‘For the RAF,’ she said, triumphantly. ‘It’s so that the pilots will be able to see in the dark.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Carrots are our secret weapon against the night raiders.’
‘We already know that eating carrots help you to see in the dark,’ ventured Lily. ‘All those posters up around town tell you to eat more carrots to help you in the blackout.’
Powell nodded vigorously. ‘But now they’ve found a way to put whatever it is in carrots that gives you night vision into a pill. One pill will have the same effect as eating a thousand carrots. They’re already growing carrots in special fields, so they can be harvested early. You just wait. Our boys will soon be shooting down every night raider, no matter how dark the night.’
‘Just you wait,’ said Sadler scornfully. ‘Wait until summer. Remember summer, when it’s only dark for a few hours each night? The RAF won’t need night vision, coz it’ll be light when the bastards come over.’
Powell frowned and began to fussily clear the table. ‘I’m only saying what I’ve heard. And there’s no need for such language.’
The door to Moray’s office opened and he stood in the doorway. ‘Halliday, could you spare me a minute, please?’ he said.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, once I had sat down in front of his desk.
He closed the door behind me. ‘The phone call was from Scotland Yard. A couple of detectives are coming here to see you. It’s something about the Café de Paris apparently.’
‘They want to talk to me?’
I was perplexed, until I remembered the locket. Then I stared at Moray, rigid with fear. It had to be about the locket. And because I hadn’t handed it in I was going to be arrested for looting. Why hadn’t I mentioned it to Moray as soon as I arrived? Stupid, Maisie. Stupid.
‘Did they say what they wanted to see me about?’ My voice was surprisingly level.
Moray shook his head. ‘Just that it related to an incident at the Café de Paris. I confirmed that you were there.’
I nodded dumbly. No one would believe that I hadn’t stolen the locket. There was only my word that it had turned up in my pocket without my knowledge. My mind lurched into a complicated fantasy of the police interrogation I was sure was to come:
I only found it on Monday. I had no idea it was in my pocket.
Why didn’t you turn it over to the police immediately?
I wasn’t sure what to do.
It’s been days since the bombing, Miss Halliday.
Only two days.
The man’s wife is distraught with grief at the loss of her husband and a valuable family heirloom.
‘Halliday,’ said Moray.
Jolted out of my daydream, I looked at him.
‘Whatever is wrong? Afraid it will bring back bad memories?’ His voice was kind.
‘I had no idea it was in my pocket,’ I said quickly. ‘I only found it yesterday afternoon when I was doing my washing. And it’s quite a cheap thing, not a valuable family heirloom.’ I sighed. ‘Although I suppose it could have great sentimental value.’
Moray’s eyes widened. ‘What? Found what?’
‘It wasn’t looting. I promise it wasn’t. I’d never do that. You know I’d never do that.’
Moray was looking at me as if I’d gone doolally. ‘Halliday, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
I took a breath and explained. ‘Sorry. Yesterday I found a gold locket in the pocket of my slacks. I think it must have been given to me in the Café de Paris that night, but I don’t remember it happening. More likely, it was slipped in my pocket when I was distracted.’
‘Why didn’t you hand it in to the police yesterday?’
‘I was going to ask you today what to do, but I forgot.’ I found that I was wringing my hands together nervously. I’d never been in trouble with the police before. ‘I’m such an idiot.’
Moray shook his head. ‘Well, don’t worry too much about it. Of course you wouldn’t steal from an injured person. I’ll tell them that if they ask. But I don’t think that’s what they want to discuss with you.’
‘What else would it be?’ I said gloomily.
Detective Chief Inspector Wayland was a big man with an air of quiet authority. Detective Sergeant Norris was shorter, no higher than five foot four inches, with a wiry build and quick dark eyes and an expression that seemed to say he’d seen and heard it all.
I sat in Moray’s office facing them.
‘Miss Halliday,’ said Wayland, ‘you must be wondering why we’ve asked to see you.’
Moray had suggested that I remain calm, be cooperative, but keep quiet unless asked a specific question.
‘Mr Moray said it was to do with the Café de Paris.’
‘Do you remember a Sister Grant?’
‘Of course I do. She was simply marvellous. Managed to get bandages for us.’
‘It was because of her that we found you. She remembered you well, and spoke highly of you.’
‘What’s this about, please?’
‘Sister Grant told us that you were caring for patients in the corner under the balcony. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. I cared for an American with blast lung and a woman with facial injuries due to flying glass and a broken arm.’
‘How do you know the man was an American?’
‘Um, he had an American accent.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘Briefly. He told me his name was Harry Egan.’
Wayland exchanged a look with Norris, who wrote something in the notebook. He turned back to me. ‘Go on.’
‘I examined him as best I could, but there was nothing I could do for him. So I left him to tend to the other patient, a woman. Um, then I saw someone searching Mr Egan’s clothes. I called out, told him to stop, said that Mr Egan was badly wounded. He said that Mr Egan was dead. Then Sister Grant appeared and when I looked again, the looter had disappeared. Mr Egan was dead when I went to check on him.’
Wayland rubbed at his thick grey eyebrows. ‘Could the looter have killed him?’
I drew in my breath with an audible gasp. I hadn’t considered this before. Surely Michael wouldn’t have… I tried to cast my thoughts back to that night, to remember exactly what I had seen.
‘He searched Mr Egan thoroughly, but I never saw his hand over Mr Egan’s mouth. That might have killed him, if he had stopped his breathing. Mr Egan was very weak.’ I looked up at Wayland, bleakly unsure of what I had actually seen. ‘I really think Mr Egan was already dying when I saw him. Blast lung is very hard to treat and often fatal.’
I knew I should tell them that I knew who the looter was. I knew that they needed to know it was Michael Harker. I stayed quiet.
Wayland nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss Halliday. I should mention that the American Embassy has expressed concern about Mr Egan’s death. They are especially concerned about the looting of his body. Is there anything more you can tell us? What did the looter look like?’
And then it all came tumbling out. ‘Um, I should tell you I found a locket in my pocket. It may have come from Mr Egan, but I’m really not sure.’
Wayland broke into my hasty apology. ‘A locket?’
‘It looked like one …’
‘Why do you think it belonged to Mr Egan?’
‘I’m not sure that it did. But he grabbed at me when I was checking his condition and he could have slipped it into my pocket then.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I’ve got it at home. I’ll bring it to you. I didn’t steal it, really I didn’t. I didn’t know I had it until I found it yesterday afternoon.’
‘Why didn’t you hand it in to the local police station yesterday?’
‘I wasn’t sure what to do about it, so I thought I’d ask Mr Moray this morning.’
Wayland frowned at me. ‘I’m not saying the law would necessarily treat what you did as looting, Miss Halliday. But you should have handed it in as soon as you found the locket. The situation could be easily misconstrue
d as an intention to keep it. The American Embassy—’
‘But I didn’t—’
‘Please bring the locket to me at Scotland Yard.’
‘I’m off duty tomorrow. I’ll bring it tomorrow afternoon.’
He ran his big hand over his face and looked at me with weary eyes. ‘We’ll need to inform the American Embassy all that you’ve told us. They’re making quite a fuss about this.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
He found me in Manette Street.
I was walking back to the club at the end of my shift, in the early morning gloom under low clouds that threatened rain. My body was weary to the point of delirium and I seemed to hear dance rhythms in the echo of my footsteps.
I’d spent the night on the road with Lily, driving to incidents, picking up the wounded, finding my way through endless detours, past burning buildings and demolished houses. And all the while I was trying not to remember Michael Harker looting a dead man’s body. Perhaps committing a murder. Trying to work out why I hadn’t simply told the inspector his name.
He stepped out of the shadows to stand in front of me. The day was lightening quickly so that his features sharpened and became recognisable, showing the white bandage that covered the wound on his forehead, and the purple bruise on his chin. Had I caused that bruise? I hoped I had.
I flinched as he reached into his coat, but he pulled out only a packet of Player’s. He offered it to me and I shook my head.
‘Mind if I do?’
‘Of course not.’
Slowly, deliberately, he shook out a cigarette and turned away to light it. I wondered briefly if I should take the opportunity to run, but dismissed the idea. He looked athletic. He’d just catch me and haul me back again. Better to find out what he wanted, and work out how not to give it to him.
‘If you are trying to scare me,’ I said, ‘I should tell you now that I don’t scare easily.’
He looked amused. ‘You think I’m some gangster heavy from Chicago?’
‘I’m sure gangster heavies come from all over the United States. Even western Pennsylvania.’
‘Aw, you remembered. I’m touched.’
‘And I’m leaving,’ I snapped. I turned and began to walk towards Greek Street. He walked with me, but kept his distance. There was a dawn freshness to the air and it cooled my heated cheeks. It was easy, now, to see where I was walking and to avoid obstacles. I hoped that I could similarly avoid any traps set by Mr Michael Harker.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘Why are you here?’ My voice was clipped and angry.
‘It’s not what it seems,’ he said. ‘And I’m not a gangster heavy from anywhere. Let me buy you breakfast, so we can talk about it in comfort. I need a cup of coffee, and I’m sure you could use a cup of tea.’
I considered his offer. Surely I’d be safe in a crowded place, and I did want some answers.
‘All right.’
The Victory restaurant in Greek Street was open for breakfast and he ushered me in. It wasn’t crowded so early in the day, but there were about six people sitting at tables inside. One of them was my streetwalker friend Edna, who nursed a cup of coffee at a table near the window. Her face was white and drawn, but she had reapplied her lipstick so that her red mouth stood out like a scarlet slash. I remembered her telling me that she’d often duck into a cafe around this time of the morning, to be out of the cold when there was little chance of picking up any trade.
She saw us walk in, looked Michael up and down, raised her cup in a mock toast and winked at me. Edna’s attempt at insouciance always touched my heart, especially as she didn’t look particularly well that morning.
I walked over to her, followed by Harker. ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked her. ‘If so, I’m sure Mr Harker would love to buy you breakfast.’
‘It would be my pleasure, ma’am,’ he said to Edna, with one of his charming smiles.
Edna’s answering smile revealed several broken teeth and those that were left were badly stained. ‘Thanks, love. Bacon, eggs, toast – the works, please. Y’er a champion.’ Her look became stern. ‘But you be sure to look after our Maisie. She’s a treasure, she is. And a real lady, so no mucking about, hear.’
‘None whatsoever,’ he replied, and I gave an unladylike snort.
We sat at a table in a corner, and Harker ordered a full breakfast for Edna, a cup of coffee for himself and, when I refused any food, a pot of tea for me.
‘Friend of yours?’ he asked, nodding towards Edna. He looked elegant and unruffled, and a smile played around his lips. The bandage that covered his forehead gave him a vulnerable air that I knew to be utterly false.
‘I’ve lived in Soho for years, on and off,’ I replied. ‘You get to know people. Edna used to be on the stage, but fell on hard times.’
‘And you thought, there but for the grace of God …’
‘No. I’d honestly rather die than have her life. But I’d never judge her for it. Ever been hungry, Mr Harker?’
He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray, then settled back in his chair and gave me a long, cool look. ‘Yes, I’ve been hungry. I grew up in a poor family, Miss Halliday.’
I didn’t believe him. At least, I didn’t believe he had any idea of what it was like for Edna on the Soho streets, or had been for me in Sheffield’s slums.
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
‘I’m with the American Embassy.’
He handed over a card which announced he was Z. Michael Harker of the United States Embassy in Grosvenor Square, Mayfair. Again, I wondered what the ‘Z’ stood for.
‘How can I possibly believe anything you say,’ I said. ‘Did you run me over on purpose last week?’
‘Of course not. You jumped out in front of me. Coincidences do happen.’
‘Why are you here? What do you want?’
‘Harry Egan, the man who died in the Café de Paris bombing on Saturday night, was a colleague of mine at the embassy. Yesterday afternoon we received from Scotland Yard the notes of their interview with you that morning. So we know you are holding a watch fob – what you called a locket – that may have belonged to Harry Egan. I’d like to see it, see if it was Harry’s.’
‘Because you didn’t have a chance to steal it on Saturday night?’
He said nothing, but a muscle twitched at the side of his mouth.
‘I don’t know that it belonged to Mr Egan,’ I said. ‘I found it in my pocket. Anyone could have put it there.’
‘Let me see it and I’ll tell you. He used to wear a fob attached to his watch chain. A square-shaped gold locket embossed with a star. A sapphire was in the centre of the star. If it was Harry’s then his widow will want it back.’
I tried again. ‘And that is what you were looking for when you searched his body?’
He paused, and stared down at the table, then said, quietly, ‘Not necessarily. As I told you that night, I knew he was carrying something important and I wanted to retrieve it before his body was taken to the morgue and searched there.’
I glanced at the card he had given me. ‘Anyone can have a card printed. It’s a different card from the one you sent with the book.’
‘Did you like the book?’
There was a boyish eagerness in the way he asked the question.
My cheeks became warm. I looked down at my tea, and murmured, ‘Yes, I enjoyed it very much. Thank you.’
‘Please look at this,’ he said.
Michael reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a folder and passed it to me. The folder contained an identity paper from the US War Office. It identified ‘Zebulon Michael Harker, born October 23, 1912. Eyes blue, hair brown, weight 160 lbs, height 6 foot 2 inches’. The photograph was a good likeness. The document even contained his fingerprints, neatly printed at the side. It had to be real. No one would make up a false identity with that name.
‘Zebulon?’ I asked.
‘My grandpa’s name. It’s from the Bible, of course. The sixth son
of Jacob and Leah.’
‘I know that,’ I said, a trifle smugly. After twelve years of listening to Granddad practise his sermons I had a fair knowledge of scripture. ‘Zebulon dwells at the haven of the sea and shall be for a haven of ships. You should be in the navy, Zebulon Michael Harker.’
Michael shook his head slowly and gave a short laugh. ‘You’re full of surprises, Miss Halliday. Or may I call you Maisie?’
‘By all means call me Maisie … if I may I call you Zeb.’
‘Michael will do.’
‘Then so will Miss Halliday.’
He was no longer smiling. ‘Very amusing. But I think we should be serious.’
I glared at him. ‘So do I. You rifled Mr Egan’s body. It was horrible.’ I sucked in a shaky breath. ‘Did you kill him? They asked me.’
Again he had become very still. ‘I’ve seen your statement. You didn’t mention I was there. I think it’s because you know I didn’t kill him.’
‘I’m not sure why I didn’t tell them about you.’
He pulled out his packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket and shook one out. He didn’t light it, but rolled it around in his long fingers, back and forth, in and out.
‘He died a minute or so after you left him,’ he said, watching the cigarette as he rolled it through each finger, with no small amount of skill. ‘Poor old Harry.’
‘Did you touch him at all before he died?’
‘No. I was talking to him, but he didn’t seem to hear me. He took a gasping breath, and died.’ He looked at me, fixing me with his ice blue gaze. ‘We were friends, after a fashion. I didn’t kill him. The German bomb did that. I’d gone to the Café de Paris to see him, though. He was going to meet someone, and I hoped to convince him not to go through with … what he’d intended to do.’
‘What did he intend to do?’
‘Something dumb and dangerous.’ Michael was still looking down at the cigarette he was rolling around in his fingers. ‘In all the darkness and confusion I lost him.’ He looked at me, imploring me to trust him. ‘Maisie, I’m with the US government. I hated to search his body, but it was important. I needed to get hold of what he was carrying. You can trust me.’
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