“Sadly, no. Cloak upon decorative cloak of secrecy is not required on this occasion, except perhaps to save embarrassment.”

He gave a surprising chuckle.

“What?”

“Where I come from, embarrassment was when you made a terrible idiot of yourself at the Saturday night dance.”

“Martin, I’ll be sorry to meet you again in a few years’ time, and to find that you are as solidly discreet as everyone else.”

“But, Kate, what I don’t understand is why there were gold coins in the sack.”

“Neither do I, yet. Don’t forget there were also two Arran Victory potatoes.”

The footsteps along the corridor silenced us.

Mr. Woodhead entered with a false smile plastered on his face. He went to his desk, sat down and placed a brown envelope on his blotter.

“Mrs. Shackleton, on behalf of the investigation division, thank you for establishing Mr. Aspinall’s identity. Here is a payment towards expenses, and a note of where to send your final account.”

Having banged my head against a brick wall until I soaked the bricks in blood, I was disinclined to leave a job half done. One advantage of not being an employee was that although my contract may be terminated, I could not be sacked from doing the job.

I stood, ignoring his brown envelope. “An interim payment is not necessary, Mr. Woodhead. I will, as on previous occasions, send in my account on completion of the investigation.” I picked up my satchel.

While he was considering how to reply, I wished him good day. If he was about to attempt any prohibition on what I would do next, he would have to put it in writing.

It was left to DC Yeats to escort me downstairs, but probably only to be sure that I left the building.

Yeats did not speak until we were at the door. He gave a sympathetic smile. “I hope you don’t believe I’ve overstepped the mark, but you did say that you would lunch with Mrs. Kerner another time?”

That London lady detective had been far from my thoughts but a convivial lunch seemed just the ticket.

“Yes.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of booking a table at The Savoy.”

“Was this your idea, Mr. Yeats?”

His reply was ambiguous. “I could hardly do such a thing without the commander’s approval, unless it was a personal matter between you and Mrs. Kerner, what with you having so much in common.” He smiled. “And I’m still Martin.”

He walked me to the gate, and waved at a taxi. “Is there anything else I can do?”