A Death in Mayfair

Book 4: The DCI Frank Merlin Series

by Mark Ellis

Genres: Crime Fiction; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

December 1941. On a bright Sunday morning in Hawaii, Japanese planes swoop down and attack the US naval base at Pearl Harbour. America enters the war and Britain no longer stands alone against Hitler. Conditions on the home front remain bleak. In a city pulverised by the Blitz, with rampant crime and corruption and overstretched police resources, life for Scotland Yard detective Frank Merlin continues as arduous as ever. In the week of Japan's aggression, the shattered body of beautiful film star Laura Curzon is found on the pavement beneath her Mayfair apartment, an apparent suicide. A mile away, the body of a strangled young girl is discovered in the rubble of a bombed-out building. Merlin and his team investigate, encountering fraudulent film moguls, philandering movie stars, depraved Satanists and brutal gangsters as they battle through a wintry London in pursuit of the truth.

Release date: November 21, 2019

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 361

Sample

Friday December 5th 1941

London

It was an hour before dawn when the officers gathered at the street corner. Their target was ten doors down the terrace. Clouds of frozen breath trailed off into the darkness above them. Across the way a parked cart stank of the horse manure stored under its tarpaulin covers. A cat wailed in the distance.

They were seven. Merlin and his men, Johnson and Cole, and four uniformed constables from the local East End station. Merlin examined faces with his torch. Everyone was tensed for action. He raised his right hand. They all knew the drill and moved silently down the road towards the house.

The two stockiest constables carried a compact battering ram, a heavy iron tube with a large rounded end. They waited for a whispered ‘Yes’ from Merlin before smashing it into the front door. After four blows the policemen were able to clamber into the unlit hallway. There they were met by panicked screams, shouts, and the sound of frantic footsteps. In the midst of this came the unmistakable noise of gunfire. One of the constables fell to the ground, and the other policemen took cover. More shots lit up the air but none hit home. When the firing stopped, Merlin’s torch picked out several shadowy figures racing up the stairs.

‘Inspector Johnson, take Cole and one of the constables and follow. You two others search the ground floor. For Christ’s sake be careful. I’ll check on the lad here.’ Merlin knelt down to the stricken constable who was conscious but clearly in pain.

‘It’s my arm, sir.’

Merlin found the wound a couple of inches above the elbow. ‘It looks like it’s just a flesh wound, lad. I’ll tie something around it. We’ll call the medics as soon as we can.’

Merlin made a makeshift tourniquet with his handkerchief, squeezed the man’s hand then headed up the stairs. The first and second floors were clear. On the third and final floor the stairs opened onto a large space, unfurnished save for a heavy metal bed frame in the middle of the room. Two unhappy-looking men were standing handcuffed to the bed under the gaze of a constable.

‘That was quick work, officer.’

‘They tripped over each other, sir, and fell flat on their faces. We were right on them so it was easy, really. Two others got out onto the roof, though.’ There was a noise from behind and Merlin turned to see Cole climbing out of a window with Johnson about to do the same.

Merlin followed his men out onto the roof and found them with his torch scrambling along the gables to his right. The terrace was a long one with interconnected roofs. They were not steeply cambered but the surface was icy and treacherous. Gunshots suddenly rang out from somewhere and Merlin ducked and braced himself against the wall beneath the window. A bullet whizzed past his ear and thudded into the window casement. He waited a moment then edged carefully along the brickwork. The moon came out from behind some clouds and he saw his men lying flat twenty yards ahead. There was another shot and, to his surprise, he saw one of his men rise and return fire. Someone screamed and a heavy clattering sound followed. Merlin’s heart was pounding as he skidded from his cover to a chimney pot ten yards further along. He shone his torch again and saw a man racing away in the distance with his officers in pursuit. A loud animal cry from below made Merlin jump; he went to the roof edge and pointed his torch down. A motionless body was spreadeagled in an alleyway and something was crawling over it. He had little religious belief these days but by reflex he made a sign of the cross. Then Johnson was shouting for him, and he turned and hurried on.

His men were on the roof of the furthest house, looking down. ‘It’s no good, sir’ said Johnson. ‘He’s hopped it down the drainpipe. Cole here wanted to follow him down but I said it was too dangerous.’

‘I’m sure I can manage it, sir. He looked like he was limping before he went down. If I go now, he won’t have got far.’

Merlin edged forward and saw the drainpipe. ‘Sorry, Constable. The Inspector is right. It’s not a risk worth taking. We’ve bagged two of them, at least. The other fellow you were chasing has had it. From your bullet or the fall I’m not sure. Where did you get the gun?’

‘One of those two inside was carrying it and I pocketed it,’ answered Johnson.

‘Good thing you did, or one or both of you might have copped it. There’ll be some tedious questions to answer but you were clearly within your rights to fire.’

Back in the house, they found their two captives complaining loudly. Both men were heavily built. The older and taller of the two had a tuft of grey hair above each ear but was otherwise bald. He looked menacingly at Merlin. ‘I should have known it would be you, you dago bastard.’

‘Nice to see you too, Mr Young. Who’s your handsome friend?’

The second man was younger with pock-marked olive skin, heavily oiled black hair, a snub nose and a thick moustache. Merlin was reminded of a picture of a young Joe Stalin he’d seen once.

‘Ah, Yes. Let me guess. You’d be Boris Orlov. Our Bulgarian import. Pleased to meet you. Frank Merlin.’

The man launched a gobbet of spit at him, but Merlin had kept his distance and it fell short.

‘Careful, please. I only just cleaned my shoes.’ Merlin turned to the constable. ‘Any idea how the others have got on downstairs?’

‘One of the officers came up a moment ago, sir. There was only one other person in the house, as far as he could tell, but he got out through the back door and they lost him in the dark. They did, however, find something in the basement. Something he thought would please you.’

‘That sounds intriguing. Have they called for an ambulance and transport?’

‘Yes, sir. On the way.’

Merlin turned back to their captives. ‘Anything to say before we get you off to the Yard? No? The constable here will continue to keep you company until the Black Maria arrives. Meanwhile, I suppose I’d better go and see what’s in the basement.’

On the ground floor, one of the constables was busy tending to the injured man. He pointed to a door under the stairs. ‘Down there, sir.’

Merlin led the way into a dark and narrow stairwell. The other constable was waiting for them at the bottom. A single bulb hung from the basement ceiling and revealed a room crammed with wooden crates. Some were covered with dirty white cloth, and others with green blankets. Johnson pulled off a cover. Candlesticks, candelabra and similar objects filled the crate to the top. Another uncovered crate held a treasure trove of silver and gold plate. A third was full of expensive-looking rugs. Merlin estimated there were around thirty crates in the room.

‘It seems we have discovered Ali Baba’s treasure with you cast in the role of Aladdin, Constable.’

The young officer blushed but the light was too dim for anyone to notice. ‘There’s a ceiling hatch over in the corner, sir. The goods must have been brought in through there. I looked outside. The hatch opens into a back alley, part of which is gated off.’

‘I see. Well, we’ll need some help sorting this stuff.’ Footsteps sounded outside. ‘Ah. With luck that’s it arriving now.’

Three uniformed officers came in. Merlin knew one of them. ‘Bloody hell, Vernon, is that you? How the hell are you? Must be four or five years at least.’

‘Six, sir. Blackmail case in Hoxton. You weren’t quite so grand then.’

Merlin looked at Johnson and Cole as he slapped the man on the back. ‘Sergeant Hooper and I go way back. We were in the Met football team together fifteen or so years ago. Finest wing half I’ve ever seen.’

‘You weren’t such a bad player yourself, Chief Inspector.’

Merlin sighed. ‘Happy days, Vernon. We’ll have to make time to catch up at some point. For the moment, though, unfortunately, there’s a ton of work to do. I’d appreciate it if you could take charge of the scene. Once forensics have done a once over I’ll need you to take a full inventory. Once we’ve got the villains upstairs on their way to the Yard, and our wounded man off to hospital, the constable here and his two fellow officers can stay and help you. That alright?’

It was teatime on a bleak autumn day. The cold, the solitude, and the relentless soughing of the wind in the trees were wearing the young woman’s nerves down. And she was afraid. Her eyes darted nervously back and forth between the front door and the solitary window on the other side of the room. The lamplight ebbed and flowed. She was in a part of the deep countryside where electrical power was unpredictable. The Jane Austen she’d been reading had been set aside. She was just sitting. Sitting and waiting. A flash of lightning illuminated the room and put her heart in her mouth. She hurried over to the door to check yet again that it was securely locked.

The wood fire had almost gone out. There were more logs in a shed behind the cottage but she couldn’t contemplate going outside. Thunder rolled and there was another flash of lightning. She thought she saw a figure outlined in the yard. A third flash confirmed someone was there. A man was approaching the door. She waited with bated breath for a knock, but none came. Then a fist exploded through the glass of the window. The fist held a knife. She screamed.

‘And cut it! Wonderful Jean, darling. And you Michael. And very well done effects. We’ll take a little break there. Back in fifteen everybody.’

An elegant middle-aged man appeared from behind the cottage wall and crossed the film set to his co-star. ‘Very good scream, darling. Am I really so frightening?’

Jean Parker, a striking blonde with large oval green eyes and a small but full-lipped mouth laughed. Her laughter had a certain musicality to it. It was one of the many things Michael Adair found attractive in her.

‘You are a terrifying ogre, Mr Adair. Or so I understand from the script.’

Adair leaned towards her and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘None of that, please. You’re going to cause extra work for make-up.’ Emil Kaplan, the director, waved an admonishing finger then sat down in the canvas chair bearing his name and wiped his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a hip flask. ‘Drink you two?’

‘Too early for me, Emil’ said the actress.

‘I’ll take one, old chap.’ Adair took a swig and then another. ‘Very nice too. Talisker if I’m not mistaken?’

‘Special Reserve 1931. I’m down to my last case.’

‘You poor darling.’ Jean Parker sat on the left of the director and Adair on the right. She yawned. It was only nine thirty but they’d already been on set for three hours. ‘Will it be another early start on Monday?’

‘Afraid so, my dear. You know Victor’s desperate to get the film in ze can as soon as possible.’ Kaplan had almost eliminated all signs of his Hungarian accent during the thirteen years he had worked in England. He looked, dressed and sounded as if he had been to Eton and Cambridge. There was, still, the very occasional slip.

Adair crossed his legs. ‘I don’t believe I’m in the first scene you have scheduled for Monday morning, old chap.’

‘Quite right, Michael. You can come in at nine.’

‘So kind.’ Adair produced a cigarette case and lit up. As he did so he glanced at his reflection in the polished silver cover. He had been a preposterously good-looking young man, with high cheekbones, soft large brown eyes and a strong cleft chin. He was now 42 and ageing well, with only the odd wrinkle here or there bearing witness to a hedonistic and pampered film star’s life. As his eyes moved on to the exquisite face of his co-star and lover there was a loud bang from the rear of the studio. He turned to see a flurry of technicians congregating around a lighting gantry which had collapsed to the ground. An angry male voice roared out from the gloom.

‘Watch out, for goddam sake. That’s expensive equipment. Not to mention you might have killed someone.’

The culprit, a young stagehand, slunk away and the owner of the voice bustled out of the shadows and towards the set. Clouds of cigar smoke accompanied him.

‘So there you all are. How goes it?’

Unlike Kaplan, Victor Goldsmith could never be mistaken for an Englishman. His accented voice however had an assuredness and charm which was very British, the fruit of many years spent in the company of the English-monied and aristocratic classes.

‘Are we still on schedule, Emil?’

Kaplan rose to shake his boss’s hand. ‘Almost, Victor. We have a couple of days to make up but “Murder at Midnight” should be wrapped before Christmas as you wish.’

Adair rose languidly from his chair. ‘Are we still going with that title, Victor. It has always seemed a little banal to me.’

‘Banal?’ Goldsmith pronounced it to rhyme with ‘ale’. ‘You always are one for the fancy words, aren’t you Michael? Well, yes, I like the title “banal” or not. Titles with “murder” or “death” in them usually do well in my experience, eh Emil? Besides, that was the title of the book on which the film is based, and the “banal” title didn’t stop it being a runaway bestseller, now did it?’

Adair held his hands up defensively. ‘Sorry, Victor. Forget I said anything. You’re the boss after all.’

Goldsmith turned back to Kaplan. ‘I understand we are running over budget?’

‘Only by about five per cent, Victor.’

‘ “Only five per cent” is a lot of money, Emil.’

‘Not in the same league as Swanton, though.’

Goldsmith threw his hands in the air. ‘My God, Swanton. Don’t remind me of him, Emil! That film went over by thirty per cent.’

‘That was . . . unfortunate.’

Goldsmith glared. ‘Unfortunate! It was a bloody disaster.’ He looked at Jean Parker and his features softened. ‘You are looking particularly wonderful today, my dear. Glowing indeed.’

‘Why, thank you, good sir.’

Goldsmith grasped the actress’s right hand and kissed it. Goldsmith was a portly man of medium height, dressed today, as always, in a charcoal grey three piece suit, a fob watch hanging at his round belly. His thick hair was black with flecks of grey and he had strikingly bushy eyebrows. His face had the broad and blunt rough features of the Lithuanian peasant smallholder he might have been. It was ‘a face of character’, as his dear wife put it. And Viktor Shimon Goldschmidt had indeed required a good deal of character, not to mention balls of steel, to make his long and successful journey away from the impoverished shtetl of his birth. A journey which had brought him in due course to this advanced studio complex by the banks of the Thames, a few miles to the west of Windsor, and to the exalted position of Chairman, Managing Director and principal shareholder of Silver Screen Studios, one of Britain’s leading film companies.

A blanket of smoke briefly obscured Goldsmith’s face. When it appeared again, he was looking at Adair. ‘Yes, Michael. Thirty per cent over budget on a simple little Archie Tate film. How could anyone do that?’

‘Hard to imagine his type of humour requiring lavish expenditure.’

‘Quite so, Michael. A simple little film set in the country. A little location work in Somerset, the rest in the studio. A supporting cast of his usual old music hall buddies, a handsome supporting leading man and a few pretty girls. No expensive actors apart from Tate himself. Hard to imagine going a penny over budget on such a picture. But Swanton managed it comfortably. If I did a really thorough audit, I’d no doubt find a good portion of the overspend went down his throat. However, he knows I won’t bother because he’s Archie’s favourite crony and the film will make a bomb anyway.’

A studio hand brought a fourth canvas chair into which Goldsmith carefully eased his large backside. ‘So all is going well? This little film noir should grab the audience’s attention, I think, eh Emil?’

‘I hope so, Victor.’

Goldsmith’s overgrown brows rose. ‘ “Hope” Emil? I do not deal in “hope”! I deal in certainty. Certainty of success. Oh, yes, I’ll concede there has been the odd failure along the way but overall, I think, my record speaks for itself. I have had to make compromises, naturally. By putting out Tate’s vulgar humour I make the profits to invest in films of higher quality like this one, or that new Dickens film I have you pencilled in for shortly, Emil.’

Michael Adair looked ingratiatingly at Goldsmith. ‘I’m in that one, too, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, Michael, as you know very well. I’ve already advanced you half the fee, haven’t I?’

Adair turned away awkwardly.

‘And you too, Jean darling. I haven’t quite worked out the rest of the casting for Bleak House yet. I’m hoping to get Priestley to do some work on the screenplay.’ Goldsmith clapped his hands excitedly. ‘That will be one in the eye for the Kordas! I love them all dearly but I detest their presumption that they are the only British producers capable of creating great artistic films. I’m going to out-Korda the Kordas! I’ll raise Silver Screen Studios above them, above that baker Rank, above Balcon, above them all. You’ll see.’

Goldsmith took a final puff on his cigar then snapped a finger. A lackey hurried over to remove the stub. The portly producer got to his feet. ‘Well, I’ll let you all get back to work. I’m sure you’ll get a lot done today. I believe that . . .’ A young messenger hurried up and interrupted him with a telegram. Goldsmith found his spectacles and read it. Then he frowned, stuffed the cable in his pocket and disappeared without another word.

Merlin’s old Swiss office clock had just cuckooed ten o’clock when Merlin came through the door. He threw his hat and coat onto the coat stand then fell into his chair. His eyes closed and he considered the morning so far. The raid had been a success, but when he thought about the guns he realised how lucky they’d been. Things could have gone disastrously wrong. Fortunately, it looked like the injured constable was not badly hurt, and they had a roomful of stolen goods and two relatively big fish gangsters in custody.

He opened his eyes and saw the framed photograph now taking pride of place on his desk. His wedding day on a sultry August morning just over three months before. Somehow or other, the dark outfit Sonia had worn had successfully disguised her pregnancy, although all in attendance had been perfectly aware of her circumstances. He picked up the frame. The black and white photograph could not really do justice to Sonia, with her glorious auburn hair and charming freckled cheeks. She still looked gorgeous and he didn’t look too bad either, he thought, with all due modesty. Merlin’s barbershop visit on the wedding day morning had eradicated most of the grey specks from his hair. His face had angular features, a noble straight nose, and a generous mouth. He looked good as his lively eyes looked down from his six feet plus on his beautiful new bride. They looked what they were – a very happy couple. Others in the photo outside Chelsea Register Office included Sergeant Sam Bridges, his best man, and his wife, Iris. Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse was there in morning suit and wing-collar, displaying one of his gummy smiles to the camera and accompanied by Mrs Gatehouse. Merlin’s brother Charlie was on the right in his wheelchair with wife and young son behind, and next to them were Sonia’s parents and brother Jan, smart in his RAF pilot’s uniform. Peter Johnson was there on the left, without Mrs Johnson who was out of London. WPC Clare Robinson and her new barrister beau were to Johnson’s right, while the heads of DC Tommy Cole and a few other friends could just be seen in the back row.

Merlin suddenly realised he hadn’t spoken to Sonia since Tuesday. He’d had a ton of work but that was no excuse. She’d given birth, a little prematurely, three weeks ago to a fine baby boy. All had gone smoothly, but Sonia was naturally anxious as a first time mother. Because Merlin was very busy, they had decided it might be best for Sonia to spend the first few weeks of the baby’s life with her parents. Accordingly they arranged for Sonia and the boy to travel to the North of England where her parents had now settled. Sonia and her family were refugees from Poland who had managed to get away just before the Nazi invasion. Her Jewish father, Peter Sieczko, had been a highly-regarded metallurgist in Warsaw, but had struggled to get a job in England. Eventually, in the summer of 1941, he’d obtained a good position at an aircraft component factory just outside Manchester. He and his wife had rented a comfortable little cottage in open countryside not far from the factory, and the new grandparents were delighted to take Sonia and the baby in for a few weeks.

As Merlin was considering what would be the best time to call her, the telephone rang and the stern voice of the AC’s secretary, Miss Stimson, came on the line. ‘Chief Inspector Merlin? Mr Gatehouse would appreciate a word.’

‘I’ve only just got in. Can you give me half an hour?’

‘I rather think he would like to see you immediately.’

Merlin put the phone down with a grunt of irritation then set off on the short journey upstairs to the AC’s office. Ignoring the secretary’s cold stare, he walked through her outside office, knocked perfunctorily on the AC’s door, and entered without waiting for a reply.

Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse was a gaunt, lanky man in late middle age, attired in his usual uniform of black jacket, striped trousers, wing collar and dull dark tie. He was at his desk, peering at a document held about an inch away from him. He glanced up. ‘Ah, there you are, Chief Inspector. Come and sit down.’ He put the document down with a sigh of annoyance. ‘I think I need new spectacles. Either that or whoever typed this has a typewriter with smaller characters than my secretary’s machine.’

‘Something interesting?’

‘Not particularly. It’s a paper from the Home Office. They are increasing their budget for internment of enemy aliens.’

‘They’re expecting to round up more?’

‘It appears so.’ He looked intently at Merlin. ‘Anyway . . . to business. I gather your raid this morning went well?’

The AC had an extraordinarily efficient bush telegraph, the speed of which never ceased to amaze Merlin. ‘I think you could say so, sir. The only qualification on its success might be that we arrested only two of the five criminals in the house.’

‘One man died, I believe?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How?’

‘The two men trying to escape on the roof had revolvers and were shooting at us. Johnson had removed a gun from one of the men already apprehended and used it to return fire. He downed one of the men who then fell from the roof. The second fellow escaped down a drainpipe, and another escaped through the back of the house. The good thing is that the men we caught are quite high up in the gang. And, as you’ve no doubt heard, we found a large stash of stolen goods.’

The AC looked pleased. His lips parted, revealing mottled gums and an array of yellow teeth. ‘Glad to hear it, Frank. A most disgusting racket if ever there was one. Preying on unfortunates in such a foul way. Utterly deplorable. Deplorable!’

‘Yes, sir.’

The racket in question was an increasingly pervasive wartime swindle. The country was overflowing with refugees from Europe. Many Jews and others unpopular with Hitler or Stalin had escaped to Britain, just like Merlin’s own dear Sonia. The majority had arrived destitute or close to destitute, but some had managed to get their money and possessions to Britain. Most of the refugees had suffered at the hands of organisations like the SS, the Gestapo or the KGB. In consequence the sight of uniformed figures of authority, even the bottle blue of the British constabulary, was a matter for dread. The gangsters’ evil scheme exploited this fear. They targeted refugee families known to possess something worth having. Uniformed thugs, representing themselves as police officers, would visit their houses, query the authenticity of the family’s papers and insist they come away for questioning. The petrified refugees would be driven away to some distant place while other gang members would move in to their empty homes and ransack them. Young and Orlov managed one such racket and Merlin had been on their trail for several weeks.

After a period of little progress, they’d got lucky. Johnson had received a tip off from one of his snitches. A disgruntled employee of an antiques dealer had got drunk in a West End pub. His boss had been fencing goods stolen in this way, and the drunken man hadn’t thought it was right. He’d been pulled in and quickly spilled all he knew. Names had been disclosed and in due course Merlin had got a handle on the location of their base in the East End. The raid had followed.

‘Has work begun on matching these goods to their owners, Frank?’

‘As you can imagine, that is a going to be a laborious process but it’s under way.’

The AC impatiently picked up a pencil and tapped it on his teeth, a habit which Merlin found extremely irritating. ‘Do you think this fellow, Young, will spill the beans?’

‘He’s a hardened crook, sir. Been around Billy Hill and Joe Abela for a while. We might have more luck with Orlov. He’s a little newer on the block.’

The AC tapped his teeth again. ‘Billy Hill. Think this is one of his?’ Hill was thought by the police to be the criminal kingpin of London, with fingers in many pies.

‘I’m pretty sure Young reports directly to Joseph Abela, who has his own outfit. They are all, however, beholden to Hill in one way or another. It would be wonderful to get evidence against the top people but you know how they run things.’

‘At several arms’ length?’

‘Yes.’

To Merlin’s relief, the AC put the pencil down. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, Frank? When the war began, we all thought there’d be a falling off of gang activity as everyone put their backs to the war effort. Whereas . . .’

‘The opposite has happened.’

‘Yes. Gang crime is booming. Crime in general is booming. Billy Hill is raking it in from the black market and other rackets. The Maltese gangs are making a bomb from prostitution and vice. Then there are the Italian gangs around Hatton Garden and all the rest.’

‘It’s disappointing, sir.’

The AC banged his fist on the desk. ‘Disappointing? It’s bloody heartbreaking.’ He got up and strolled over to the window. A brisk wind was propelling dark clouds south westward over the river and the London County Council offices opposite. On his right, the AC could see crowds of well-wrapped up men and women hurrying back and forth over Westminster Bridge. Further to his right he could just see Big Ben, one proud survivor of the Blitz, towering over the bomb-damaged Houses of Parliament. He returned to his desk with a shake of the head. ‘Got a name for the young boy yet?’

‘We are inclining to Harry.’

‘After your father?’

‘Yes. I told Sonia I would be perfectly happy with Peter, which is her father’s name, or indeed several others, but she said she liked Harry best.’

‘That wasn’t your father’s original name, of course.’

‘No, sir.’

Merlin’s father had been a Spanish sailor who settled down with an English girl in London’s East End before the Great War. He had been born Javier Merino but eventually, fed up with the endless mangling of his name by the locals, had Anglicised it to Harry Merlin and his children, Francisco, Carlos and Maria had become Frank, Charlie and Mary.

The AC gave Merlin an awkward look. Thinking of Merlin’s slightly exotic origins always made him uncomfortable. He changed the subject. ‘Well, at least things at the Yard are a little easier for you now you’ve got everyone back.’

‘I don’t think I’d say easier exactly, sir, but it is good to have my full team around me.’

For several weeks earlier in the year, Merlin had been deprived of two of his men. Inspector Johnson had been seconded to MI5’s investigation of Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy, who had mysteriously flown solo to Scotland in May for reasons still as yet unclear. Cole had gone away under an unfortunate cloud. The AC had disapproved of a blossoming relationship between Cole and the only woman member of Merlin’s team, WPC Clare Robinson, who also happened to be the AC’s niece. Cole was a working class Londoner. The AC did not consider the liaison an appropriate match and had posted Cole out of the way to Portsmouth CID for a few months. The move had been a success from the AC’s viewpoint, as the pair had split up. Merlin had, however, found the AC’s behaviour distasteful and unnecessarily disruptive.

‘Cole behaving himself, is he?’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘In regards to my niece.’

‘Oh. Yes, as far as I can tell the two officers are maintaining a cordial professional relationship. Perhaps there has been a small element of strain on Cole’s side, but it has not affected his work.’

‘Good. Yes . . . ah . . . well, Clare seems perfectly happy now with her barrister friend Rutherford.’

‘Does she now?’

The AC looked a little discomfited, as if he now regretted raising the subject. ‘Does, er, does Cole have a new lady friend?’

‘Not that I am aware. He spends much of his spare tim