Free The Bee's Kiss by Barbara Cleverly

pay which were the main bones of contention. He organized a meeting with Lloyd George for several of us union officials at Number Ten and we squeezed out even more concessions.’ Joe grinned. ‘We negotiated a pay rise, war bonuses and widows’ pensions. We even got Thiel reinstated!
    ‘He had a thousand and one projects on the move, all improving, all practical. Everything from redesigning the officers’ dress uniform to modernizing, motorizing and reequipping the whole force.’
    ‘I think that’s where I came in,’ said Armitage. ‘When it all started to look more like a career I might enjoy. But – you, sir? Constable to Commander in one easy move? Bit bold, wasn’t it? Must have raised a few eyebrows, if not to say hackles?’
    ‘It did! But it wasn’t quite that obvious. It was one of several new appointments and it took a couple of years for me to work through. Sir Nevil – and others – had noticed that policing requirements had changed as a result of the war. Men trained to kill and use their resources to stay alive were suddenly unleashed on the world again. Clever, ruthless, experienced men . . .’
    ‘You could be describing us, sir.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘But – “Commander” – that sounds a bit naval. Was that intentional?’
    ‘Probably was. It gets me the entrée into whatever corner of society needs to have a torch shone on it. The aristocracy have treated the police – on the rare occasions when they’ve had to have dealings with them at all – as their servants. But a
Commander
arriving at your front door has to be shown a bit more respect! Sir Nevil invented the title for the benefit of a free-wheeling new division responsible to him and nominally under my leadership. He still runs it on the quiet, though he retired as Commissioner some time ago.’
    Joe broke off and gave his sergeant a steady look. He was not unaware that the information was flowing one way. Armitage was remaining politely inscrutable.
    ‘So, Armitage. I thought you ought to know what you’ve got yourself into.’
    For answer Armitage fished around in an inside poacher’s pocket in his cape and produced a small silver brandy flask. He uncorked it and handed it to Joe.
    ‘Sippers, Sergeant?’ asked Joe, raising the flask.
    ‘Gulpers, sir!’

    Both pleased and disturbed by his encounter, Joe worked his way back towards Piccadilly Circus. A gathering rumble in the night air reminded him how late – or was it how early? – was the hour. The country carts were lumbering down Piccadilly, jogging along on their way to Smithfield, Covent Garden and Billingsgate. When the market bells rang at five o’clock a new London day would begin. He crossed the street, dodging a flower-laden cart heady with the scent of wallflowers and bright with tulips, and picked up a cruising taxi-cab for home. His mind was racing, trying to order the many things he would have to do in a few hours’ time. He peered blearily through the cab window at the now milky sky as they turned on to the Embankment and he wondered if they would get to Chelsea before daybreak. Perhaps he should ask the cabby to loiter on Westminster Bridge so that he could enjoy the moment when the sun rose up from the grey waters of the Thames and brought back life to the capital; the brief moment before the houses and factories started puthering out their wreathing layers of yellow-grey smoke. Nocturne in black and grey perhaps? Variations in black and gold?
    A river police launch shot the bridge like a swimming rat, its three-man crew alert and looking out into the oily depths of the river, the sinister grappling iron projecting from the stern announcing their grim purpose. Joe shivered. The sun would rise too late to bring warmth to some poor, cold, hopeless bugger. He was faintly embarrassed that he’d been about to linger, fancifully trying to decide whether the misty grey scene would have been more effectively rendered by Monet or Whistler. Some other day, he