Cole and Robinson had agreed to meet up in a pub in Richmond for a lunchtime drink and a sandwich. They had both had a bit of a trek to get to the White Cross. Both lived with their parents; she in Hampton and he in north London. She had come by bus, he by underground.
They sat by the window looking at the Thames, which was twinkling in some welcome sunshine, and chewing their ham sandwiches. They had not been able to meet up for a few days and Cole had enjoyed with great relish telling of his encounter with royalty. Claire Robinson had made an attempt to be impressed, but Cole could see she wasn’t quite herself. “What’s up, Claire?”
Robinson sipped at her gin fizz and gave him a weak smile. “You are up, you idiot.”
“What?”
“Why on earth did you agree to go on these foolhardy errands with Inspector Johnson? Surely they could have found someone else?”
Cole stretched his long legs out under the table and looked bemused. He would never understand women. “Thought you’d be proud of me getting out there into the thick of it, chasing down looters.”
“More like getting yourself blown up.”
Cole reached over and grasped Robinson’s hand. “Sorry, Claire, but it’s my… my duty, isn’t it?”
Robinson shook her head, smiled weakly then pecked him on the cheek. “Yes, I suppose it is. Well, at least the Germans did you a favour last night by staying away.”
“That’s not going to last long though, is it? Anyway, I worry about you. The way things are, anyone could cop it in a raid.”
“Yes, but you are exposing yourself to particular danger, chasing around all the hotspots with the AFS.”
Cole sipped his beer and decided there was nothing more to be said on this subject and hoped Claire would decide the same. Just then, a thickset man burst through the door and loudly demanded a pint. As he waited, he was muttering something under his breath. Cole could just make out the word “hell”. The barman returned with his drink and noticed his agitation. “Anything the matter, mate?”
The man downed half his pint before answering. “Just drove my van up from Sussex. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, I don’t know.”
“Thousands of what?”
“Planes, German planes. Hordes, yes, that’s the word, hordes of Nazi bombers. How much is a horde?”
The barman shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, however many that is, that’s how many there were. Biggest bunch I’ve seen yet. I heard there was a huge wave of bombers earlier as well. London’s going to take a pounding today, I bet.”
Cole and Robinson exchanged worried glances, then he put his arm around her. “I’d better go back into town and see if I can find Johnson.”
*
Merlin could hear the sound of returning aircraft. He looked at his watch. He was surprised to see that it was just after two o’clock. His investigation had been productive. Robinson had been right about the file. It was a simple, skimpy outline of Kilinski – a birthday in 1920, a birthplace in Warsaw, no other family details and a brief outline of his flying service in Poland. He had spent an hour or two trying to read into it anything informative to the case, but had failed. Kilinski’s belongings, however, had yielded something after very careful scrutiny – one item that Merlin found in the back pocket of a pair of trousers, a receipt for a bill in a restaurant off Trafalgar Square called Odessa. Then, from another trouser pocket, the business card of Eugene de Souza, General Manager of the Polish Commonwealth Trading Bank. His prospective interview with Mr de Souza was instantly moved up to the head of his list for the following morning.
As he shut the lid of Kilinski’s trunk, Squadron Leader Kellett appeared at the door, grinning broadly, his face covered in grime. “We’ve fought the bastards off for now.”
“Where are they?”
“Most are already limping back to France. Our pilots and guns did brilliantly. The Germans dropped a lot of bombs, of course, but not many on central London, which was their main target. As for our men, squadron 303 performed magnificently. No losses and a number of claimed hits.” Kellett banged a table with his fist. “My God, Goering will be smarting!”