Maisie tried to get comfortable on the underground train as she considered the conversation with Enid Addens and her daughter. But it was an off-the-cuff comment by the pub landlord that remained with her. He’s seen it all before, and he could see it coming again. It was true though, that’s what some people were saying: they’d never trusted that Hitler, the appeasement was all a load of hot air, and that we’d better not believe any newspaper if it told us the war would be all over by Christmas—that’s what the politicians said the last time and then look what happened. But Maisie wondered if Frederick Addens had seen something more coming—had he known his life was in danger? And from whom? A bullet to the back of the head hardly suggested an act of revenge by a disgruntled office clerk, upset because the train back to Purley was running late.
Maisie left the underground at Charing Cross. She might have chosen Embankment Station—it would certainly have shaved a few moments off her walk to New Scotland Yard—but tunnels first sealed during the Sudeten crisis of 1938 were now blocked again. The Sudeten crisis, when Adolf Hitler’s armies moved to claim Czechoslovakia for the Third Reich, had inspired fears that Britain would be next, and the proximity of the station to the Thames rendered it vulnerable to flooding if it were bombed—and it was predicted this new war would be played out in the air, if the blitzkrieg upon the ordinary citizenry on behalf of Franco during the recent civil war in Spain was anything to go by. Maisie felt ill every time she remembered the German and Italian aircraft lowing in the distance, and then coming in close for repeated bombings, with the terrifying Stukas, their sirens wailing as they swooped down. She had volunteered as a nurse in Spain, in part to exorcize the loss of her husband and unborn child while tending the wounded men and women who fought for freedom from oppression. It wasn’t only Frederick Addens who had seen terror coming.
New Scotland Yard’s distinctive ornate redbrick building designed by Norman Shaw loomed into view, its spires, turrets, and chimneys, together with its strategic place on the Victoria Embankment, conspired to intimidate all who crossed the threshold. She entered the building and asked a policeman at the inquiries desk if she might see Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell. The man raised an eyebrow, and directed her to be seated on an uncomfortable wooden bench, then picked up the telephone receiver in front of him. She watched as he nodded, smiled, and replaced the receiver. He looked up and beckoned to Maisie, his curled finger summoning her to the counter.
“Detective Sergeant Able will be down in a moment. He’ll escort you up to see Inspector Caldwell.” He pointed towards the seat again. “He won’t be another five minutes.”
Maisie thanked the man and stepped away. She did not sit down, but instead walked back and forth along the corridor, her first thought dedicated to the unfortunate Detective Sergeant Able, who, if she knew anything about the banter within the Metropolitan Police, probably had a hard time of it, given his name—she suspected he must be a good sport to work with Caldwell. By the time she had turned and reached the desk, the detective sergeant was waiting for her.
“Miss Dobbs? Detective Sergeant Able. Please follow me.”
Able was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches and trousers of light gray wool. His shoes were polished to a military shine, though his tie was askew, and from what she could see of his white shirt, he was a man who lived alone and had only a passing acquaintance with an iron.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Dobbs—it is all right to call you Miss Dobbs, isn’t it?” Able did not wait for a reply, but went on, as if nervous in Maisie’s company. “I mean, Inspector Caldwell said you have another name, with a title, but he said not to use it. I hope he’s right, Miss Dobbs.”
“He’s right, and thank you for asking, Sergeant Able. I would imagine he told you I would get stroppy—he likes that word—if you used the title. But I wouldn’t bite your head off. It’s just better for my work to be plain Miss Dobbs.”
They left the staircase and turned into a corridor. “Inspector Caldwell was telling me about that case you worked on a few years ago—the army bloke who’d killed someone, murdered him in a dugout in the war. He said you just went in and faced him down.”
Maisie smiled and looked up at the young detective sergeant. “My, that is praise coming from your guv’nor! How is he?”
“I’ve not worked with him for long—I was in uniform before I got the job.” He paused just before they turned into a room with a scattering of desks. “Mind you, the lads say he’s got a lot more amenable since his promotion.”
“That’s encouraging,” said Maisie as they entered the room. “Ah, speak of the devil.”
Caldwell had emerged from his box of an office and was walking across the room towards Maisie. “Miss Dobbs.” He held out his hand, smiling. “I know you’re not here on a social call, but let me say it is very nice to see you again. Mind you, I have a feeling this warm glow might not last very long—you’re not here to have a quick chat, I take it.”