The Bee's Kiss Read online

  He reached his goal – an all-night coffee stall which seemed to be doing good business. Three gents in silk top hats and opera cloaks were talking loudly, sipping fragrant coffee from china mugs. A taxi driver rolled in for a couple of saveloys and a pint mug of tea. A medical student asked for an Oxo and a ham sandwich. Two lean men whose faces he thought he recognized faded rapidly into the shadows at the sight of the police cape.

  Armitage approached the counter and looked up into the sweaty, beaming face of the proprietor.

  ‘Mug of your best java, Zeek, and a couple of those saveloys – they smell good. Keeping busy, I see.’

  ‘Musn’t grumble. It’ll get busier when the nightclubs turn out. There yer go, Sarge. Mustard with that?

  ‘No, ta. Do right well as it is. I’ll park me owd bum on that there bench to enjoy ’em.’

  He sat down at a rudimentary table thoughtfully and illegally provided on the pavement by the management for revellers too unsteady to hold their mugs after a night on the town. He waited, his back to the stall, a smile on his face.

  There it was, the upper-class baritone he’d been expecting.

  ‘I’ll have the same as the sergeant, thanks.’

  Joe put his mug down next to Armitage’s.

  ‘Shove over a bit! Cigarette first or are we straight into the sausages?’

  ‘Sausages first, I think, before they start to congeal.’ He noticed with satisfaction that Joe was breathing heavily. ‘Too many hours at the desk, is it, sir?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘Far too many! God! You’re a hard man to keep up with! Good practice, though! I haven’t done that since I was on the beat.’

  ‘You haven’t lost the knack, sir. I was well into Soho before I twigged.’

  ‘Really? Didn’t think I was that good! I must confess I lost you in Bridle Lane. I just guessed you’d fetch up here.’

  The two men grinned, open enjoyment outweighing the embarrassment of discovering each other indulging in an activity more suited to a recruit.

  ‘You’re more at home here than I am, I think,’ said Joe. ‘London man?’

  ‘Born and bred.’

  ‘And congratulations on making sergeant, by the way. You can’t have wasted any time?’

  ‘Five years. No, you’re right, sir. That’s as fast as it gets in the force. Unless . . .’ he added with a sly but obvious sideways look at Joe.

  ‘I’ll save you saying it,’ Joe interrupted, good-humouredly. ‘Someone once told me I must have had a rocket up my arse to get to my present elevated rank so quickly! True. And the rocket had a name on it! A few years back when I was pounding the beat in the ordinary way – and believe me, Armitage, I’ve done all the basics! . . . ex-officers weren’t spared the training – I had a bit of luck.’ He added slowly, ‘Though it didn’t seem like luck at the time. And it was an odd time. Police unions, police strikes considerably more than a possibility, a good deal of disenchantment in the force . . .’

  ‘I remember that,’ said Armitage. ‘Before I joined. I wouldn’t have considered it if it hadn’t all turned around.’

  ‘Not surprised to hear it. Enormous amount of unfairness and injustice and what happened? To my horror, a delegation of the rank and file – my fellow bobbies – waited on me and asked me if I would not only join but spearhead the police union’s protest! Pretty unpromising situation for a bright young chap like me, on the threshold of my new career! Overnight I had the reputation of being a firebrand, a dangerous man . . .’ Joe dropped his voice and added theatrically, ‘an agitator.’

  The word, though lightly offered, made Armitage shudder. ‘Bad situation, sir! Promising police career looking a bit blue round the edges? Sacking offence, isn’t it? Union business . . . can get you into trouble.’

  ‘Certainly did then,’ said Joe. ‘And it wasn’t as though I hadn’t been warned . . . the chap before me who’d complained on behalf of the men – Thomas Thiel, that was his name, ex-Guards officer – had just been dismissed. Sir Edward Henry, the outgoing Commissioner, had got rid of him for fomenting trouble in the ranks. And here I was being invited to put my neck on the same block.’

  ‘But you did it anyway,’ said Armitage with a smile and a nod. ‘Always did lead from the front!’

  ‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘it didn’t feel much like leadership at the time. Someone behind me kicked my arse and I picked up the cudgels. There I was, agitating away if you care to put it like that, and my name came to the notice of the man at the top, the new Commissioner of Police. I was put up to represent the men in an informal interview with this chap.’ Joe paused and smiled a grim smile. ‘He was General Sir Nevil Macready.’

  Armitage’s face stiffened. ‘Blimey! That old war horse.’ He took a bite of his saveloy and chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘None other. From the siege of Ladysmith to the Easter uprisings, he was used to getting his own way. He was violently against police strikes and had already squashed one in 1918. And now this Big Gun was trained on me! I was summoned to see him in his office. You can imagine how I felt as I entered. But the first thing I saw – and, I must say, for a moment it put me off my stroke – was a poster pinned up on the wall behind his desk. It was one of ours. It said “Macready Must Go!” Bloody cheek! But I liked that. I thought that perhaps, after all, this was a man who was, like us, agitating away too. He didn’t approve of police strikes (not keen myself, as it happens), he did see that there were grievances, did see that the police were a bumbling and incompetent body wandering round the streets of London with a lantern in one hand and a bell in the other.’

  ‘Past seven o’clock and all’s well?’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing. Anyway, soldier to soldier – he’d taken the trouble to find out all about me – we put our cards on the table. He listened to all I had to tell him about the front-line copper’s problems and was able to assure me that many of them were already receiving his attention. And, with Sir Nevil, I was to find that this was not just a way of putting an inconvenient matter in cold storage. He’s a man of his word and a man of fast reactions and in no time after that meeting he’d weeded out the injustices of the fines system and the sick pay which were the main bones of contention. He organized a meeting with Lloyd George for several of us union officials at Number Ten and we squeezed out even more concessions.’ Joe grinned. ‘We negotiated a pay rise, war bonuses and widows’ pensions. We even got Thiel reinstated!

  ‘He had a thousand and one projects on the move, all improving, all practical. Everything from redesigning the officers’ dress uniform to modernizing, motorizing and reequipping the whole force.’

  ‘I think that’s where I came in,’ said Armitage. ‘When it all started to look more like a career I might enjoy. But – you, sir? Constable to Commander in one easy move? Bit bold, wasn’t it? Must have raised a few eyebrows, if not to say hackles?’

  ‘It did! But it wasn’t quite that obvious. It was one of several new appointments and it took a couple of years for me to work through. Sir Nevil – and others – had noticed that policing requirements had changed as a result of the war. Men trained to kill and use their resources to stay alive were suddenly unleashed on the world again. Clever, ruthless, experienced men . . .’

  ‘You could be describing us, sir.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But – “Commander” – that sounds a bit naval. Was that intentional?’

  ‘Probably was. It gets me the entrée into whatever corner of society needs to have a torch shone on it. The aristocracy have treated the police – on the rare occasions when they’ve had to have dealings with them at all – as their servants. But a Commander arriving at your front door has to be shown a bit more respect! Sir Nevil invented the title for the benefit of a free-wheeling new division responsible to him and nominally under my leadership. He still runs it on the quiet, though he retired as Commissioner some time ago.’

  Joe broke off and gave his sergeant a steady look. He was not unaware that the information
was flowing one way. Armitage was remaining politely inscrutable.

  ‘So, Armitage. I thought you ought to know what you’ve got yourself into.’

  For answer Armitage fished around in an inside poacher’s pocket in his cape and produced a small silver brandy flask. He uncorked it and handed it to Joe.

  ‘Sippers, Sergeant?’ asked Joe, raising the flask.

  ‘Gulpers, sir!’

  Both pleased and disturbed by his encounter, Joe worked his way back towards Piccadilly Circus. A gathering rumble in the night air reminded him how late – or was it how early? – was the hour. The country carts were lumbering down Piccadilly, jogging along on their way to Smithfield, Covent Garden and Billingsgate. When the market bells rang at five o’clock a new London day would begin. He crossed the street, dodging a flower-laden cart heady with the scent of wallflowers and bright with tulips, and picked up a cruising taxi-cab for home. His mind was racing, trying to order the many things he would have to do in a few hours’ time. He peered blearily through the cab window at the now milky sky as they turned on to the Embankment and he wondered if they would get to Chelsea before daybreak. Perhaps he should ask the cabby to loiter on Westminster Bridge so that he could enjoy the moment when the sun rose up from the grey waters of the Thames and brought back life to the capital; the brief moment before the houses and factories started puthering out their wreathing layers of yellow-grey smoke. Nocturne in black and grey perhaps? Variations in black and gold?

  A river police launch shot the bridge like a swimming rat, its three-man crew alert and looking out into the oily depths of the river, the sinister grappling iron projecting from the stern announcing their grim purpose. Joe shivered. The sun would rise too late to bring warmth to some poor, cold, hopeless bugger. He was faintly embarrassed that he’d been about to linger, fancifully trying to decide whether the misty grey scene would have been more effectively rendered by Monet or Whistler. Some other day, he decided. And he wasn’t quite in tune with Wordsworth this morning either.

  He yawned. Another thing he must do was put through a call to Records before the meeting. He wanted to ask them to look out a file for him. The name on the file would be Sergeant W. Armitage. He wondered whether Sir Nevil’s question mark was the same as his own.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Sir! I’ve been detailed to lend a hand this morning. Constable Sweetman. Attached to Vine Street.’

  The eager young policeman in his impeccable uniform was, Joe judged, in his probationary year.

  ‘Good morning, Sweetman. You have your instructions from Inspector Cottingham?’

  ‘Yessir. He’ll be here in a moment. I think we’re both early, sir.’

  ‘You’re aware that I may require you to demonstrate your particular skill?’

  ‘That’s what I understand, sir.’ He grinned and added, ‘Won’t be the first time.’

  ‘Good. Then we just have to wait until my assistant, Sergeant Armitage, gets here.’ Joe checked his watch. He was five minutes early.

  ‘I think they’re just arriving, sir.’

  Cottingham strode up looking disconcertingly dapper. Starched collar and bowler hat, spats and smart black cashmere overcoat, he’d dressed for a working day in the West End. Bill Armitage, on the other hand, to Joe’s satisfaction looked more blurred around the edges than he did himself, though the sergeant had obviously taken pains to make himself presentable. His light tweed suit topped off with a sample of the nob’s version of the proletarian flat cap favoured by the royal princes was giving out signals complex enough to hold the attention for a good five minutes. Joe thought his choice was perfectly in tune with the bright spring day and with the task in hand.

  They greeted each other with slightly twisted smiles and wry pleasantries, agreeing to get on with the job at once. The four men set out to retrace Armitage’s tour of inspection the night before, circling the building until they reached the façade on the eastern side. They all looked up, eyes following the ledge below the mansard roof and focusing on the one window which had been boarded up. For a moment there was silence as they examined the challenging climb.

  ‘Fire escape as far as the third floor,’ said Joe, ‘but then it gets a bit tricky. It’s a fingers and toes job up the next floor and then there’s the ledge overhang to negotiate before he can inch his way along to the broken window. Not pleasant but it has to be done. Heaven knows what clues, what evidence he might have left behind. Well, you know . . . button, thread of fabric . . . identity card?’

  ‘Found a pair of false teeth at the scene once!’ said Cottingham jovially. ‘Clamped around a beef and horseradish sandwich, they were.’

  Armitage handed his cap to young Sweetman and began to take off his jacket. His usual swagger was absent, Joe noticed, as he said, ‘Leave this to me, sir.’ He clenched and unclenched his large hands and the knuckles were white with tension as he scanned the façade.

  ‘Stand down, Sergeant,’ said Cottingham. ‘No need for that! Constable Sweetman is here for a purpose. Not just a pretty face – the lad has hidden talents, I’m told. Rock climber at weekends! You may divest yourself of your helmet and tunic before commencing, Roy, if you wish.’

  The constable grinned and cast an assessing eye over the climb. ‘It’ll be a doddle, sir. Shall I start now? Is anyone going to time this?’

  Cottingham took out a stop watch and moved off with his officer to the foot of the iron ladder of the fire escape. When they were out of earshot Joe said quietly, ‘Very bold of you in the circumstances, I think, Sergeant, to volunteer for a climb like that?’

  He paused, waiting for a response. Armitage looked truculently at his feet.

  ‘The leg, Bill? Anything you want to tell me about the leg?’

  Armitage’s face stiffened with resentment. ‘Following me down the street last night, was it, sir?’

  Joe was unapologetic. ‘Yes. Couldn’t help noticing you were favouring your left leg . . . when you thought no one was looking. War wound, I take it?’

  ‘It comes and goes, sir.’

  ‘For example it comes when you think you are unobserved and goes when you’re up for a medical?’ Joe enquired with an interested smile.

  Armitage’s eyes glinted and his chin came up in defiance. ‘All right, so you can get me sacked for disability . . .’

  ‘And deception.’ Joe was not prepared to let this go. ‘I remember every recruit has to make a statement about his physical condition as well as prove it in the medical examination. And the three months’ training is no cakewalk. I’m surprised that you managed to pull the wool over so many eyes for so long, Armitage.’

  ‘So am I,’ he admitted. ‘And I can tell you it was bloody painful! But there were some good fellers who knew when to look the other way. Five years ago, the force was desperate for a certain calibre of recruit and in all other ways I fitted the bill. I’ve had no complaints. My record is a good one, you’ll find when you’ve time to check it. Perhaps you already have, sir?’

  Joe was silent for a moment, wondering exactly what he had uncovered and what action he should take.

  ‘There’s a telephone in reception. One call should do it, Captain.’ The voice was icy and resigned.

  The use of his old army rank was the only appeal the man would allow himself, though it was potent in itself, Joe recognized. He was too proud to allude to the many favours he’d done Joe over the months they’d fought together; it was bad form for survivors of the war to mention their experiences even to those who’d shared them. For men of his generation, four years of life – if you could call it that – were edited out of conversation. But not out of memory. Joe remembered the cups of weak tea proffered with a smile and an encouraging quip, the last drops of the sergeant’s rum ration swirling muddily in the bottom of his dixie. ‘Sippers? Naw! Go, on – finish it! You’re the barmy bugger who’s going over the wire. I’ll keep the next ration safe. Be here when you get back, sir.’

  And the life-saving shot of raw spirit wa
s, indeed, there waiting for him but much more. Still fifty yards short of the trench and a grey dawn breaking, he’d been spotted. Rifle bullets cracked around him as he wriggled on elbows and belly, following the intermittent shelter of a tuck in the land. A bullet through his shoulder, exhausted and drained of any will to go on, Captain Sandilands had slumped on to his face on the earth waiting for death.

  ‘Fucking sniper!’ Bill’s voice growled suddenly in his ear. ‘Overdone it this time, though! We got a flash of him when he started having a go. Lads have got him in their sights. Listen! That’ll make him keep his bloody head down – if it’s still on his shoulders! I think we could break for it now. You okay?’ And strong hands had hauled and pushed and rolled him the rest of the way back to shelter.

  ‘Perhaps I’m one of those fellers who know when to look the other way? It’s a skill I learned from a past master of the art in India,’ said Joe.

  They watched in companionable silence as the constable swarmed fearlessly up the fire escape. ‘Tell me, Bill, did you ever stop counting those minutes?’ Joe asked quietly.

  Armitage responded at once to the allusion. Perhaps it had been in his mind also. ‘Funny thing that. The counting had become so engrained I missed it when it all came to a stop. It kept me going. We all had to find our own ways of getting through.’

  Joe was remembering the iron gleam in the sergeant’s eye as he fired a captured enemy machine gun at a row of German infantry emerging from their trench only yards away. They’d been sitting ducks for the raking gun. When, finally, the pitiless racket stopped and no more figures came on towards them through the smoke Joe had touched Armitage’s shoulder briefly with a stiff, ‘Well done, Sarge!’ He’d realized with a shock that Armitage had been counting throughout. ‘Twenty-five!’ he’d said with satisfaction. ‘Every bugger I get, I reckon as another minute off this bloody war. So that’s near half an hour saved, Captain!’