.’

Polly gave a curt little nod as if his reply had merely confirmed her suspicions. She was irked at being caught in a stained skirt and a floral apron which made her feel like the sort of women the detective was used to dealing with. If Leah hadn’t been hanging about in the drawing-room with her ears flapping she would have excused herself and gone upstairs to change into something more respectable, though to judge by the stern look on MacGregor’s face and his aggressive manner it wouldn’t have mattered to him if she’d been clad in clogs and a shawl. She led him out of the hallway into the back parlour, lit the electric fire and offered him tea, an offer he politely refused. Pleasant and pliant Sergeant MacGregor was pleasant and pliant no more.

‘It’s no use denying it, Mrs Manone,’ he said. ‘We know how often you’ve been with Lombard at his flat. We’ve dates and times recorded in our logs.’

Polly tucked in a curl that had escaped the dust-cap. ‘It’s no secret that I spend a great deal of time with Tony Lombard – with my husband’s knowledge.’

‘At Lombard’s flat?’ Kenny said. ‘In Lombard’s bed?’

‘Be careful, Sergeant, just be careful.’

‘I’m not the one who has to be careful,’ Kenny said. ‘We can prove you’ve been up there with Lombard, an hour here, an hour there. Did your husband condone those meetings?’

‘You think I’m having an affair with Tony Lombard, don’t you?’

‘Aren’t you?’ said Kenny MacGregor.

‘Of course not. Tony is, or was, my bodyguard.’

‘From who or what is he supposed to be protecting you?’

‘From John Flint,’ said Polly, without hesitation.

‘Flint? Why would Flint threaten you? Dominic and he are…’

‘Oh, they may be friends now,’ said Polly, ‘but that wasn’t always the case. Granted I haven’t needed protection for three or four years but Tony proved useful in many other ways. He drove the car for me, took the children to school when our nanny was busy. Looked after us generally, you might say. Now do you honestly suppose I’d have an affair with a man who guarded my children and is my husband’s most trusted employee?’

‘Yes,’ Kenny said. ‘I think you might.’

‘Has my sister, has Rosie seen this side of you?’

‘Rosie and I aren’t together any more.’

‘Oh, really!’ said Polly. ‘Too much of a bully for her, were you?’

He wasn’t cowed by her sharp tongue. She felt a wriggle of fear at the realisation that she had lost her protection – not Tony but Rosie. Until now she had regarded the sergeant as a bit of a joke and someone who might be useful to her if she played on his love for her sister. But now she saw that he was a copper through and through and realised that she could expect no favours now that he had broken with Rosie.

She said, ‘I was under the impression that we had a mutual agreement.’

‘Were you?’ Kenny said. ‘I don’t remember any such thing.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘I need to know where Lombard’s hiding and who he’s working with.’

‘He works for my husband.’

‘Who’s he working with right now.’

‘I really can’t say,’ said Polly. ‘Why did you fall out with my sister? Was it her deafness? Can’t be much fun whispering sweet nothings to a girl who can’t hear them. I expect you’ve lots of other girls on the string.’

‘What I have on the string,’ Kenny said, ‘is your father.’

‘Bernard? What does Bernard…’

‘Your real father,’ Kenny said. ‘Frank Conway, back from the dead.’

She knew at once that he was speaking the truth – neither Kenny nor his superiors were imaginative enough to have devised such a wicked lie – and a vision of the little man she’d met in at John Flint’s office flashed into her mind.

She began to shake.

She sat down on a chair by the French doors and pressed her knees together.

‘Where…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Where exactly is he?’

‘Oh, he’s around.’ MacGregor had the upper hand now. ‘Tony probably knows where he is. Your husband certainly does. We’d like to find him before he does any more damage.’

‘Has – does my mother…’

‘Yes, she knows he’s alive.’

‘Are you sure it is my father?’

‘We’ve obtained a positive identification from someone who knew him well.’

‘Janet!’ Polly nodded. ‘My aunt, Janet McKerlie.’

‘Yes, apparently he’s passing himself off as Edgar Harker,’ Kenny said. ‘We know he’s in Glasgow and has been in contact with your husband. Didn’t Dominic tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Harker – your father – has been resident in the United States of America for the past umpteen years. He works for Carlo Manone.’

‘I see,’ said Polly.

She had been prepared to brazen out her affair with Tony and run off with him if it ever came to a showdown but this news was more than she could bear. She struggled to be selfish, to appear unaffected but suffered an urgent desire to be with her Mammy, to comfort Mammy, assure Mammy that Dominic would take care of this matter as efficiently has he had taken care of everything else. But Dominic had lied to her, had kept this astonishing fact from her too. Was it him, she wondered, the bullish wee fellow with the military moustache and scarred lip who had looked at Babs and her without compassion or sentiment and spun a glib fable about a hero’s death? She remembered how the meeting had affected her, all without cause or reason, except instinct, the calling of blood to blood.

‘Now he’s over here in Scotland, working hand in glove with your husband on something that our government’s very interested in,’ Kenny pushed on remorselessly. ‘They’re all involved: Flint, Lombard, Harker and, of course, Dominic. It’s something too important to be shoved under the carpet and my boss will move heaven and earth to find out what it is and lay the culprits by the heels.’

‘Culprits,’ Polly heard herself say. ‘What a quaint way of putting it.’

‘Whatever you choose to do about your father is a matter for the family,’ Kenny continued. ‘How this will affect your relationship with your husband…’

‘Just what do you want from me?’

‘I need to know where Harker is and precisely what he’s up to.’

‘So that you can arrest him?’

‘If charges are brought, yes,’ Kenny said.

‘Tony too?’

‘Tony?’ Kenny said, surprised.

Perhaps he had expected her to trade for her father’s safety or her husband’s but she no longer cared what Kenny MacGregor thought of her.

She said, ‘I’ll get you all the information you need – on one condition.’

‘What’s the condition?’

‘I want you to give Tony an opportunity to get out.’

‘I can’t make that sort of promise.’

‘Time,’ Polly said. ‘I require just a little bit of time, Kenny MacGregor. Surely you can manage to delay matters for a week or two.’

‘What will you give me in exchange, Mrs Manone?’

‘Absolutely everything you need to make an arrest.’

‘Including your husband?’

‘Including my husband,’ said Polly.