The Nurse's War (16 page)

‘It was still stupid.’ Mishra sat down hard on his bed and bent almost double.

‘They didn’t notice, did they?’ Sweetman asked belligerently. ‘It would have gone all right except for that damned fire engine.’

‘And the police car,’ his annoying henchman reminded him.

‘Okay. But they weren’t after us, were they? They were racing to an emergency call and it was our bad luck to meet them. We’d have had him otherwise. Patel was completely unprotected. And what the hell’s the matter with you now?’

His companion was rocking himself back and forth on the bed. ‘My stomach hurts. And it wasn’t bad luck,’ Mishra muttered rebelliously in between rockings. ‘It was an omen.’

‘An omen of what?’

‘An omen of trouble, big trouble. It’s telling us we won’t succeed, and we should stop now and go home. The plan is in ruins. Patel is due to meet the Foreign Secretary in three days, we know that, but now they could shift the meeting. They could make it immediate—tomorrow, the next day—if they think someone is after him. How are we going to stop Patel with no time to organise and half of London’s police force after us?’

Sweetman’s jaw clenched and he spoke with a forced restraint. ‘Now who’s being stupid. No one saw us, Hari. No one is looking for us. All we need is another idea and I’m working on it. There’ll be time.’

‘A kidnap again? Let’s hope this one goes better than the last.’ The man grimaced with pain.

‘Not a kidnap. But don’t doubt I’ll come up with something. Something spectacular.’

‘And what about the girl?’

‘What about her?’

‘You say no one saw us, but she did. I saw her clearly and if I saw
her
, she saw
us
.’

Sweetman walked over to the bed and bent over the perspiring man. ‘What she saw was a car,’ he enunciated carefully. ‘A car that is now in a ditch in Stratford. When the time comes, I’ll steal another.’

‘But she looked straight at us.’

The man was in a funk, Sweetman thought. His pains were almost certainly imagined. ‘Even if she did, she couldn’t have seen us properly. We were travelling too fast for anyone to recognise our faces.’

‘I don’t know,’ Mishra mumbled unwillingly and fell back on the bed, his legs drawn up to his chin.

‘But I do and I’m telling you, she was too concerned with her own safety to worry about who was in the car. Now for God’s sake, leave it and let me think. There’s a lot of planning to do and it will be me who does it.’

Mishra pulled the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes. Sweetman would not admit it aloud, but he was concerned by what his companion had said. There was the very slightest chance the girl had taken note of their faces, his face in particular. And just possibly matched what she’d seen to the one she might have glimpsed in the shadows these past few weeks. It wasn’t likely though. Whenever he’d been following her, he’d made sure he was out of sight. He was fairly certain she hadn’t realised she
was being watched, but even if she’d been aware, she’d wouldn’t be able to put a face to the figure.

He sat down at the table and drew an empty writing pad towards him. Slowly he sharpened a pencil, allowing the wooden curls to float to the floor. He needed to think. He could hear Mishra beginning to snore. He lifted the pencil, poised to write, but nothing came and the page continued ominously blank. The underground station, he thought, Baker Street. She’d had a much better view of him there. What if she put all those sightings together and made four? And then if she decided to pass on her suspicions? If she was the spy he thought her, she would call on her contact and tell him. She’d tell the man upstairs, Minns or whatever his name was. She’d describe the man she’d seen, describe the men she’d seen today. That wouldn’t be too difficult. In the East End the pair of them stood out like a red flag in snow. He could usually pass for white but not always, and Mishra certainly couldn’t. He would always be an Indian and that’s who she would describe. It wouldn’t take much for Minns to recognise his fellow tenants. He might not be sure how it all added up, but he’d pass on the information to his masters. Or get the girl to. She would go to the intelligence officer Sweetman had seen her with at Baker Street. A knock on the door was already sounding in his head.

Panic gripped. They should get out of here, leave while the going was good, except he had no idea where to go. At short notice, it was impossible to find another room they
could afford. They might have to sleep rough for a few nights. He could steal a car perhaps, and they could sleep in that. No, that wasn’t the answer. Stealing a car too early might lead to detection. The park, that was a better solution. They would have to sleep in the park. It would only be for a very short time, three days if Patel’s meeting with the Foreign Secretary wasn’t brought forward. The shock had galvanised his mind and a scheme had begun to form—an audacious scheme. But first, they must escape the trap.

‘Hari.’ He went over to the bed and shook his companion awake. ‘You have to get up.’

‘What, why?’ The man’s half-closed eyes were hazed and Sweetman could feel the heat coming off him.

‘We have to go. Don’t worry. I’ve a new plan, a superb one, but right now we need to get out of here.’

Mishra groaned and doubled up. ‘I can’t. My stomach hurts too bad. And I’m cold.’

He could see the sweat beading the man’s forehead and dribbling in broken lines down his face. He probably
was
ill but they couldn’t stay here.

‘Look, you’ll be better soon. We need to go,’ he insisted.

‘Go where?’ Mishra groaned again.

‘Anywhere, the park. We can sleep there. It’s April and warm enough. And it’s only for a few days.’

Mishra closed his eyes. ‘You go. I’m staying.’

‘What the hell use is that? Come on, get up!’

But Hari Mishra had had enough and proved unexpectedly determined. ‘I’m not moving,’ he muttered thickly.

In frustration, Sweetman flung himself away from the bed and set to pacing up and down the bare boards. Very gradually his panic began to subside. Perhaps Mishra was right, perhaps it was madness to sleep rough when they had a roof of sorts over their heads. It was a long shot after all that the woman had recognised him. She might have an inkling, but she couldn’t be sure. And if she decided to tell what she’d seen to the man upstairs, Sweetman could watch for their meeting. He’d know what to do. In the meantime, he must hope she hadn’t voiced any suspicions and that no one had thought to join the dots. He sat down at the table again and began to write. With every minute his strategy was becoming clearer. But he wouldn’t say anything to Mishra, not yet. He might delay telling him what he intended to do until the day of the meeting. That way, the man wouldn’t have time to get cold feet.

Connie caught up with her at the end of their shift. She was stacking the last pile of rolled bandages onto an empty shelf when her friend bustled into the small storeroom.

‘Come on, Daisy, time to go. We’ll grab something to eat and then you can tell me everything that’s happened. But nod if things turned out well.’

She nodded obediently.

‘Attagirl!’

Connie squeezed her arm and tossed her one of the capes she carried. ‘This calls for a celebration,’ she said,
as they tripped down the stairs. ‘And I do believe supper is Woolton pie. Again. Cook only added it to the menu last month and we’ve had it half a dozen times already.’ She gave a groan. ‘I suppose it’s possible that one day I might grow to love turnips.’

They were at the front entrance of the hospital when Daisy hesitated. ‘I think we should wait for Willa.’

‘She left for the Home ten minutes ago.’

‘If you’re sure …’

‘Stop worrying. She seemed perfectly fine when I saw her. Just hungry, I guess.’

But when they walked into the dining room, there was no sign of the girl. ‘She was certainly on the ward earlier and I’m sure I saw her beetle off,’ Connie said. ‘Perhaps she couldn’t face Woolton again. If I weren’t so darned famished, I’d be dipping out too.’

She took Daisy’s arm and steered her towards the long counter. ‘Let’s get this dreadful stuff down us and then we can talk. Imagine it’s steak and kidney pie without the steak or the kidney.’

Daisy wasn’t exactly looking forward to the talk. Once Connie was sure the papers were coming and her friend could look freedom in the face, she wouldn’t be too interested in the details. She wouldn’t want to know about the letter Daisy had sent or the ambulance driver who was delivering it or the tea she’d drunk or the scones she’d eaten—well, perhaps the scones. What she’d really want to hear was what Daisy had said to Grayson and
what Grayson had said to Daisy. She’d want to have every second of their meeting recounted. It would be a shame to disappoint her with an outcome that was so unromantic. But when her friend heard the word ‘Ritz’, her green eyes danced and her smile shone.

‘The Ritz! Wonderful! And a dinner dance! How the upper classes live.’

‘Hardly,’ Daisy protested.

‘He wants to spoil you,’ her friend went on. ‘Wants to impress, too, so make sure you are impressed. But don’t forget to eat.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with spoiling. Meeting at the Ritz is the best way, he said.’

‘I bet he did. The best way to woo you.’

They threw themselves onto the most disreputable of the sofas that lined the sitting room walls. It was the furthest from the door and so the least likely to be overheard.

‘You’re impossible.’ Daisy tucked her legs beneath her and unpinned the starched cap, shaking her hair free.

‘And Grayson is a wily fox. I can see that. I can’t wait to meet him.’

‘You aren’t going to. I agreed to go to the dance because I think he’s probably right. It will be safer to hand the papers over during dinner at the Ritz than anywhere else.’

‘Safer? What are you talking about? How could it be dangerous?’

‘I don’t know. It may not be. It’s just a suspicion. But there’s definitely something going on, something to do with
Gerald, though I’ve no idea what. On my way back here, the oddest thing happened. I was at the Aldwych, crossing the road and a car nearly knocked me down, then it swerved out to overtake half a dozen vehicles on Kingsway and ended up by blocking a taxi so the driver couldn’t move. It was only when a fire engine came along in the opposite direction that the cab could get going again.’

Her friend was looking nonplussed. ‘And that has to do with Gerald?’

‘No,’ Daisy said slowly. ‘It can’t have. It sounds stupid now I’ve said it aloud, but at the time I connected the two things. The mind can play strange tricks, can’t it?’

Connie bounced up and down impatiently. ‘You’ve been working too hard, that’s the problem. It was just one of those stupid events that happen every day in London. The chap in the car obviously didn’t like taxis.’

She wished she could believe it was that simple, but before she lost herself in worry, her friend had moved closer. ‘So tell me about the Ritz.’ Connie beamed expectantly.

‘There’s nothing to tell. We’ll have a meal there —and yes, I will remember to eat—then afterwards, Grayson will hand me the papers and I’ll come back here. Nobody will notice a thing. In fact, nobody will be at the dance who shouldn’t be. And I’m to take taxis both ways so I can’t get into too much trouble.’ She let out a small sigh. ‘I must admit, though, I’ll be glad when this whole affair is over.’

‘And it will be, poppet—very soon. But you’ve got to
have at least one dance while you’re at the hotel. Colin, Dr Lawson, says they’ve got the most stupendous band there.’

Daisy looked at her friend, the edges of her mouth curving into a smile. ‘So you’ve been hobnobbing with Colin again while I’ve been pounding the city streets?’

‘He looked for me on my break. We had a cup of tea together.’

‘And …’

‘And I do like him, Daisy.’ For once Connie’s cheerful face was serious and a slow flush began its climb to her cheeks. Then she was back to the Ritz. ‘Promise me, you’ll have that dance.’

‘Maybe.’ It wasn’t exactly the endorsement her friend had been looking for, but Connie took not the slightest notice. ‘You’ll have to have a new dress. You can’t dance without a new dress.’

Daisy gave up. ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’

‘There’s a lovely black lace number in Harper’s window. Low neckline, tiny sleeves and a swishy skirt. I saw it today and wanted it desperately. But it wouldn’t fit me. But you …’

‘I’ve seen it and it’s gorgeous but it will stay in the window. I’ve no coupons left, not to mention money.’

‘You may not need coupons.’ Connie lowered her voice. ‘I know for a fact that the woman who runs the shop will sneak you a dress without them, as long as you pay the right money.’

‘Well, that’s just dandy. I’ve all of three pounds in my purse. That might just buy the sleeves.’

‘I’ve got the money my uncle sent me for my birthday. He’s very generous and, with your three pounds, it could be just enough. If it isn’t, we could promise to pay the rest off over the next few months.’

‘I’m not letting you do any such thing. Spend your money on a frock for me! It’s for one night, Connie.’

‘But what a night. Think how gorgeous you’ll look.’ Her friend was already far into the dream, but then her practical nature took over. ‘In any case, I need your olive green, so you can’t wear that. I’ve already tried it on—sorry but I didn’t think you’d mind—and I can just get into it.’

‘And the black lace?’

‘Not a chance. But it will be stunning on you.’

Daisy shook her head. ‘I can’t let you squander your birthday money,’ she said again.

‘Yes, you can. Cinderella, you will go the ball!’

Gerald was feeling happy. He’d managed to coast down the stairs and out of the front door without making a sound, and was now on his way to Victoria Park. He hadn’t wanted to go to Rigby’s to check for Daisy’s letter, but it had been worth it. The man was a surly piece of work. When Gerald had first moved to Ellen Street, he’d asked the shopkeeper for a job. He’d needed an employer who’d ask no questions and a corner shop that was keeping his
post for the few pence he could ill afford, was a good bet. But the shopkeeper had looked him up and down and told him,
no work for you.
Not for your kind, that’s what he’d meant, not for a coward. Gerald had felt fury at the insinuation. He was no coward, not in the ordinary sense. But what good would be served by giving himself up? He wouldn’t be fighting for his country, he’d be locked away in some filthy jail, punished for a crime committed thousands of miles away. The irony was bitter. Lack of money had destroyed the life he’d known in India and now, with barely enough left to pay the next week’s rent, it had been threatening to destroy him all over again.