‘No, he’s not a charmer. He’s a crook. And a nasty piece of work, running prostitutes and selling stolen goods. And he beats up his staff.’

Harriet puts a hand to her mouth. ‘Really?’

‘I picked one of them up from the street on Saturday. I was watching the place from a pub opposite – watching who was coming and going. I didn’t see you, but maybe you’d gone by then. Ah, no, you said you left from the back. But that cloakroom attendant you spoke of? His face was covered in blood when I found him. He’d made some mistake about the time the police were arriving – just a simple error, I gather – and Lazenby punched him several times. He nearly passed out in my arms.’

‘Oh, goodness. Terrible. Why would he do that?’

‘The boy lost him business. Saturday night would normally be busy, and Lazenby sent his customers away expecting the police were arriving.’

She lets out a long, shaky breath. ‘I see. And prostitutes? In the club?’ She recalls the brightly dressed, shimmering girls she saw dancing, snuggling up to laughing men. And Ruby standing under the streetlamp, a sparkling gown underneath her coat. ‘That’s what he does?’

‘He does.’

Peter Lazenby had left her sitting on her own in his club. What must she have looked like? And Ruby, is that what she does, when she’s not stealing from shops?

‘But he’s not acting alone. He’s protected. His illegal activity is overlooked. And that’s what really interests me.’

‘This is the corruption you spoke about?’

‘Exactly. And hypocrisy. This is the heart of it, for my money. Crooks, even fancy ones like Lazenby, are one thing. But there are other men who involve themselves in Lazenby’s work. You won’t see them, of course, but they’ll be there in the shadows. They say they’re building a better society for us, for those of us who came back from the war. But they’re not. They’re making their money off our backs and the backs of the poor – like they’ve always done – and that’s what I want to expose. That’s what I want people to read about, what I want them to know. All I need is proof. Something I can put into a newspaper.’

Harriet has never heard him speak like this. She has not heard anyone speak like this. Not even Ralph. She has been surrounded by politicians and high-minded, moralising men all her life, but none has spoken like this.

‘But for the moment, I am supposed to be typing something for tonight’s edition, and if Pickford sees me idling with you, he’ll tear me to pieces.’

‘I’m sure that all will be forgiven when you present him with something as sensational as this.’ She stands, and gestures to his notebook.

‘Maybe. But don’t say anything about it, will you?’

‘Of course not.’