Secret Ii

By James Haydon

Secret II is the second in a cycle of books in which Michael James, having discovered his father was the Victorian murderer Jack the Ripper, unearths shocking truths about his familys dark secret.

The year is 1945 and the war in Europe is over. Michael James continues with business as usual and his life returns to some normality. In the week leading up to Christmas, three separate events transpire; the first - the abduction of five children, the second - the release of Matthew Pilinger from prison, the agent for London trafficking, and the third the receipt of documented proof concerning the BLANCA faction and its members.

The power behind BLANCA seek revenge on those who attributed evidence against them and put their London operation on hold; Michael James and Elizabeth McCauley, and it is the assignment of Matthew Pilinger to ensure they are found and punished in the appropriate manner.

In the meantime Michael James sets out to discover the connection if any there may be in the abducted children, with the help of some new and some old characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: May 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493194209

James Haydon

James Haydon was born in Blackfriars, London. His works are predominately London based, depicting various epochs and using London as a backdrop for his novels and its ever-changing stages throughout history.

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Copyright © 2014 by James Haydon.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014906908

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-9421-6

Softcover   978-1-4931-9419-3

eBook   978-1-4931-9420-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 05/07/2014

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One: The Spirits Of Christmas

Chapter Two: Thoughts And Theories

Chapter Three: Discoveries

Chapter Four: Pink Carnations And Blue Elephants

Chapter Five; The Sins Of The Father…

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE

The Spirits of Christmas

-1-

Like the war, I was soon forgotten. My heroism concerning twenty-two young trafficked girls, the imprisonment of the pimp Vincent Pierce, and the exposure of 247 corrupt police officers held the public’s attention for a short while but soon dissolved amongst the ashes of yesterday’s news. Indeed, there was little to remind me of the adventure but for a small scar on the bridge of my nose that would forever swell me with pride whenever I gazed at my reflection. The war ended in September 1945, and now just three months later, Europe was about to enjoy its first Christmas in peace. The war babies born in the conflict now played in the ruinous buildings and bomb sites across the city, hiding in skeletal frames of palatial houses without fear or respect for those who perished inside them. The cost of the damage was incalculable but worse, much worse was the price paid in human lives—61,000,000. Like every other Londoner, I celebrated the cessation of the war and wept with joy, knowing that by the skin of our teeth, Churchill’s steadfast defiance and determination, and perhaps an element of divine intervention, Britain had not only survived the onslaught but had become a nation to be reckoned with, should the next despot hell-bent on world domination feel he was in with a chance. It was as if a great weight had been lifted off the city. The days seemed somehow brighter and the air easier to breathe.

Like other businesses in the metropolis, I continued in much the same way as I had before, sometimes flourishing but quite often borrowing from the banks to keep afloat. Kenneth Banner, or Badger as I preferred to call him, was now an equal partner in the renamed law firm James, Banner & James; the first James being me, Michael, and the second being Rachel, my wife, whose real name is Eleanor, though seldom is it mentioned. Every once in a while, my past endeavours undergo a revival, and the firm receives a sudden influx in business, whenever a Fleet Street hack with a mental block decides to resurrect the story of police corruption or human trafficking and my name is mentioned. Just one month after the war ended, I was the subject of a glossy exposé in a woman’s magazine no less, concerning itself with multiple murderers and what makes them become cold-blooded killers. I accepted their generous fee and, for the next three days, was interviewed about George Henderson, named by the press as the Blackout Butcher and a man I defended without much success. The article, which should have had me earmarked as the greatest detective since Sherlock Holmes and injected the firm with much needed capital, was lost to the editor’s lethal pen and a lengthy but interesting piece on pre-menstrual tension.

In a perfect world, the days leading up to Christmas should have seen London blanketed in snow, with twinkling fairy lights and nativity scenes in shop windows and groups of small children singing heavenly anthems on street corners. Instead it was gloomily miserable with a cold and bitter wind soaring through the streets as if borne on the wings of Thor himself. Heavy rain lashed the city with impunity, and dark and thunderous clouds skidded across the rooftops as if it were their intention to crush London entirely. Sylvia, my long-suffering secretary and bane of my life, clung tightly to my arm as we pushed our way through the heavy strain of shoppers in search of that special gift for their loved ones. She would continuously stop to behold the displays embellished with artificial snowdrops and threads of tinsel behind the rain-streaked windows, and then like a woman possessed, she would drag me off to the next shop to appraise their goods, only to lead me back to the shop we had previously left. Finally, and after much agonising, and just as my clothes had doubled in weight due to water saturation, she led me into the dryness of a jewellers’ and began to slowly walk the length of the shop whilst examining the sparkling goods within the display cabinets. As the minutes expired and far exceeded the allotted one-hour lunch break, I momentarily secured Sylvia’s attention and tapped the face of my watch impatiently with my finger. She ignored my reminder and moved painfully onward towards the end of the shop, stopping at each individual cabinet and leaving a circle of misted glass in her wake caused by hot breath. Watch or ring? she muttered as if the future of mankind depended on her decision. Michael, you’re a man of sorts. Which would you prefer? A watch or a ring? she asked. I skilfully followed her gaze, where beyond the glass lay a silver watch nestling in an ornate box of red velvet. Knowing that my secretary was something of a magpie, and therefore attracted to anything that glittered or was presented in such a way, it would test the will of even the most hardened of shoppers. I replied watch, hoping against hope she would make the damn purchase and we could return to the office and resume business. My hopes were dashed when she shot me a disagreeable look and wandered on. Well, you’re no help at all, are you?

There was a hopelessness to it all, a futility I failed to grasp. Whilst consumed in the excruciating boredom imposed upon me, and being jostled, pushed, and shoved by consumers who were committed to spending every penny they owned as if their lives depended on it, it became evident that men were more adept at shopping than women, for by this time, I had reticently slipped out of the jewellers’ and was now standing under the awning and making my observations. A man would walk into a shop and reappear five or ten minutes later laden with parcels, while a woman would walk into a shop and never be seen again. And once a man had made his choice of gift, he would make his purchase without question, bid the assistant a Merry Christmas, and go merrily on his way, whereas the female species were more inclined to faff about indecisively, consider the option of one out of three possible gifts, and then strangle the living daylights out of anyone who dare approach one of their choices. Given the season, and that all these people had been used to living only one day at a time, one could forgive them their wild spending and unreasonable behaviour.

From my relatively dry but windy confines, I stared out at the bustling Fleet Street, the traffic bumper to bumper, the pedestrians overflowing into the road. In front of me stood the Royal Courts and to the left St. Mary’s Church which never ceased to remind me of how Sylvia and I nearly met our end. It all seemed long ago and far away now, when London was ravaged by the Blitz and I was caught up in a world of assassins, espionage, and slavery, but it still brought a smile to my lips and a tear to my eye whenever it came to mind. And even though my secretary had yet to make her choice, and time was ticking dangerously close to a two-hour lunch break, I knew I could never bring myself to berate her, being that I owed her my life. That is to say that I could never reprimand her seriously, though God knows I would go through the motions—usually on an hourly basis.

As my mind began to wander and my eyes roamed aimlessly up and down the street, Sylvia finally emerged and emanated one of her sensual smiles, and patting her handbag as if her trawl through every London shop had at last yielded the perfect gift, she laced her arm through mine and jerked her head towards the Thames. Don’t just stand there dallying, Michael. We’re late! The wind was cutting and swirling between the buildings as if in search of an escape and gusting through the narrow alleyways, pushing the hordes of shoppers down the steady incline towards New Bridge Road and blowing robust umbrellas inside out. There were places of refuge, however, in the deep recesses of shop doorways or in one of the many side streets, but I chose our local coffeehouse, where I first took Rachel when she was a stranger and where I bought my shot of adrenalin every morning. I found a vacant table while Sylvia hurried to the toilets lest anyone recognise her in her windswept condition. I shook the rain from my coat and hung it on the back of the chair to dry and ordered two coffees. For a while, I perused a newspaper left on the seat beside me, concerning itself mostly with the Nazi leaders at the Nuremberg Trials or President Truman’s elaboration on the Japanese conflict. Every written line positively exuded British smugness, that indefinable spirit that made Britain Great. There existed a party atmosphere, a true sense of pride amongst those who survived it, and though many were not at the forefront of the battle, we kept the home fires burning by keeping London alive, never once abandoning her to the Germans or any other tin-pot tyrant who thought he could just waltz through Europe and claim the spoils. We were the victors and proud of it. On the other side of the coin, and one I believe which failed to swell the hearts of even the most patriotic of civilians in the western world, was the abrupt ending to America’s war with Japan. I suppose if you want to put an end to a war, then dropping two sizeable atom bombs should do the trick, but if somewhere in the dictionaries and the history books a true definition of Hollow Victory is elucidated, then surely this must be it. In its entirety, the battle fought by Little Boys and Fat Men against the Japanese population was only going to end one way, with zero casualties for America and no less than a shameful 246,000 fatalities to Japan. Anyone who believes in the adage that All is fair in love and war should be certified insane.

But like everyone else in the civilised world I was keeping abreast with recent events concerning the Nuremberg Trials, which although wasn’t a rollercoaster of a read nevertheless possessed a certain amount of gloat value. The trials were a series of military tribunals held by the Allied forces of World War II against the prominent leaders of Nazi Germany. They began November 20, 1945, and were presided over by the International Military Tribunal, or the IMT. It was the task of the tribunal to try twenty-three of military and political leaders of the Third Reich, though many of the defendants were absent. Martin Bormann, for example, had already been tried in Absentia, while Robert Ley committed suicide within a week of the trials beginning. Then there were the obvious absentees: Hitler, Himmler, and Goebbels, all of whom took their own lives prior to the commencement of the hearings. With all the best intentions, the trials turned into something of a sham; Hermann Goring, the most important official in the Third Reich after Hitler practically laughing his way through it from beginning to end. It foundered because the allies were attempting to conduct a fair trial on a bunch of fanatics, but it was considered a necessity in light of the president set in May to July 1921 at Reichsgericht in the Leipzig War Crimes Trials, which proved unimpressive. The effects of the Leipzig Trials and the purpose of the Nuremberg Trials are best summed up by Geoffrey Lawrence, one of the presiding judges of the Nuremberg Trials:

There was obviously a conflict of interest between ally leaders. At a Tripartite dinner meeting in late 1943, Soviet leader Joseph Stalin recommended executing 50,000 to 100,000 German staff officers, while US President Franklin Roosevelt remarked that 49,000 would suffice. Churchill, on the other hand, was against executing soldiers whose only crime was fighting for their country. Roosevelt’s opinion of the German nation had changed dramatically after he had witnessed the devastation in Crimea inflicted by the German army and hoped Stalin would once again propose the execution of 50,000 officers of the German army. Prior to the creation of the Nuremberg Trials, there were various proposals for the way in which the German Government should be punished for their crimes, none more so coming from America. Henry Morgenthau Jr, US Secretary of the Treasury, suggested denazification of Germany in which arch-criminals should be summarily executed. Roosevelt supported the proposal and even convinced Winston Churchill to support the plan though in a less severe form. But widespread protest erupted after the scheme was leaked and an alternative solution was sought. Following Roosevelt’s death in April 1945, his successor Harry S. Truman was inclined to agree with Churchill and condone a judicial process against war crimes. Negotiation began between Britain, America, Russia, and France to initiate a trail, and a date was set for November 20, 1945, to be held in the Bavarian city of Nuremberg.

The twenty-four accused and seven organisations faced four indictments:

1. Participation in a common plan or conspiracy for the accomplishment of a crime against peace.

2. Planning, initiating, and waging wars of aggression and other crimes against peace.

3. War crimes.

4. Crimes against humanity.

The defendants were:

Martin Bormann: Successor to Hess as Nazi Secretary. Karl Dönitz: Leader of the Kriegsmarine from 1943 and initiator of U-boat Campaign. Hans Frank: Reich Law Leader (1943-1945). Ernst Kaltenbrunner: Chief of RSHA (1943-1945, Gestapo). Wilhelm Keitel: Head of Oberkommando der Wehrmacht (OKW). Gustav Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach: Major industrialist, CEO of Friedrich Krupp AG (1912-1945), medically unfit to stand trial. Due to ill health, Gustav was indicted instead of his son Alfried, who ran the Krupp Company for his father for most of the war. It was the intention of the prosecutors to substitute Gustav with Alfried, but the judges rejected the proposal. Alfried was tried separately at the Krupp Trial for slave labour. Robert Ley: Head of DAF, German Labour Front. Due to suicide, Ley remains neither acquitted nor guilty of the indictment. Baron Konstantin von Neurath: Minister of Foreign Affairs (1932-1938). Wilhelm Frick: Hitler’s Minister of Interior (1933-1934). Hans Fritzsche: Radio commentator, head of news department of Nazi Propaganda Ministry. Walther Funk: Hitler’s Minister of Economics. Hermann Goring: Reichsmarschall, Commander of the Luftwaffe (1935-1945), Original Head of the Gestapo, second highest ranked member of the Nazi Party, and Hitler’s designated successor. Rudolf Hess: Hitler’s Deputy Fuhrer. Captured in Scotland in 1941 after an attempt to broker peace with Britain. Incarcerated for life at Spandau Prison where he allegedly committed suicide. Alfred Jodl: Wehrmacht Generaloberst. Chief of OKWs Operations Division (1938-1945). Franz von Papen: Acquitted at Nuremberg but reclassified as war criminal by a German denazification court one year later. Erich Raeder: Commander-in-Chief of the Kriegsmarine (1928-1943). Joachim von Ribbentrop: Ambassador-Plenipotentiary (1935-1936), ambassador to the United Kingdom (1936-1938), Minister of Foreign Affairs (1938-1945). Alfred Rosenberg: Racial theory ideologist, Minister of Eastern Occupied Territories (1941-1945). Fritz Sauckel: Gauleiter of Thuringia (1927-1945), plenipotentiary of the Nazi slave labour program (1942-1945). Dr Hjalmar Schacht: Banker and economist, pre-war president of Reichsbank (1923-1930), Economics Minister (1934-1937). He confessed to violating the Treaty of Versailles. Many at Nuremberg believed that Britain influenced Schacht’s acquittal to safeguard German industrialists and financiers, when Geoffrey Lawrence argued he was a man of character and unlike the other ruffians on trial. Baldur von Schirach: Head of the Hitlerjugend (1933-1940). Arthur Seyss-Inquart: Instrumental in the Auschluss, Austrian Chancellor (1938), Deputy to Frank in Poland (1939-1940), Reich Commissioner of the occupied Netherlands (1940-1945). Albert Speer: Friend of Adolf Hitler and architect, Minister of Armaments (1942-1945), ultimately responsible for slave labour in the occupied territories in armaments production. Julius Streicher: Gauleiter of Franconia (1922-1940) and publisher of the anti-Semitic newspaper Der Sturmer.

The Nuremberg Trials were conceived not to establish guilt but the measure of guilt. In essence, it was not a matter of Who done it? We all knew who did it! There was not a defendant who could honestly justify himself or question his presence in that courtroom. Even Hermann Goering must have known he wasn’t about to get away with just a slapped wrist. It was, as Biddiss observed,  . . . a question of weaknesses and strengths of the proceedings themselves. Joachim von Ribbentrop was to denounce the Trials as a farce when, in November 1945, he said, You’ll see. A few years from now the lawyers of the world will condemn this trial. You can’t have a trial without law. There were, of course, many arguments for and against the hearings. Quincy Write, in his overall view of the trial, raised the points of legality: How can principles enunciated by the Nuremberg Tribunal, to take it as an example, be of legal value until most of the states have agreed to a tribunal with jurisdiction to enforce those principles? How could the Nuremberg Tribunal have obtained jurisdiction to find Germany guilty of aggression, when Germany had not consented to the Tribunal? How could the law, first explicitly accepted in the Nuremberg Charter of 1945, have bound the defendants in the trial when they committed the acts for which they were indicted years earlier?

Clearly the Trials were a stage to appease the public and, also, a display of unity between Allied nations to demonstrate that we just didn’t line people up against a wall and shoot them; it was all about fairness. So why, we have to question, were charges brought against Ribbentrop, Keitel, and Jodl for committing aggression against Poland in 1939, executed under The Secret Protocols of the German-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact of 1939 and which the Russians were very much a part of, only levelled at Germany? The Tribunal declared that the Secret Pact was a forgery. It was also forgotten that Britain and the Soviet Union were responsible for the invasion of Iran and the Winter War, or that it was agreed by the Tribunal to relieve Soviet leaders from the Trials as war criminals even though their army carved up Poland in 1939 and invaded Finland three months later. It, therefore, became evident that the IMT were conducting a trial to accommodate their own set of values, contravening Article 19 by allowing inadmissible evidence to be recorded and used against the defendants. The Trials became a tool for assigning blame. For the hell of it, a chief Soviet prosecutor submitted evidence implicating the defendants in the murder of thousands of Polish officers in the Katyn Forest near Smolensk in 1900, while, in reality, the massacre was orchestrated and executed by the Soviet Secret Police. The Trials became farcical because they undermined their own purpose. Freda Utley, author of her 1949 book The High Cost of Vengeance, points out the Allies’ use of civilian labour force and notes that General Rudenko, the chief Soviet prosecutor, became a commandant after the Trials, of a Sachsenhausen concentration camp, in which, after the fall of Germany, the bodies of 12,500 men, women, and children were discovered.

It really didn’t matter. Where was the defining line to be drawn? Was it with America for dropping the atom bombs? Was it with Britain for their bombings of German towns and cities at the cost of thousands of innocent lives? We can go on. And it can be argued. It can be deemed hypocritical that only Germany stood accused, but there was no denying why the defendants were standing in the dock. They were a poor consolation, but as we had been denied the true protagonist in undoubtedly the darkest chapter in mankind’s history, they would be—as they should be—held accountable.

When Sylvia returned, flawless as usual in her presentation, she placed her soaking wet coat on top of mine and took up a seat in front of me, and where, after rummaging through her handbag, she produced a small red velvet box and flipped the lid to reveal the watch I had recommended to her.

Well? she said. Isn’t it beautiful? I’m so pleased I chose it.

I gazed at the gift askance. But I chose it—an hour ago! I said. We could have been back at work by now instead of sheltering in here.

Oh, be quiet, you miserable sod. You’re just jealous because you never saw it first.

But I did, I did! I argued. You asked me which I would prefer, and I pointed to the watch. That watch!

You’re such a liar, Michael. How can you live with yourself? You may have given it a passing glance, but it was me who made the final decision.

Which took forever, and now we’re late getting back to work.

And whose fault is that? I never asked to come in here. I simply followed you. Did you get me a cake with my coffee?

No.

No? Then how am I expected to work till five thirty without food? An empty sack won’t stand, Michael.

But we have work to do, Sylvia! I argued, tapping the face of my watch once again. We don’t have time for cakes and buns.

My secretary narrowed her eyes threateningly.

You are coming dangerously close to contravening the conditions of my employment, Michael, in which, and I quote, ‘I am allowed a one-hour lunch break.’

But you’ve had two!

Don’t make me have to take this to a tribunal, Michael. They don’t take kindly to exploitation, she warned me.

I felt my shoulders sag, and for a moment, I sat there utterly defeated.

My fault, I uttered. Order what you want. I’ll pay.

I should think so, as well.

It was three thirty by the time we reached the offices, windblown and bedraggled. I left my mutinous secretary showing off her prized possession to the other girls and headed for my office, removing my rain-sodden coat as I walked, hanging it on a hook behind my door. When I turned, a woman was seated in front of my desk. She was perhaps thirty-five or forty, with sad, demoralised eyes and a face lined with pain. She dressed frumpishly, not at all one would expect of a woman of her age, and she expressed a timid smile on seeing me. With no idea as to whom she might be, and with my entire staff presently engaged in comparing Christmas gifts, I gently closed the door and walked to my desk, running my fingers through my unkempt hair to at least convey the illusion of acceptability. When I sat down, she simply observed me with that same nervous smile, and when the moments turned into an uncomfortable minute, I feigned composure and smiled back at her.

Forgive me, I said. But what with Christmas and the forthcoming festivities, my receptionist has failed to enlighten me as to your appointment.

Christmas. Yes, said the woman quietly.

I waited for an announcement of some kind—a name or a reason for her presence—but she lowered her eyes and stared into her lap where her fingers fumbled anxiously with one another.

Ma’am? I asked. You do have an appointment?

When she failed to raise her head, I excused myself and slid out of my chair. The girls were congregated in reception, gossiping about gifts, wrapping paper, and who they had invited to the Christmas dinner.

Sylvia! I hissed from the corridor. Why didn’t you tell me I had an appointment?

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. Because you haven’t, and then she proceeded to move onto Boxing Day with her colleagues and bitch about all it entailed.

Will someone please tell me who this woman is in my office? I growled.

Rachel, who, to be fair, should have known better than to engage in idle chit-chat when there was work to be done, suddenly emerged through the gathering and approached me.

She just came in off the street, she explained, as perplexed as I was. She asked for you specifically. I said you were out, but she insisted on waiting. She doesn’t say much.

Yes, Rachel, I know. I’ve gathered that much already, I replied, looking back at my office and shaking my head. Could you do me a really big favour? I asked, turning to face her once again.

Of course.

Would you be so kind as to get these people back to work before I’m declared bankrupt?

Rachel sighed wearily and walked away, murmuring under her breath something about Scrooge and the values of the Christmas spirit.

When I returned, the woman was standing by the window, staring out at the driving rain with immense interest and watching as the cars and lorries ran through puddles and sent torrents of water onto the pavements and over the passing pedestrians.

May I get you a tea or a coffee? I asked as I took up my seat.

The lady shook her head and half turned towards me, her eyes still cast downwards. What I saw was a woman who had suffered great hardship and considerable strain, whose heart had been shattered, and who was unable to see beyond tomorrow. I simply observed her curiously, and left her to her own devices. After much hesitation and toing and froing, she resumed her seat, staring at me with those sad, doleful eyes.

Mr James? she said. Mr Michael James?

I nodded and forced another worthless smile.

She paused again and drew a deep, fretful breath. At this stage, I was moved to remind her that it was a week till Christmas, and I rather fancied the idea of making it home by then so I could spend it with my family.

I have no money… she began.

Well, if it’s any consolation, neither do I, I wanted to say.

I nodded sympathetically.

Again, she paused from her stilted narrative while fumbling in her pocket, and there she produced a page of the glossy article written about me two months ago and ironed it out on my desk with the palm of her hand. Certainly, it wasn’t the four-page spread as promised but more a small piece lost amongst adverts for bras for the fuller woman and water-retention pills. She looked at me steadily and tapped her finger on the creased editorial.

You? she said.

There were no actual photographs of me though, at the interview, several were taken, and I can only assume it was the editor’s intention to accumulate more readers rather than lose them and promptly consigned my portraits to the bin.

I nodded my head modestly.

Her insipid smile grew slightly warmer, and she folded up the paper carefully and placed it back in her pocket.

I lost my little girl, Mr James, she said in a trembling voice. She was just eight years old.

There are some things said that leave you bereft of an answer or a response, and this was one of them. I could only look at the poor woman and sigh, knowing that literally thousands of children had perished during the Blitz and the sporadic bombardments which followed. Unfortunately, I had witnessed it with my own eyes, when the savagery began and the Luftwaffe started their daytime assaults. I had been to a meeting beyond Leicester Square, and as I left, I heard the low drones of the bombers hidden somewhere above the clouds. Everyone around me began to rush to the undergrounds, like a wave of humanity all surging in the same direction. For some inexplicable reason, I stood stock-still, just gazing up at the fast-moving sky, and then I heard it. A few moments later, I saw a plume of black smoke rising from the direction of Soho, and like so many others, I quickly headed in that direction. A cluster of bombs had completely erased one side of a narrow street, reducing it to a deep scar in the ground buried beneath tons of rubble and splintered timber. By the time I arrived, which I might add was only a matter of minutes, hundreds of men and women were already excavating the devastation with their bare hands, creating human chains in which debris was passed along to make room. Jets of water spurted up into the heavens and arced across the street, ironically creating a rainbow as the spray was captured in sunlight. The first bodies pulled out were three children, one but a baby, white with dust where crimson patches expanded on their limp bodies like ink on blotting paper. They were laid down on the pavement while searching resumed. I remember standing over them and looking down on their lifeless bodies, wondering what they looked like behind that veil of dust and what their names were. Too soon, I was pushed aside by members of the ARP, the fire brigade, and ambulance personnel, and being of little help, I slowly walked towards my office.

I’m not sure how I can help, ma’am, I said, gently. The war claimed many lives.

She smiled at me again as if I was supposed to know.

My name is Roberts, Mrs Glenda Roberts, and my little girl isn’t dead, Mr James. She was taken.

Ma’am?

Two months and fourteen days ago. I saw him from the bedroom window, holding her in his arms and placing her in the back of a van. I won’t forget it. It was exactly 10:42 p.m., and although the streets were pitch black, a light from the corner house captured his silhouette. Something told me the child in his arms was my daughter. When I got to her room, her bed was empty and the window open.

She spoke almost in a whisper, her eyes fixed and staring as she recalled that fateful night, and when she finished, she blinked and resumed her soft, angelic smile. I felt a cold chill run down my spine as I envisaged the scene—a dark, predatory figure cradling a flaccid child in his arms and disappearing into the night.

By the time I reached the front door, the van pulled away. I have not seen her since, she said.

After some considerable silent moments had elapsed, I leaned forward.

You have notified the police, yes? I asked.

The Bishopsgate police station and the Red Cross, she nodded.

I reclined and observed her sceptically.

Mrs Roberts, what is it—exactly—you expect me to do?

Her smile expanded with hope, and she rested her arms on the desk.

Mr James… sir. You have saved twenty-two young girls from abduction and a lifetime in purgatory. You can find her. I know you can.

My heart suddenly began to race, and the blood in my veins seemed to heat up. I could only gaze back at her pitiful smile and feel ashamed.

Ma’am, I can’t help you. I am a lawyer not a…

She suddenly produced the magazine article again and placed it on the desk. I stared at it for a lengthy while and shook my head.

Ma’am… Mrs Roberts… Please believe me when I say I would do anything to help, but I’m not qualified. I am not a detective or an investigator. I am a litigator and deal with law. What you have read was an accident, a search into one thing that led to another. I didn’t purposefully set out to find those girls. It just…

All signs of hope seemed to dissolve, and her posture sank until she looked at me absently and slowly nodded—as if she accepted my excuse. Once again, she returned the article into her pocket and stood up, the suggestion of her gentle smile returning.

There are people, Mrs Roberts, the right people who can help you. I can have my secretary write down their names and numbers for you, and you can call them. Or I can do it on your behalf. I’d be more than happy to make an appointment for you to see someone more proficient in such matters if, of course, you feel the police can be of no further help. Sadly, that is all I can do. I’m truly sorry.

I registered the hopelessness in her eyes and tried to smile.

Thank you for your time, sir. Happy Christmas to you.

Oh, don’t do this to me! my heart screamed. Not now. Not this time of the year.

I suddenly leapt up and drew my wallet from my pocket, offering over its entire contents of thirty-five pounds.

Please. I’d like you to have it, I said.

She smiled again and walked to the door.

Ma’am? I said urgently. Her name. What was? What is your daughter’s name?

She looked into my eyes and tilted her head slightly.

Emily, she answered softly.

She left me standing there with my open wallet in one hand and thirty-five pounds in the other.

Bollocks! I sighed.

When Sylvia entered my office, some twenty minutes later, full of the joys of Christmas, she placed down a few correspondences and looked at me curiously. I was behind my desk and staring vacantly ahead, seeing all my past memories in glorious colour.

Michael?

I blinked from my reverie, sighed, and offered a pathetic smile.

Are you okay? Who was that woman? she asked.

I stood up and walked slowly to the window.

The ghost of Christmas past, I replied desolately.

Come again?

A woman who thought I was in the business of saving kids. She thought I could help her.

Well? Can you? she questioned as she sat on the edge of my desk.

I gazed out at the rain solemnly and shook my head.

It would appear her little girl was snatched some two months ago, I explained. Obviously she thinks she’s still alive.

Sylvia appraised her perfect fingernail and shrugged, Maybe she is.

I turned my head towards her.

Have you any idea of what the life expectancy for an abducted child is? Five hours tops.

Is that a fact? replied my secretary wearily and without averting her stare to me. And the twenty-two girls you saved?

That was different…

How different?

They were teenagers, being trafficked into a life of prostitution and servitude.

Sylvia agreed with an unconvincing nod and stood up.

Good. Well, that’s that then, she sighed. I’ve nearly prepared the file for the Warren case. Rachel has had to go out for a couple of hours… Oh, and Badger’s in his office. You want coffee?

I turned back to the bleak weather and nodded thoughtfully.

Yes, please, Sylvia.

She nodded and headed towards the door.

Her little girl’s name is Emily, I said, meditatively. The little girl is called Emily.

Sylvia smiled warmly and looked at the post on my desk.

Don’t forget your mail, she said. One strong coffee coming up.

Sylvia was a peroxide blonde, a vivacious, pencil-skirted bombshell from the same mould as Mae West, who understood me better than I understood myself. These days, she was more reserved, more contented, and less prone to seducing the first man who took her fancy. She was—as they say—rehabilitated. She lived now in a ground-floor flat in Bermondsey, with a mechanic by the name of Frank who she ravaged on a wild night out with the girls in the Walworth Road, and although she claimed to be monogamous these days, her eyes were always inclined to fall on the crotch area of any handsome man who passed her by. She was endearing and motherly, and since our adventure had grown more intense and meaningful, it was as if she owned the exclusive rights over my life and I was in breach of contract should I so much as contemplate anything remotely wilful. She was common and pretty, enchanting, and perhaps a little slutty, but she was devious, manipulative, kind, and possessed the soul of an angel.

After several minutes of brooding over Mrs Roberts’s dilemma at the window, I returned to my desk and set about losing myself in work, first addressing the post Sylvia had left. It was the usual—commissions, contracts, a copy of the Law Revue and a handful of Christmas cards. Three were from city firms, associates with whom we traded business, specially printed with their names on, lacking in warmth and failing to capture the sentiment of yuletide and sent for no other purpose but to drum up further business. Amongst the assemblage, one card shone brighter than all the rest—not a cheap print but beautiful and expensive. I knew at once who sent it. I lifted it carefully and appraised the front with a glowing smile. The scene depicted Moses parting the Red Sea with the multitude behind waiting to cross to safety and the Promised Land. Inside the print simply read: Those who follow shall be saved. The written words read: To the patron Saint of Lost Causes. Where would I be without you? Happy Christmas. My love for always. Emily. My thoughts were lost to another time, and I gazed at the words until they began to blur with tears. When, at last, I raised my eyes Sylvia was standing in front for me holding my coffee.

Very clever, I said, trying to conceal my emotion. It still doesn’t change anything, though. I can’t help her.

Sylvia was wearing one of her conspiratorial smiles, the one she retained for ensnaring innocent males and whenever she wanted to turn the tide in her favour.

I never said a word, did I, Michael? she replied innocently, placing the coffee down. You have to admit though, it’s a little more than coincidental, the names, I mean.

I lifted a document at random and pretended to read it.

Lots of girls are called Emily, I stated, preoccupied.

She lowered herself into a chair in front of me, and I knew I was about to be devoured.

"Lots of girls are called Emily, she agreed. There must be thousands. I have a friend called Emily, and her bridesmaid was also called Emily… Or was it Alison? Anyway, I’m not disputing the fact that many girls are called Emily. I mean, it wouldn’t do to have a hunky man called Emily, would it? You couldn’t call a man Emily! No. People would laugh. I suppose he could change it, though, or shorten it to Em or Emmy. Emmy wouldn’t be too bad for a man."

I felt my will to live ebbing away.

But, yes, you’re right. Lots of girls are called Emily…

Well, there you are then, I intercepted.

But it’s strange, don’t you think, that this woman’s little girl has the same name as the Emily you saved? Don’t you think it’s strange, Michael, that the girls have the same names?

Like you said, Sylvia, coincidental, I mumbled, engrossed in my reading matter.

She nodded thoughtfully, crossed her legs, picked up my coffee, and began to drink it.

Of course, she resumed, much to my annoyance, you have to put it into context. Despite the fact that hundreds, thousands of girls are called Emily, you have to ask yourself how many Emilys do you know—personally. How many Emily’s do you know, Michael?

One! I returned. How’s my coffee?

Nice, she confirmed. But that’s not strictly true, is it, Michael? In a court of law, wouldn’t that be considered a bare-faced lie? Because you don’t know just one Emily. You know two.

I looked at her assiduously.

I don’t know Glenda Roberts’s daughter, do I, Sylvia? I growled.

Then perhaps you should. At least then, you can say you know two Emilys, instead of lying to everyone that you only know one. And you call yourself a lawyer, liar more like!

Sylvia!

She drained the last of my coffee and stood up, shaking her head disapprovingly.

You know the trouble with you, Michael?

No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me, I rebuffed with a severe stare.

You’re boring! Boring, boring, boring! And you’re putting on weight. I didn’t want to say it, Michael, but you forced it out of me. You’re boring and fat.

I am not fat! I snapped.

But you are, she returned, her head bobbing furiously. You’re boring, fat, and stupid! Do you know, four years ago, I watched you take on the world—Fleet Street, the government, the underworld, and even the judicial system. And you beat them, Michael. You beat all of them! You were like a warrior, an unrelenting investigator in search of truth. The glitch in the machine of human-trafficking and exploitation. You were a hero, Michael, and you were my hero. Do you know I was this far from jumping into your pants? And now look at you. Pushing paper and living a cosy life with your cosy wife and your cosy house and your cosy job that pays the bills. What happened to you, Michael?

I looked at her vacantly and consumed by every dispirited sentiment a person can feel after being deemed irretrievably worthless, I looked away. She picked up Emily’s card, read the words and smiled, and then walking to a pin-board on the far side of the office allocated especially for the twenty-two girls, placed it amongst the existing twenty-one.

That’s the last of them, she said as she appraised the collage.

I nodded without comment.

She retrieved my empty coffee cup from the desk and walked back towards the door.

How close were you to jumping into my pants? I asked.

She stopped and turned, and placing her finger and thumb together so barely a razor-blade could pass between, she smiled.

I’m not fat! I grumbled, sulkily.

Oh, please! she laughed as she breezed from the room.

The darkness crept over the city like a widow’s veil, where beneath my window the night was punctuated with car headlights and blazing shop windows. I watched with disinterest as shoppers laden with heavy bags and protruding rolls of Christmas paper navigated their way down the bustling pavements. The season of good cheer was almost upon us, so why didn’t I feel in the mood for celebrating? The shadows only served to remind me that amongst the festivities and twinkling fairy lights, dark forces were at work—predators busy trafficking, thieves scheming, and abductors taking. I found myself staring at the board of Christmas cards from Emily and her friends, reading each and every one with a warmth which never failed to engender immense pride within me. They were women now, some mothers, others at college or university pursuing their dreams; some on the threshold of marriage, others determined to establish a career. I was proud of them, of every single one of them, no matter what their accomplishments, but it haunted me still that had it not been for my endeavours and the help of so many, what would have become of them. Where would they be? I believe their short time in captivity had changed them, to become better people and live their lives to the fullest, to dream the dream and live it. The night the girls were found and freed, something miraculous happened: each girl discovered and adopted twenty-one sisters. Imagine that. They are no less a family than those bonded by blood. They constantly write to each other and speak on the phone. They party together and cry together; they bitch together and laugh together, exchange clothes, views, ideas, aspirations, needs, desires, and depend on one another; they are more than blood. They write me letters to keep me updated, and whenever they come to the city, they visit me and there the day ends—in a restaurant or a pub or a walk around town to see the sights. They are mine as I am theirs.

Fancy a quick one? said the dulcet tones of Sylvia from behind me.

She was standing with her coat on and her handbag slung over her shoulder with Badger behind.

We’re going to the Cheshire, explained my business partner in a more eloquent manner, leaving little room for misinterpretation. Just a couple, though.

I thought I’d stay on for a while and finish a few things, I said, walking back to my desk.

Sylvia rolled her eyes and took a step forward, seizing me by the arm.

Oh no, you don’t! she groaned cheerlessly. It’s Christmas, and we’re having a drink. Get your coat.

I hesitated as I looked at the papers and files on my desk I’d yet to address.

She took my coat from behind the door and tossed it towards me as Badger headed for the staircase.

Come on, fatso, she said looking at her watch. It’s 5:30 p.m., and in five more minutes, you’ll owe me an hour’s overtime. It’s your choice. What’s it going to be?

Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, or simply the Cheshire as we called it, was busy and heaving with late-night shoppers and Fleet Street employees, all crammed shoulder to shoulder at the bar and the seating areas around. Sylvia elected to get the drinks because seldom do men move aside for other men but immediately make way for a distressed and beautiful woman who displays all the charm of a stranded damsel. Besides, it was her chance to excel in all matters sensual and rub up against a few muscular torsos. Badger and I managed to secure a table just as one was being vacated by a gaggle of officials from the Royal Court, and taking up seats opposite one another, my partner observed me with an air of scepticism and concern. On the way, I hadn’t spoken much, and then only to answer the occasional question asked me, and now I sat gazing around the busy pub with depleting enthusiasm.

Anything wrong? he asked me.

I looked at him fretfully and shook my head.

Am I fat?

Badger began to smile, a look of bewilderment in his eyes.

What?

Do you think I’ve put on weight? I mean, does it show?

Maybe. Perhaps a little, he laughed. Is that why you’ve got a face like a slapped arse?

I’m deadly serious, Badger, I hissed, leaning forward. A few small rolls of fat now, a few grey hairs, then BANG! I’m consigned to an old people’s home—to be pushed around in a reinforced wheelchair for the rest of my life because I’m too fat and too old to walk.

Michael, you’re thirty-eight! Who said you were fat?

Her! I said, pointing to the flirting doxy at the bar.

Highly amused by my troubles, my partner roared with laughter, and the more he looked at me, the harder he guffawed.

But you’d tell me if I was, right? I said, seriously. You’d mention it if I was putting on weight?

He nodded and continued to snicker.

When the prominent-breasted Judas came back to the table with a tray of drinks, her hips swinging in all directions to whet the appetite of her admirers standing at the bar, she looked at my drab features and smiled.

There! Badger confirmed it. I’m not fat! I hissed at her.

She sighed patiently and shook her head.

Oh, Michael. You poor, naïve fool. Haven’t you got mirrors in your house? You are fat, you are stupid, and you are boring, but it’s nothing to feel ashamed about. It happens to men of your age, she remarked as she distributed the drinks.

What do you mean, men of my age? I’m thirty-eight!

You’re thirty-nine, Michael. July 6. I was the one who purchased the birthday card and the present on Rachel’s behalf. I’m not just a pretty secretary. And to think, in seven months, you’ll be forty. They’ll put you in a museum—in the boringly fat-and-stupid section.

Have I missed something here? questioned Badger.

A woman came to the office today…

Sylvia! I growled.

 . . . and her little girl was taken…

Sylvia!

 . . . and Michael here is refusing to help her.

I can’t help her.

Wait, wait, wait, cried Badger, waving the dispute down. Then that would be the admirable and correct thing to do, Sylvia. We are a city law firm, not an agency for waifs and strays. Let her go to the police.

She’s been to the police, I elaborated, exhaustively.

He shook his head disapprovingly.

Disassociate yourself from it, Michael, he warned. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time, do we?

No, I suppose not.

There’s no ‘suppose’ about it. Let it be.

I will.

See! Sylvia chirped in. Just as I said, fat, stupid, and boring… and old.

Thankfully, Rachel emerged through the crowded bar, smiling somewhat radiantly and seating herself next to me. There was a peculiar anxiousness about her I’d never seen before, a veneer of guilt and worry in her eyes which she tried to hide.

How did you know I’d be in here? I asked her, feeling the need not to pry.

Sylvia told me, she replied, before I left the office this afternoon.

I looked at her puzzled.

But Sylvia didn’t know I was coming here.

Rachel smiled sympathetically.

Yes, she did, she said, kissing me on the cheek. Don’t be silly, dear.

Forever eager and incapable of keeping confidential information confidential, Sylvia leaned across the table and stared keenly into Rachel’s face.

So you’ve heard about the woman? she said.

What woman?

The woman whose child was kidnapped.

No returned Rachel with a bemused expression.

Abducted, Sylvia, not kidnapped! I interjected.

Same thing. Anyway, the woman who came to the office…

The one I showed into Michael’s office?

That’s the one. Well, her little girl was taken, and she wants Michael to help find her.

My wife looked to me for an answer I didn’t have, but almost in a whisper, I explained as best I could remember the details of my meeting with Mrs Roberts.

The poor woman, muttered Rachel, she must be losing her mind.

And old Methuselah here is refusing to help, said Sylvia with a scornful look in my direction.

Who’s Methuselah? asked Rachel, looking at me for guidance.

According to the Hebrew Bible, he was the oldest recorded man in the world—969 years old. Thanks for that, Sylvia.

It isn’t a good idea, groaned Badger, sceptically.

Her name is Emily, I said.

There! crowed Sylvia, bubbling with boundless confidence. Now tell me that’s not an omen. Tell me that that’s not a sign. What are the odds, eh? What are the chances?

Rachel looked contemplative for a moment, silent and distant, looking into each of our eyes alternately and reluctant to speak. I took her hand, and she stretched herself and drew a deep breath.

What is it? I asked her worriedly.

She looked at me and smiled gently, and then she looked to Sylvia and Badger with trepidation.

I’m pregnant, she announced with a smile of relief.

Our table seemed to erupt into a crescendo of cuddles, tears and ear-piercing girly screams, pulling the stares and indignant looks from the patrons and a brief round of applause from those nearby. While I received several well-deserved slaps on the back for all my hard work, Sylvia and my wife proceeded to jump up and down and cuddle affectionately as if they had intentions of running away together. When, at last, we settled down and Sylvia and Badger hurried to the bar to fetch celebratory beverages, all anxiety had disappeared from Rachel’s eyes as if she had offloaded her burden and was comforted to have done so.

Are you pleased, Michael? she asked, kissing me on the cheek once again.

I smiled broadly and nodded.

Good, she said. You’ll make a wonderful father.

You think so?

Most certainly. You are the father by the way, she began to grin. It could have been anyone out of four or five different men, but I narrowed it down to you. We’ll know for sure come July.

Hey! Perhaps we’ll have the same birthday.

She nodded and smiled again.

We’ll see. So what do you propose to do about this woman Mrs Roberts?

I shrugged whilst retaining my elated smile that showed no signs of ever dissipating.

Nothing. Besides, where would I start? I don’t even know where she lives. Best forgotten. Not only that, we have so much work coming in. More than enough. Things are changing, Rachel, and for the better. Since the war ended, we’ve been inundated with wills and finding beneficiaries for estates and properties, commissions for heirs whose brothers and fathers were lost in the war, insurances, securities, and a catalogue of divorces for our brave soldiers who returned home to find their wives with buns in the oven. No. I’m too busy. I’m not qualified to help Mrs Roberts.

Rachel shook her head.

No, you’re not. Still, it’s a shame, she said.

It’s sad. It’s beyond sad! Imagine this time of the year and your little girl has been snatched? It defies belief, really.

It does, Rachel agreed.

And what if I did find Mrs Roberts? Then what? I mean, where would you start looking? But I can’t find Mrs Roberts because I don’t have her address.

Bishopsgate, I would imagine, she said as she surveyed the busy surroundings.

I stared at her suspiciously until she caught my gaze.

Didn’t you say she reported her child missing at Bishopsgate police station? she reminded me.

Ah-ha, I nodded, sceptically. But I’m not doing it. I’m not qualified.

No. You said.

"And imagine what Badger would