‘I’ll go,’ a voice from the bunk beds. A young woman.
Two legs swung out from the bottom bunk. Pale-blue pyjamas, slipping her feet into a dirty grey pair of slippers.
Cook recognised her. The barmaid from Gracie’s pub.
‘Dottie?’ Gracie asked, peering into the gloom.
‘If there’s a bloke out there knows what’s happened to Ruby,’ the barmaid said. ‘I’ll get it out of him.’
‘It’s too dangerous,’ Cook said.
‘Dealing with a punter?’ the barmaid said.
‘Worth a try,’ Reynolds said. ‘You’ll need to get your glad rags on though.’
69
Margaret took the steps down to the basement. She heard music, muffled at first, then louder. Something fun, upbeat. Something you’d want to dance to.
A doorman stood in a vestibule at the bottom of the stairs. He nodded to Margaret and stepped aside.
When she’d heard about the basement shelter beneath the Empire, Margaret had imagined rows of camp beds. Hotel guests in their pyjamas, tucked up under grey wool blankets. A nurse, perhaps, or a hotel waitress, doing the rounds offering soothing drinks, while outside the bombs crashed down and civilisation hung by a thread.
Instead, Margaret found herself in a packed bar, deafening music from a band tucked into a tiny corner marked out by red velvet curtains and a postage-stamp of a stage. The clientele was a curious mix, heavily weighted towards old money, but here, in the darkness of the basement bar, people seemed to have given themselves permission to let go. Like a weekend at a country house when all the staff had gone to bed, and the host and hostess let it be known all bets were off. No rules, no judgment, just fun.
An elderly man approached her, dressed in a stunning dress – a pre-war number Margaret recognised from a series of coming-out balls in various foreign capitals. He held a choke chain, which was loosely draped around the neck of his companion, a younger man dressed in a very closeapproximation of a Hitler Youth outfit – tight brown shorts and shirt, swastikas applied liberally.
‘Lady Margaret?’ a waiter appeared from the throng, a silver tray full of drinks held masterfully at shoulder-height. ‘Your table’s ready.’
Margaret followed the waiter to a small café table, squeezed between two large and loud groups – one of them the usual mix of aging Nordic aristocracy, the other an office party of civil servants – young women from the lower ranks of the upper class, and older men in sensible pullovers, earnest and dull, firsts in philosophy, snapped up by the government and installed in airless offices. None of the revellers gave her a second glance as she took her seat, deep in the shadows, back to the wall – the way she liked it.
The waiter set out two small plates and cutlery, then two brimming glasses of champagne. He winked at Margaret, then disappeared back into the crowd.
Margaret waited, scanning the crowd, trying to predict who’d be her contact. At the bar, she watched the young man she’d described to Bunny as a conman. Cheap suit. Ginger hair. Down from Manchester, had been her somewhat flippant description. He had his eyes on a rather dull young woman who, Margaret knew, was the heiress to the second-largest coal-mining family in the country.
As Margaret watched, another young woman approached the man, zeroing in. One of the prostitutes, perhaps. Pale skin. Red silk dress clinging to her curves. She was wasting her time with him, Margaret thought.
‘Keep looking forward,’ someone said, from her left. The party of office clerks, if she remembered correctly. It was a woman’s voice. A poor attempt at an English accent – overly heightened, like a pastiche of the Queen. ‘If you turn to look at me this conversation’s over.’ Margaret guessed the womanwas American. She’d had trouble pronouncing forward without emphasising the ‘r’s. Made her sound like a farmer.
Margaret raised her glass of champagne. She watched the tableau play out at the bar. The girl in the red dress contrived to spill her drink on herself and the man. Shrieks of concern mixed with laughter. Stepping back. Handkerchief applied delicately. The man wasn’t taking the bait. In fact, he recoiled when the girl put his hands on her chest.
‘We have a mutual friend,’ the American said, from behind Margaret. ‘He’s glad we’ve been able to connect. You and I are going to become pen pals. There’s an address on the underside of your napkin. You’ll write once a week. Nothing out of the ordinary. They’re reading everything, of course, so we have to establish a pattern. We met in London, had a bit of a fling. You’re nervous. Never thought of yourself that way, but you’re intrigued. We’ll correspond. Once we’re up and running, I’ll send you the code book so you can start sending more useful information. Drink your champagne if you understand.’
Margaret sipped her champagne. It was excellent.
At the bar the girl in the red dress had given up. She was pushing her way through the crowd towards the exit. The man was angry. In fairness, he looked like the kind of man who spent a lot of his time being angry. As he turned towards the coal heiress, he tried to hide it, unsuccessfully. The heiress didn’t notice, or didn’t care. More fool her.
‘I need to give them a name,’ Margaret said. ‘Someone dispensable.’
‘Impossible,’ the woman said.
‘I need to build their trust,’ Margaret said.
‘What if we don’t think you’re worth the investment?’
Margaret ignored the threat. She watched the band.
‘I’ll have to check,’ the voice said.
