Stan grimaced in sympathy. ‘They give you women all the worst jobs. Did you catch anyone in … flag … in flag-’ Stan cut short his unthinking burst of curiosity.
‘Flagrante delicto? With his trousers down, you mean? I’ll say! I’ve seen more male posteriors in action than an army doctor. All shapes and sizes.’
Stan’s face creased with embarrassment at the answer he’d provoked. The women police were noted for their frank way of speaking. He’d never allow a daughter of his to join their ranks. Even if they’d take her. Mixing with rough, foul-mouthed coppers every day — that was no occupation for a girl. Some of the language they used flummoxed him, army veteran though he was. They didn’t swear — oh, no, far too ladylike for that. But they knew all the right words for all the wrong things. Things that, as unmarried ladies, they didn’t oughter know. And they didn’t scruple to use them. Sometimes they even expressed the inexpressible in Latin. Educated girls, the lot of them. Had to be. They stood up in open court, bold as brass, and delivered evidence that made the magistrates’ hair curl. The beaks sometimes had to clear the general public out of the courtroom before a woman policeman was allowed to open her mouth and give testimony.
‘We got a good bag. We netted a member of parliament, a duke’s valet and a lawyer — a King’s Counsel, no less! — and several professional gentlemen. They spent the rest of the night closeted together in a cell in the Vine Street nick!’ Lily’s laugh was suggestive of mischievous thoughts. ‘Can you imagine, Stan, how the conversation went?’ She put on a pompous Music Hall voice: ‘“I say, you chaps — regular customers at this establishment, are you? Well, I’m in a position to offer you sinners a little useful advice …” I blame the spring weather, Stan. It brings out the worst in men. Seasonal urges? If I were Commissioner, come March the twenty-first, I’d double the park patrols.’
Stan liked to listen to this girl. She didn’t have the pursed lips and strained vowels of other ladies he’d heard talking — the ones who sounded as though they were sucking on an ice cube. Her voice rushed along, reminding the Yorkshireman of one of his native moorland becks, going somewhere and carrying you along with it, frothing with good humour. He asked her a question to prolong the conversation. ‘Did they get away with it?’
‘Course they did. A clear case of collusion whilst in custody. The accused all denied the charges of lewd conduct. They claimed to be members of the Hyde Park Ornithological Society.’
‘Bird fanciers?’ Stan wheezed with the effort of suppressing a laugh. ‘That’s a new one!’
‘They told the magistrate how they were skulking in the shrubbery by the Serpentine — as you do when you’re innocently studying the antics of the golden-crested wren. Or was it the great crested grebe? One or two were a little under-rehearsed. Though one of them — impressively — managed to come up with Podiceps cristatus which earned him an approving nod from the magistrate. Abruptly, their peaceful activities were curtailed by the arrival of a pair of over-officious officers of the law (that’s me and Halliday). “Aha!” says his honour knowingly, “Custos officiosus! Dark blue plumage? Yes … Thick as sparrows on the ground, these days.” They all fell about laughing at his little joke and were out on the street again by noon. Not even a five quid fine. Waste of police time.’
The constable sighed and then added, her tone brightening: ‘But better than the arrests, we made at least ten interventions. Always better to prevent an attack than arrest someone for it afterwards, don’t you think, Stan? If there’s anything more satisfying than catching and thumping a rapist, it’s decking one before he’s had a chance to hoist his mainsail.’
Stan pretended not to hear. Chattering … pent-up … mind elsewhere, he decided indulgently. Expecting trouble. He’d noticed that while she sipped her tea, smiled and talked, her eyes never stopped moving, surveying the crowd gathering along the platform on to which the incoming train would spill its west-country passengers. And she’d positioned herself behind the tea urn out of sight of anyone coming on to the platform from outside. She was using him as cover. He didn’t mind.
The young woman seemed to have her own unorthodox tactics for crime-fighting. The male constables spent their time swaggering up and down on the platform. At the sight of the uniform, the pickpockets, con-artists and pimps melted away into the shadows, only to drift back unscathed the moment the tall helmet disappeared from view. WPC 1555 wasn’t walking about, flushing out her prey and sending it scattering before her. She was lying in wait. In her calculating watchfulness Stan saw something that reminded him of native hunters he’d seen in India in his army days. The village tiger trackers could sit for hours, days even, up a tree watching over the lure of a tied-up, bleating goat. When the moment came they would be instantly alert and firing. Stan’s tea urn was her tree and he was pretty sure he knew where she’d find her goat.
Smart girl, this one. And careful.
Stan looked surreptitiously at the slight form swamped by the heavy uniform and wondered how she managed with her unimpressive height and weight to convey such determination. The military cut of the jacket with its official Metropolitan Women Police Patrol badge was intimidating but it did not allow of easy movement. The high collar, Stan noted with a stab of sympathy, was, on this warm day, chafing her slender neck and raising a nasty red mark. The hat, which was held in place by a chin-strap, was a wide-brimmed dome like a riding helmet. It sat heavily on her head almost snuffing out the pretty face below.
Stan sensed that it was a pretty face. He was not at all certain that he’d be able to identify number 1555 if he ever saw her out of her uniform. Grey eyes? Green? He’d have guessed grey eyes but — her hair? No idea. He lowered his gaze, embarrassed to be caught staring, and turned his eyes to her boots. They couldn’t be comfortable. Knee-high, laced and made of a heavy leather, they could have been designed for Charlie Chaplin. And yet he’d seen these women take off and fly in them in pursuit of a villain. They’d trip up, kick out, stamp and do their ju-jitsu — anything to get a man down and incapacitated.
‘You have a good view of the platform here, Stan?’
‘I keep an eye open. I watch for kids getting off the train without an adult. They’re always easy to spot. They don’t know which way to turn. Up from the country — most of them can’t read so the signs mean nothing to them. If it looks like there’s going to be real trouble I scoop ’em up and take ’em along to the stationmaster’s office. Good bloke! Family man himself. He calls in Dr Barnardo’s or the NSPCC or the Sisters of the Night. I was a runaway myself, miss,’ he confided. ‘From the north. Years ago. I know the signs. And I can spot the vultures gathering … Like now …’ Stan’s voice rasped with dread. ‘Here they come.’
The words struck chill. Wentworth waited anxiously to hear more. But Stan just nodded, absorbed by the crowd beginning to gather to greet the train. Most of them were clutching a platform ticket in their hands.
‘What do you make of that lot, then?’ he asked.
Unresentful at being challenged by the old soldier, she murmured her way through the individuals and groups. ‘Reading from the left … if they’ll just keep still a minute and let me clock them … Two girls. Under twenty. Maids’ day out clothes. Excited. They’re so alike they must be sisters. Probably here to welcome a third and younger sister up from the country to take up her position as between-stairs maid … Of course, they could be alumnae of the local house of ill repute on a recruitment drive. Aphrodite’s on Park Lane? No, I don’t think so.
‘Moving along we have two ladies. Uniformed nanny and her well-dressed employer. Judging by the small bicycle that the nanny’s holding — a shining brand new one — I’d say they’re waiting for the lady’s seven-year-old son who’s taking a break from his prep school … Sick leave? But a bicycle like that — it’s bait that could lure any child into trouble. In the hands of the wrong adult. How am I getting on, Stan?’