Panic gripped. They should get out of here, leave while the going was good, except he had no idea where to go. At short notice, it was impossible to find another room they could afford. They might have to sleep rough for a few nights. He could steal a car perhaps, and they could sleep in that. No, that wasn’t the answer. Stealing a car too early might lead to detection. The park, that was a better solution. They would have to sleep in the park. It would only be for a very short time, three days if Patel’s meeting with the Foreign Secretary wasn’t brought forward. The shock had galvanised his mind and a scheme had begun to form—an audacious scheme. But first, they must escape the trap.
‘Hari.’ He went over to the bed and shook his companion awake. ‘You have to get up.’
‘What, why?’ The man’s half-closed eyes were hazed and Sweetman could feel the heat coming off him.
‘We have to go. Don’t worry. I’ve a new plan, a superb one, but right now we need to get out of here.’
Mishra groaned and doubled up. ‘I can’t. My stomach hurts too bad. And I’m cold.’
He could see the sweat beading the man’s forehead and dribbling in broken lines down his face. He probably was ill but they couldn’t stay here.
‘Look, you’ll be better soon. We need to go,’ he insisted.
‘Go where?’ Mishra groaned again.
‘Anywhere, the park. We can sleep there. It’s April and warm enough. And it’s only for a few days.’
Mishra closed his eyes. ‘You go. I’m staying.’
‘What the hell use is that? Come on, get up!’
But Hari Mishra had had enough and proved unexpectedly determined. ‘I’m not moving,’ he muttered thickly.
In frustration, Sweetman flung himself away from the bed and set to pacing up and down the bare boards. Very gradually his panic began to subside. Perhaps Mishra was right, perhaps it was madness to sleep rough when they had a roof of sorts over their heads. It was a long shot after all that the woman had recognised him. She might have an inkling, but she couldn’t be sure. And if she decided to tell what she’d seen to the man upstairs, Sweetman could watch for their meeting. He’d know what to do. In the meantime, he must hope she hadn’t voiced any suspicions and that no one had thought to join the dots. He sat down at the table again and began to write. With every minute his strategy was becoming clearer. But he wouldn’t say anything to Mishra, not yet. He might delay telling him what he intended to do until the day of the meeting. That way, the man wouldn’t have time to get cold feet.
Connie caught up with her at the end of their shift. She was stacking the last pile of rolled bandages onto an empty shelf when her friend bustled into the small storeroom.
‘Come on, Daisy, time to go. We’ll grab something to eat and then you can tell me everything that’s happened. But nod if things turned out well.’
She nodded obediently.
‘Attagirl!’
Connie squeezed her arm and tossed her one of the capes she carried. ‘This calls for a celebration,’ she said, as they tripped down the stairs. ‘And I do believe supper is Woolton pie. Again. Cook only added it to the menu last month and we’ve had it half a dozen times already.’ She gave a groan. ‘I suppose it’s possible that one day I might grow to love turnips.’
They were at the front entrance of the hospital when Daisy hesitated. ‘I think we should wait for Willa.’
‘She left for the Home ten minutes ago.’
‘If you’re sure …’
‘Stop worrying. She seemed perfectly fine when I saw her. Just hungry, I guess.’
But when they walked into the dining room, there was no sign of the girl. ‘She was certainly on the ward earlier and I’m sure I saw her beetle off,’ Connie said. ‘Perhaps she couldn’t face Woolton again. If I weren’t so darned famished, I’d be dipping out too.’
She took Daisy’s arm and steered her towards the long counter. ‘Let’s get this dreadful stuff down us and then we can talk. Imagine it’s steak and kidney pie without the steak or the kidney.’
Daisy wasn’t exactly looking forward to the talk. Once Connie was sure the papers were coming and her friend could look freedom in the face, she wouldn’t be too interested in the details. She wouldn’t want to know about the letter Daisy had sent or the ambulance driver who was delivering it or the tea she’d drunk or the scones she’d eaten—well, perhaps the scones. What she’d really want to hear was what Daisy had said to Grayson and what Grayson had said to Daisy. She’d want to have every second of their meeting recounted. It would be a shame to disappoint her with an outcome that was so unromantic. But when her friend heard the word ‘Ritz’, her green eyes danced and her smile shone.
‘The Ritz! Wonderful! And a dinner dance! How the upper classes live.’
‘Hardly,’ Daisy protested.
‘He wants to spoil you,’ her friend went on. ‘Wants to impress, too, so make sure you are impressed. But don’t forget to eat.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with spoiling. Meeting at the Ritz is the best way, he said.’
‘I bet he did. The best way to woo you.’
They threw themselves onto the most disreputable of the sofas that lined the sitting room walls. It was the furthest from the door and so the least likely to be overheard.
‘You’re impossible.’ Daisy tucked her legs beneath her and unpinned the starched cap, shaking her hair free.
‘And Grayson is a wily fox. I can see that. I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘You aren’t going to. I agreed to go to the dance because I think he’s probably right. It will be safer to hand the papers over during dinner at the Ritz than anywhere else.’
‘Safer? What are you talking about? How could it be dangerous?’
‘I don’t know. It may not be. It’s just a suspicion. But there’s definitely something going on, something to do with Gerald, though I’ve no idea what. On my way back here, the oddest thing happened. I was at the Aldwych, crossing the road and a car nearly knocked me down, then it swerved out to overtake half a dozen vehicles on Kingsway and ended up by blocking a taxi so the driver couldn’t move. It was only when a fire engine came along in the opposite direction that the cab could get going again.’
Her friend was looking nonplussed. ‘And that has to do with Gerald?’
‘No,’ Daisy said slowly. ‘It can’t have. It sounds stupid now I’ve said it aloud, but at the time I connected the two things. The mind can play strange tricks, can’t it?’
Connie bounced up and down impatiently. ‘You’ve been working too hard, that’s the problem. It was just one of those stupid events that happen every day in London. The chap in the car obviously didn’t like taxis.’
She wished she could believe it was that simple, but before she lost herself in worry, her friend had moved closer. ‘So tell me about the Ritz.’ Connie beamed expectantly.
‘There’s nothing to tell. We’ll have a meal there —and yes, I will remember to eat—then afterwards, Grayson will hand me the papers and I’ll come back here. Nobody will notice a thing. In fact, nobody will be at the dance who shouldn’t be. And I’m to take taxis both ways so I can’t get into too much trouble.’ She let out a small sigh. ‘I must admit, though, I’ll be glad when this whole affair is over.’
‘And it will be, poppet—very soon. But you’ve got to have at least one dance while you’re at the hotel. Colin, Dr Lawson, says they’ve got the most stupendous band there.’
Daisy looked at her friend, the edges of her mouth curving into a smile. ‘So you’ve been hobnobbing with Colin again while I’ve been pounding the city streets?’
‘He looked for me on my break. We had a cup of tea together.’
‘And …’
‘And I do like him, Daisy.’ For once Connie’s cheerful face was serious and a slow flush began its climb to her cheeks. Then she was back to the Ritz. ‘Promise me, you’ll have that dance.’
‘Maybe.’ It wasn’t exactly the endorsement her friend had been look
ing for, but Connie took not the slightest notice. ‘You’ll have to have a new dress. You can’t dance without a new dress.’
Daisy gave up. ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’
‘There’s a lovely black lace number in Harper’s window. Low neckline, tiny sleeves and a swishy skirt. I saw it today and wanted it desperately. But it wouldn’t fit me. But you …’
‘I’ve seen it and it’s gorgeous but it will stay in the window. I’ve no coupons left, not to mention money.’
‘You may not need coupons.’ Connie lowered her voice. ‘I know for a fact that the woman who runs the shop will sneak you a dress without them, as long as you pay the right money.’
‘Well, that’s just dandy. I’ve all of three pounds in my purse. That might just buy the sleeves.’
‘I’ve got the money my uncle sent me for my birthday. He’s very generous and, with your three pounds, it could be just enough. If it isn’t, we could promise to pay the rest off over the next few months.’
‘I’m not letting you do any such thing. Spend your money on a frock for me! It’s for one night, Connie.’
‘But what a night. Think how gorgeous you’ll look.’ Her friend was already far into the dream, but then her practical nature took over. ‘In any case, I need your olive green, so you can’t wear that. I’ve already tried it on—sorry but I didn’t think you’d mind—and I can just get into it.’
‘And the black lace?’
‘Not a chance. But it will be stunning on you.’
Daisy shook her head. ‘I can’t let you squander your birthday money,’ she said again.
‘Yes, you can. Cinderella, you will go the ball!’
Gerald was feeling happy. He’d managed to coast down the stairs and out of the front door without making a sound, and was now on his way to Victoria Park. He hadn’t wanted to go to Rigby’s to check for Daisy’s letter, but it had been worth it. The man was a surly piece of work. When Gerald had first moved to Ellen Street, he’d asked the shopkeeper for a job. He’d needed an employer who’d ask no questions and a corner shop that was keeping his post for the few pence he could ill afford, was a good bet. But the shopkeeper had looked him up and down and told him, no work for you. Not for your kind, that’s what he’d meant, not for a coward. Gerald had felt fury at the insinuation. He was no coward, not in the ordinary sense. But what good would be served by giving himself up? He wouldn’t be fighting for his country, he’d be locked away in some filthy jail, punished for a crime committed thousands of miles away. The irony was bitter. Lack of money had destroyed the life he’d known in India and now, with barely enough left to pay the next week’s rent, it had been threatening to destroy him all over again.
But not any more, or not for much longer. Today the owner of Rigby’s had been his usual uncivil self but Gerald didn’t care. He had Daisy’s letter tucked into his pocket and was making for the park, where he could sit and read without the need to look constantly over his shoulder. As if to celebrate, the sun had decided to shine and the trees to remember it was April and time to shake off winter’s sleep and embrace life again. And that was just what he intended for himself. He had no doubt the letter contained good news. Daisy wouldn’t have written so soon unless she had something positive to say. He found a bench a little way into the park and sat down, careful to ensure that his back was to the railings and he had a good view in all directions. You couldn’t be too safe. He needn’t have worried, though. This morning only a handful of people had been enticed to one of the few green spots in the East End: several dog walkers, the park warden making his rounds picking up rubbish as he went, and a couple working on the allotments that most of the park had been given over to.
He spread the note across his knee. It was brief but he didn’t mind. It said all he wanted it to say. Daisy was promising to get the papers to him as soon as she could; he was sure that he’d have them within days. He imagined she would be glad to see the back of him. Well, he’d be glad to go. He’d thought of taking her with him, if she were willing, and he might have enjoyed a reunion of sorts. But really a chap did better on his own. He stretched out against the back of the bench, an expansive smile on his face. He’d almost found safety, and an unexpectedly strong feeling of relief spread through him. He’d been very scared, he realised. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, had tried to suppress the thought, but there had been a quiet voice in his ear that said he’d never escape. That he’d be forced to face the past and its sins, and pay for all of them. But that was over now. He could look forward, not back, and didn’t he deserve to? All credit to Daisy. She’d done a splendid job in persuading Grayson Harte to perjure himself. But he deserved some credit too. And that’s what he’d never been given. Quite the contrary. He’d tried to save her life, hadn’t he, but there’d been no praise for that. Instead, he’d been hounded from place to place and was still being hounded in his own country.
Okay he’d done wrong, he’d admit it, but it hadn’t been his fault. He’d got in with the wrong people, that was all. Anish, for instance. Why on earth had he made him his friend? He was a brother officer, a graduate of the Indian Army Academy, and he’d appeared to be a true gentleman. How could he have known the man was some kind of mad patriot who would involve him in criminality of the worst kind? Involve him to the point that he lost everything he ever cared for. Made him behave in a way that was wholly out of character. All those accidents that had haunted Daisy. Accidents that weren’t accidents. He hadn’t liked knowing. Not at all. But he’d been forced to go along with them and he knew she would never forgive him for that.
But she’d been as much to blame. If she hadn’t been so stubborn, so wilfully determined not to take his advice, she wouldn’t have suffered. If she’d gone to the hills for the summer with the other wives, as he’d told her to, none of it would have happened. The stolen arms would have left the bungalow without a problem, and when she returned home in the cool season, she would have found nothing untoward. He’d have paid off his debts at last, and life would have gone on as usual. But she had to pry, didn’t she, poke her nose into what didn’t concern her and end up in danger? And he’d had to go to the rescue. It was bad enough standing by while she coped with dangerous snakes, and flying rocks and saddles that mysteriously failed, but he couldn’t ignore cold-blooded murder. He’d had to try to rescue her and he’d nearly died doing it. And branded himself a murderer in the process. So yes, he deserved her help, he deserved those papers.
He tucked the envelope into his shirt pocket and sauntered out of the park, weaving a slow path through traffic-filled roads towards Ellen Street. The calm that had settled on him lasted until he turned the corner and saw the gothic face of number seventeen lurch into view. From this position, its three storeys loomed over the squalid cottages at its feet, the dense black roof a dark pall threatening the entire neighbourhood. If the house were no longer there, he thought, the road might look homely, inviting even. Well, perhaps not inviting, but certainly not as menacing. He almost wished the Luftwaffe would pay the building some attention on their next visit.
He pushed the blistered paint of the front door and edged it open. It swung back easily. He tried never to use the large brass knob in the centre of the door. It was rusty and, when turned, filled the air with a loud, grinding noise. He was keen to avoid noise at all costs. His nerves were back on duty and he felt his stomach jumping in tune with his breath. He inched his way up the stairway giving the door of the first-floor flat a wide berth. Last night, there’d been another row. Something bad had happened, that was certain, and the two men had raised their voices at each other for minutes on end, forgetting they could be overheard, forgetting that he might pick up a Hindi word here and there. He hadn’t. He’d cranked up his radio and deliberately played it at full volume just to tell them that he wasn’t listening. Now, though, their flat was utterly quiet and, if anything, it felt more ominous than the shouting. Gerald eased his way upwards and into his own front door without incident. On
ce inside, he pulled Daisy’s envelope from its resting place and settled it on the stained wooden mantelpiece, behind the clock stuck permanently at three minutes past ten. The letter was his talisman and while he had it, nothing could harm him.
CHAPTER 10
London, mid-April, 1941
‘I should have gone into supper and sat with Willa.’
Both girls had crammed into Daisy’s room and their outfits for the evening were strewn across the narrow bed. The small desk was covered with pots of every shape and size. Connie had emptied her drawer of anything she thought might vaguely help their preparations for this grand Saturday night.
‘Stop fussing,’ she chided. ‘You couldn’t have gone to supper. You couldn’t have eaten a thing.’
‘But Willa wanted to talk to me,’ Daisy insisted. ‘She caught me at the front door, just as I was coming in, and I said I’d try to meet her.’
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