Merlin propped his newspaper against the large saltcellar on the café table and read the headlines of the Daily Herald.
The main headline blared “175 NAZI PLANES DOWN”. Others read “RAF Triumphs in Biggest Air Battles of War”, “Raiders Chased Back to the Channel” and “RAF Puts Goering in Shade”. A second huge wave of bombers had crossed the Channel on Sunday afternoon and had been as effectively repulsed by Britain’s Hurricanes and Spitfires as they had been in the morning’s raid. Merlin wondered whether the figures for German losses had been overstated as usual, but, having been at Northolt himself the previous day, he knew that the thrust of the stories was correct. Something like 400 enemy planes had set out during the day to destroy London and they had palpably failed to do so. A small number of bombers had got through to the heart of the capital, but relatively little damage had been done. There was a sense in the newspapers that some turning point might have been reached, which was reflected in the cheerful atmosphere in Tony’s Café. He finished his tea, nodded to Tony and left some coppers on the table. Within minutes he was in his office at the Yard.
Bridges was tidying up Merlin’s desk and WPC Robinson was hovering at the door.
“Everyone alright then? Survived the weekend in good shape, did we?” Merlin sat down at his desk and they exchanged words about the RAF’s apparent great success on Sunday.
“Did you hear about Inspector Johnson and Tommy Cole’s entertaining night?”
“No, what happened?”
Robinson smiled. “The AFS group they are attached to was at Buckingham Palace.”
“I heard it got bombed. Are they alright?”
“Very much so, sir – but they had an encounter with their majesties.”
“Their majesties, Robinson? You mean they met the King and Queen?”
“Apparently so, sir. They were—”
At this moment, Cole appeared at the door.
“So, here is the man himself! Am I to congratulate you on a knighthood, Cole?”
Cole reddened with embarrassment then haltingly told his story.
“Well, well, Cole. Perhaps I ought to join you on your next outing. Who knows who we’ll meet, though it will be hard to top that. Any other developments on the looting?”
“No, sir. We thought we might go out last night but couldn’t hook up with Mr Stewart.”
Merlin nodded and pulled his chair closer to his desk. “Alright, let’s get back to work. Sergeant, I’ve got two jobs for you. First, I’d like you to go and see that Polish wife of your friend and see if she can help us as regards Tarkowski. Then I want you to check out the restaurant in Trafalgar Square that Kilinski went to and see if they remember him. Robinson, you and I are going to see a bank manager. Cole, you’d better go and find Inspector Johnson and discover what’s on the menu for today. Tell him I may join you tonight if something’s organised.”
*
Bridges drove to Pimlico where his friend Raymond Hargreaves, a railway engineer, and his wife, Lenke, lived in a small cottage. Bridges had met Ray a couple of times at the football before the war. He was an old schoolfriend of PC Harry Jones, who’d caught a bullet in the face when interrupting a burglary in Jermyn Street the day before the Germans invaded Poland and whom both Bridges and Hargreaves mourned deeply. Lenke was a tall, dark-haired woman, who smiled welcomingly at him. She led the way into her cosy living room. “Raymond is out at work at the moment. Is there anything wrong? He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“No, no. Not at all.”
Bridges declined the customary offer of refreshment and followed Lenke into her brightly furnished sitting room. “It’s to do with your interpreting work, Mrs Hargreaves. We are seeking information on someone who works with the Polish government in exile.”
“Oh, yes. I do some work for them from time to time.”