Margaret knew what they were up to, of course. She could see their confidence growing with every glass she drank. She’d be another notch on the bedpost, perhaps a silhouette on the fuselage. It wasn’t apparent whether Muggers would get to join in. Would they both make love to her at once? Margaret liked to think of herself as open-minded. She’d read about such things in racy novels, the ones that got passed around at boarding school, but she’d never considered it as an actual possibility.
When Margaret saw Todd look at the barman, about to order a third bottle, she put her hand on top of her glass and shook her head.
‘That’s quite enough for me,’ she said.
Muggers nodded. ‘Righto,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘I’ve got a half-finished bottle in my room,’ Todd said. ‘Come up for one last glass, help me finish it. Waste not want not. There is a war on, after all.’
‘How lovely,’ Margaret said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
She picked up her handbag and slipped down from the stool. As she threaded her way through the tables, she knew the two pilots would be watching her, zeroing in on their target.
She paused by the men with the cheap suits.
‘I’ll be upstairs with those two for the night,’ she said. ‘I don’t think either of them’s a German spy, so you can count me as safely tucked up. I’ll be down for breakfast at eight if you want to resume surveillance.’
She left before either man could confirm, or deny, his role as one of Bunny’s watchers.
In the toilets, Margaret splashed cold water on her face, aware she was being watched by the attendant. She thought about the two men at the bar. A thrill ran through her body as she let herself think about the possibility. But it wouldn’t do. The pilots were a useful distraction, an excuse for her to be seen leaving the bar without her watchers following. Once she ditched the young men, she’d have freedom of manoeuvre.
The previous night she’d come to her room to find a note under her pillow. All very cloak and dagger. The message was an invitation. Midnight, in the basement shelter. Margaret thought of the SS man, Schmidt. She’d known he’d send someone to make contact. Surprised it had taken so long.
62
Petal, if that really was her name, walked quickly through the crowds on Piccadilly, not looking back. Cook kept his distance, but she was easy to follow, a bright pink scarf covering her hair.
The conversation with the manager had been going nowhere. They were clearly paranoid that some other crime syndicate was trying to get in on their turf. None of it interested Cook.
As he was leaving the hotel, he’d spotted the prostitute – slipping quietly out the side door, pausing to light a fag then fastening the scarf over her hair. The air of someone coming off a long shift.
As she approached the bus stop, Cook turned to look in a shop window. It would be only natural for her to look back along the road, checking to see if a bus was coming. But she didn’t turn, and she didn’t slow down. She hurried past the bus stop, giving Cook hope that she was going somewhere within walking distance.
At Piccadilly Circus, she crossed over to the central island, past the boxed-up statue, then crossed again to Shaftesbury Avenue – even busier with foot traffic than Piccadilly, with queues of theatre-goers stretched out along the pavement. Theatres had been shut when war had been declared, but there’d been complaints. Presumably enough people high up in government enjoyed a night out to persuade the powersthat be of the error of their ways. So while Londoners were being advised to avoid gathering in crowds of more than ten, sitting in a packed two-thousand-seat auditorium was given the official blessing. Cook passed under a hoarding for a Noël Coward comedy. He could think of many things in life that merited risking death in a bombing raid. Watching a Noël Coward play wasn’t one of them.
Cook pushed his way through a thick knot of sightseers and realised he couldn’t see Petal’s scarf. If she had any sense she’d have taken it off. An effective way of losing a pursuer, Cook mused. If he was going to run a mob of criminals he’d bring it in as policy. But as he reached a side road to the left, he saw her. She was heading into the narrow streets and passages of Soho.
The crowds didn’t thin out – Soho was evidently as much a draw as the theatre district, but the people changed in character. Where Shaftesbury Avenue had been respectable couples, smart officewear and light summer coats, laughing and sharing stories about the day in the office, Soho was different – crowds of servicemen, many who looked too young to be out of school, let alone wandering the streets of one of London’s seediest districts, single men, furtively looking in windows, women dressed like Petal – loud fabrics and expensively curled hair. Cook passed a doorway and locked eyes with a bouncer. Cook had spent enough time in places like this to be able to recognise the difference between men who were hired merely for their physical size, and men who were actually capable of violence. The bouncer stared back, insolently, not a man Cook would choose to tangle with unless absolutely necessary.
Petal disappeared again – this time down a narrow footpath, open doorways on each side guarded by more bouncers. She stopped at one of these doorways, and the bouncerstepped aside, giving her a nod. Cook slowed, jazz music was coming from inside. He kept walking and turned the corner at the end, finding himself in Soho Square.
Cook felt in his pockets, taking inventory. He’d spent more than a year in Hong Kong, where it seemed like the whole island consisted of streets like the ones he’d just walked through. He’d developed the habit of carrying a flick knife in one pocket, and a small revolver in the other. Neither was enough if you ran out of luck, but you tended to run out of luck even quicker if you weren’t armed. Those days were long behind him, but he still found himself patting his pockets out of instinct. No weapons. But what he did have, of course, was the next best thing.
Money.
The doorman stood in front of Cook, arms hanging loosely by his sides. His suit coat was a size too big, providing ease of movement if needed, and cover for a gun. He had a bandage over his left eye, and the rest of his face was pockmarked with scabs from a recent injury. He looked familiar, like a relative of the men who’d been sent to warn him off from the Empire. Another brother, perhaps. How many were there?
Cook stood a respectful distance away, and tried to look like a tourist who wanted to listen to some jazz. Since he’d never wanted to listen to jazz, he didn’t quite know how to look, so he smiled.
‘How much to get in?’ Cook asked.
The doorman turned his head, like a bird, focusing his one good eye on Cook. He looked insulted by the question.
‘Entry’s free,’ the doorman said, ‘for the right kind of person.’ He looked Cook up and down, taking his time. ‘You’re not the right kind of person.’
‘Funny way to run a business,’ Cook said. ‘How do you make money if you don’t let people in?’
‘We get by,’ the doorman said. ‘But I’ll pass on your concern to management.’
