‘Ah, just the person!’ DS Neville Grey shouted out as soon as he spotted Peter coming into the main entrance of the Sunderland Borough Police headquarters. He took his hand off the receiver of the black Bakelite and put on his best speaking voice. ‘Yes, sir, Detective Sergeant Miller has just walked into the building. I’m going to hand you over now.’
Peter looked at his colleague and knew by his tone of voice that there was top brass on the other end of the phone.
His time had come.
Walking round to the other side of the counter, he took the phone off DS Grey and introduced himself.
‘DS Peter Miller here. How can I help you?’ It was just a formality as Peter knew exactly how he could help the Chief Super who was calling from Guildford Police headquarters. The call, however, had come earlier than expected. The correspondence he had sent off just before Christmas had obviously been received and dealt with quickly. Certainly more speedily than anticipated.
DS Grey pretended to busy himself, but was listening intently, although the only words he caught were Peter saying, ‘Yes, sir … No, sir, that’s no problem … Of course, sir. I will be there at twelve hundred hours … Yes. Thank you, sir. Good day.’
When Peter put the phone down, DS Grey asked, ‘Everything all right there, Peter?’
Peter nodded as he looked under the counter, where he knew the stationery was kept.
‘Yes, thanks, Neville. Listen, I’ve got to go back out again.’ Peter took a piece of paper and an envelope from one of the drawers, folded them up and put them in his inside pocket. He looked at his watch.
‘You’ll be off shift by the time I’m back, so give my regards to the family. Wish them all the best for the New Year.’
DS Grey said he would and put a hand up to signal his farewell.
Peter knew he would not be seeing Neville, or any of his other colleagues with the Borough Police, for a good while, if at all; nor those men he’d got to know in the town’s Home Guard. Apologies about his sudden departure would be made tomorrow – after he’d left – by those higher up the chain of command. It had been agreed with the Chief Super that Peter was to leave without any kind of ceremony as the least fuss made, the better.
All he could think about now was Rosie. Since she’d left him in the pub on New Year’s Eve, he’d desperately wanted to go to her, to spend one last night with her, but he had argued with himself that although that was what he wanted, was that really fair on her? Should he not simply let her be?
Now he’d got the call, he decided to compromise. He would write a letter, give it to Kate and ask her to give it to Rosie, who he knew was always at the bordello on a Friday evening. It would be up to Rosie what action she took.
She could either see him one last time before he left on the train tomorrow – or not.
It was almost dark by the time he reached the Holme Café. It was nearing the end of the day’s trading and the customers were leaving in dribs and drabs, enabling Peter to grab a quiet table in the corner near to the window.
He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his fountain pen and the sheet of paper and envelope he had taken from the station. He sat there for a while, thinking, pen posed. The young waitress took his order and had returned with his pot of tea before Peter finally began to write. He didn’t stop until he had reached the end of the page. By the time he signed off With all my love for ever, Peter, his hand was shaking.
Had the blackout blinds of the tea shop not been drawn, he would have seen one of the nuns from Nazareth House walk past the window.
He would also have seen that the robust-looking older woman, dressed from head to toe in a traditional black habit, stopped for a moment outside the Maison Nouvelle before straightening her back and entering Kate’s little boutique.
If Peter had observed all of this, he would undoubtedly have wondered why a nun would need the services of a seamstress, or indeed have any reason whatsoever to enter such a shop.
And if Peter had left the café just one minute earlier, he would have seen the same ruddy-faced nun stepping out of the Maison Nouvelle before striding back in the direction of the town centre.
When Peter walked into the Maison Nouvelle, it took a few moments for his eyes to search out Kate and find her standing behind her workbench. She was so small and was standing so still he hadn’t seen her straight away. She could have easily passed for one of the mannequins standing in the corner of the shop.
‘Kate?’ Peter felt a moment’s concern. Kate was staring ahead, as though in some kind of trance. ‘Kate, are you all right?’ Only then did Kate’s dark eyes come back into focus and she looked at Peter as though she had just realised he was there.
‘Peter,’ she said, but her voice was low and quiet.
‘Are you all right? You look like you’re in another world there.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Kate said, ‘I’m fine. Is there something I can help you with?’
Peter looked down at his hand, which had been clutching his letter to Rosie since he had left the tea shop.
‘Yes, yes, there is. And I hope you don’t think it’s an imposition,’ Peter said with a slightly embarrassed smile as he held out the letter. ‘I wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind giving this to Rosie on my behalf, please?’
‘Of course I will,’ Kate said without hesitation. She put her hand out for the letter but still did not move from where she was standing. Peter stepped forward and, leaning across the wooden bench, placed it in her hand.
‘Thank you, thank you so much. That means an awful lot to me. It really does,’ Peter said before turning and walking back towards the shop door.
As he left, he looked back at Kate, who was still rooted to the spot.
It had not occurred to Peter that it was odd Kate made no effort to move from where she was standing, and he didn’t know her well enough to think it strange that she didn’t come from behind her worktop to welcome him, or that she didn’t offer him a cup of tea.
If the light had not been so dim, and if Peter had walked around the counter to give Kate his letter, he would have noticed not only that she was trembling, but that pooled around her new black leather Mary Jane shoes was a small puddle which had formed while her previous visitor had been in her shop.
As soon as Peter had shut the door behind him, Kate stuffed the letter he had given her into her skirt pocket and then turned and went into the back room. She cleaned herself up as best she could before retrieving the mop and bucket from their place by the back door and wiping down the floor where she had been standing. She then grabbed her bag and gas mask, checked everything was safe and secure in the shop, and locked up.
Glad of the darkness, she hurried back to the bordello, letting herself in with her front-door key and making sure she was as quiet as a mouse. She did not want to speak to another living soul.
Heading straight for the kitchen, she stood for a moment at the door, which was slightly ajar, and listened. It was quiet and, therefore, most likely empty. If Milly was cooking or clearing up she usually had the wireless on. Kate slipped through the door and headed straight for the walk-in larder. Rummaging around on the shelves for a short while, she finally found what she was looking for – the cooking brandy. As she quickly left the kitchen she heard the low murmur of chatter and Vera Lynn’s voice crackling slightly as the gramophone played ‘We’ll Meet Again’.
As soon as she reached her room in the attic, she uncorked the brandy and took a swig straight from the bottle. She then closed the door firmly behind her, sat down on the edge of her bed and took another, longer swig. Her face was without expression or emotion.
Kate stayed there, staring straight ahead into nothingness, taking regular swigs of the cheap brandy.
By the time she passed out, the bottle was half-empty.