‘We need you to give us a name,’ he said. ‘One of their operatives, undercover in London. They’re out there, sending their little signals back. London’s leaking information like a sieve. Just give us one of them. A show of faith.’
‘If any of what you said is true, then me giving up one of their people would be a giveaway that I wasn’t to be trusted. Not that I’m an expert in this kind of thing, but I’d assume you’d like to have me as one of their trusted sources. Feeding them just the right kind of wrong information.’
Bunny beamed.
‘I knew you were the right choice, that first time we met,’ he said. ‘There’s ice in those veins. Just like your father.’
Margaret didn’t respond. If Bunny thought comparing her to her father was any kind of compliment, he was mistaken.
‘You give us a name,’ Bunny said. ‘We’ll watch them and nab them for something unconnected. Parking ticket. Library book overdue, that kind of thing.’
‘What if I say no?’ she asked. ‘What if I think this is a silly idea, concocted by silly men who think this whole thing’s a game?’
Bunny winced. He put his hand on hers. His grip was surprisingly firm.
‘Don’t mistake this for a request,’ he said. ‘If the wrong people get the wrong idea about you, your days of champagne and trifle will be over like a shot, and you’ll be somewhere with bars on the doors for the rest of the war.’
Margaret took her hand back. She was glad she’d drawn him out. Better for everyone.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.
‘Marvellous!’ Bunny was instantly the loveable uncle. ‘And make sure you enjoy yourself! Go to the theatre. Do whatever it is young people do when they’re in town.’
34
The police station in Bow Street was strategically situated. The perfect location to keep an eye on the hustle of Covent Garden market, a hundred yards away. The blue lantern was dark, thanks to the blackout. That, along with the darkened windows, gave the place an air of being out of business. Not the impression Cook would have wanted to give, in a city on the edge of going feral.
‘I’ll wait here,’ Gracie said.
Inside, there was a crowd of people gathered around the front desk. A young desk sergeant sounded like he’d been repeating the same information for a while.
‘If you need help finding shelter,’ the desk sergeant shouted, ‘the nearest rest centre’s Soho baths on Wigmore Street.’
Nobody moved.
‘If you’re looking for someone gone missing, your first stop should be hospitals. Start with St George’s if your loved one was last seen in this vicinity.’
A young mother, baby in arms, pushed her way back out through the crowd, past Cook, to the exit.
‘If you’re looking for the home repair allowance, talk to your local ARP warden.’
‘They told me to come ’ere,’ a red-faced labourer replied. ‘Said your lot was giving out five quid for materials.’
‘I’ve got no money here,’ the desk sergeant said, firmly. There was a collective moan from much of the crowd, who had evidently been sent here on the same understanding as the labourer.
‘Who’s in charge?’ the labourer asked. It was a reasonable question, Cook thought.
‘In charge of what?’ the sergeant replied.
The labourer looked around as if it was obvious.
‘The whole lot,’ he said. ‘They’ve known the bombers was coming for years. All the blackout stuff, all the gas masks. Someone must be in charge.’
The desk sergeant, trying to avoid the discussion, caught Cook’s eye.
‘I’m here for Ruby Reynolds’s things,’ Cook said. ‘She was on the bus last week, near Piccadilly Circus.’
The sergeant nodded and shouted back, through a door.
