The Feathers Hotel, on the old London road, was the RV for anyone who’d passed through the screen. We’d got rooms booked, but it was a sure bet that the lads would be in the bar, so I had my call put through there.

‘Have you got a Mr Terry Johnson there?’ I asked, using Rick’s cover name.

‘One minute,’ the guy replied. There was a pause, during which I could hear the buzz of conversation, then Rick came on the line.

‘Mr Johnson?’ I said in a phoney, genteel voice. ‘I saw you, you poncified twit.’

‘Who’s that, for fuck’s sake?’

‘Geordie. I was behind you at the station.’

‘Never saw you.’

‘No, but I saw you. Who else is there?’

‘Dusty, Mal and Pavarotti.’

‘Four of you! That’s everyone accounted for, then.’

‘Where are you, Geordie?’

‘In the torture chamber. They’ve got Whinger, Pete and Johnny. But listen – I’m going to call it off in a minute. Are they still doing food over there?’

‘Just about.’

‘Ask them to keep four dinners, then. We’ll be across in an hour.’

Back in the control room, Pete Pascoe was still on the second screen, but one glance told me he’d got hold of himself and settled down: he was now looking quite comfortable. As for the first screen – there was Whinger, claiming to be an undertaker called Solomon Grice, and bombarding his detective with outrageous remarks. He’d always been a bit of an actor, had Whinger, and in situations like this he could crack an extra edge on to his native Cockney accent, making himself sound almost like a caricature of what he is anyway – a true East Ender. Throw in the horrible rhyming slang, and no interviewer has a chance.

When a second interrogator took over and asked him to confirm his name, he instantly said, ‘Hell of a price.’ Only after a few seconds of blank silence did he come up with the second half: ‘Solomon Grice.’ In the next minute he said, ‘Give ’em a chance’ for ‘South of France’, then, when asked where his father lived, he replied, ‘Ask some boffin.’ Again he waited before completing the equation: ‘In his coffin.’

‘You mean he’s dead?’

‘Course he’s fucking dead. Been dead for twenty years, ennie?’

I looked at the nearest controller, who was trying to suppress a laugh, and said, ‘You’ll not get anywhere with him. Not a chance. He’s done this too often.’

‘You could be right.’

‘Let’s pack it in, then. The guys are all doing OK. The rest are at the R.V. We might as well join them there.’

So it was that we piled into the Feathers for big plates of lasagne and a few pints of Shepherd Neame’s Spitfire ale, while we shot the shit about how we’d reached the Channel.

Chapter Two

TWO