Princes Gate by Mark Ellis

time. Nothing in that is there? Anyway, she wanted to ask my advice once or twice.”
    “Advice about what?”
    “Nothing important. She didn’t like her lodgings and she asked me if I could help her find a new place.”
    “Funny, she didn’t mention that to me. And I know some lodgings going quite cheap round the corner.”
    He drained his glass and got to his feet. “Fancy another drink?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Come on. It’ll do you good.”
    “Alright then, but…?”
    “What?”
    “You’re telling the truth – Joan wasn’t anything to you was she?
    “Of course not.” He bent down and gave her a quick hug. “I’ll go and get those drinks.”

    Merlin leaned back in his chair and planted both his feet on the desk. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day. After his trip to Hammersmith he had joined Bridges at Princes Gate for the interviews of embassy staff. It was past eight by the time they got back to the Yard.
    “So what do you make of all that, Sergeant?”
    “You learned more about Joan Harris at her lodgings than we did from all our interviews.”
    Merlin scratched his neck where his shirt collar was particularly stiff.
    “Pretty unhelpful bunch weren’t they? Apart from that Irish girl, no one admits to having had more than a work relationship – and none of the men acknowledged the slightest interest in her, which is a little hard to believe. You couldn’t tell from the mortuary slab but I found a photograph of her in her lodgings and she was a very pretty girl. Here, look.”
    Bridges took the photograph and whistled.
    “Almost as pretty as my Iris.”
    Merlin smiled. He, together with everyone else in CID, was well aware of the extent of his Sergeant’s besottedness with his wife of three months.
    “I missed Morgan. Did he have anything interesting to say?”
    “Not really. Said Miss Harris was a nice, quiet girl. Said he passed the time of day with her. That was about it.”
    “Confident sort of chap, Morgan, for such a young man in his position. What’s his background?”
    Bridges searched through his notebook. “Up to London from South Wales about eighteen months ago. Says an uncle of his living here helped him to get his driving licence and then a friend of his uncle’s gave him an introduction to the Embassy. He was then given a junior chauffeur’s job and has been doing that for about a year.”
    The Sergeant’s attention was drawn to a hole in one of Merlin’s shoes. He knew all about holes in shoes did Sam Bridges, and it pained him to see his boss’s in that state. The man desperately needed a woman’s attention, as Iris kept on telling him.
    “His background needs a bit more looking into.”
    Bridges rubbed wearily at his right eye.
    “Will do, sir, but do you mind if I get off home now? Iris said she’d be cooking something special for me tonight.”
    Merlin wondered sceptically to what heights Iris’ culinary skills might rise then reproved himself for his meanness. “No, of course. You get on home and enjoy what remains of the evening. We’ve got a few more people to interview tomorrow, haven’t we?”
    “A couple of the junior staff were out of the office and we couldn’t get to see some of the more senior people. Here’s the list.”
    “Thanks. Goodnight, Sam. Enjoy your meal.”
    Several of the names listed meant nothing to Merlin but he recognised some of the senior people. Bridges had put down the Ambassador and his family for form’s sake, but the A.C. would probably have kittens if he got on the phone to Kennedy in Boston or wherever he was. Mr Zarb, the First Secretary, remained to be seen. And Arthur Norton’s name was there. A couple of Morgan’s chauffeur colleagues had also been unavailable for today’s interviews.
    His stomach ached with hunger. Lunch, of course, had been a washout and he was starving now. Perhaps he’d stop off for a pie and mash in Victoria, or maybe fish and chips. A brief glance at the photograph of his