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annoyance of their wives and
girlfriends. Babe was dressed up to the nines. Posie gaped a little as she saw
the many fine strands of creamy pearls around Babe’s neck and the snow-fox fur
cape around her shoulders. It was, unlike hers, obviously not a fake.
But how on earth could her secretary afford such things on the meagre salary
they paid her?
    Posie noticed that Babe was also holding a huge bouquet of
red roses. Well, that was to be expected, wasn’t it? Posie muffled herself up
as much as she could under the fake fur, anxious not to catch Babe’s attention
and be placed in an embarrassing situation. A taxi was just coming past – if
she was lucky she could catch it. It slowed, and Posie ran over and gave her next
destination to the driver. A prickling feeling told her that someone was
watching her from the queue.
    In fact, she felt eyes boring into her back.
    She turned and met the gaze of Len, standing next to Babe, a
pair of brightly coloured tickets clutched in his hand. Posie stared back, her
heart racing. So then, they had come together, for Valentine’s Day.
    She continued to hold Len’s gaze. What was it she read there
in his handsome face? He was looking at her imploringly, willing her to
understand something. But what was there to understand?
    She saw Babe take Len’s arm, lead him up the steps,
tottering unsteadily to and fro on her sky-high heels. Len tore his gaze away
from Posie reluctantly.
    Posie clambered into the cab.
    ‘Please, driver. Fast as you can!’ she called through the
glass divide, blinking back a flood of hot, useless tears.
    ****

 
     
    Four
    As the taxi rolled through the big iron gates of New
Scotland Yard, Posie caught sight of a familiar trench-coated figure bowling
his way out, scarf wrapped up over his face. He was lit up by the car lights
against the driving snow, heading in the direction of the Victoria Embankment,
beside the frozen river Thames.
    ‘Stop! Wait!’ she called to the driver. Pressing a handful
of change into his hand, she jumped out of the cab and pursued the man through
the snow.
    ‘Inspector Lovelace!’
    The Inspector halted under a lamp-post, and turned in
surprise. His posture was of one poised for flight. Posie came panting up to
him.
    ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I was delayed. I don’t blame you for
leaving, you’d probably given up on me.’
    ‘Posie?’ asked the Inspector in surprise, raising his black
felt homburg briefly and peering very uncertainly at her. Posie realised he
could only see her eyes, and even those not very well. She brushed the
snowflakes from her eyelashes.
    ‘Yes. It’s me! I said in my telegram I’d be here at
seven-thirty but I’m late.’
    ‘Let’s go back to my office. Better get a brew on,’ he said,
turning on his heel. Inspector Lovelace sighed wearily. He had been heading
home to his wife for a Valentine’s dinner in their smart new house in the
Clapham suburbs. Not anymore, though.
    The Inspector strode over the snow-covered courtyard to the
imposing buildings of Scotland Yard. A few lights were still on here and there
in the office windows, blinking through the darkness. Rufus was here too,
somewhere. Mouldering away in a tiny jail cell, like a real criminal. Posie
shivered despite herself. Inspector Lovelace gave her a quick sideways glance:
    ‘Just so you know. I wasn’t expecting you. You seem to think
I received a telegram from you? Well, I didn’t.’
    The Inspector was a good-natured man in the very early
forties, a large man, nice-looking in a rugged-sort-of-way, with pale freckly
skin and red coppery hair. He laughed, taking the curved stone steps at a fair
old pace, like a young lad, two at a time. ‘I’d say whoever sent that telegram
of yours deserves a good beating.’
    Posie laughed lightly alongside him but it was a hollow
sound.
    ‘Only joking, mind!’
    Wretched Babe. What was she playing at exactly? Was this
deliberate sabotage on her part or mere uselessness? However you looked at