‘Was it another mob out of control?’

‘Yes, Inspector, and I won’t stand for it. I’m not having the capital city at the mercy of roving gangs with a grudge. Somebody must be caught and punished for this.’

‘That may be difficult, Sir Edward,’ warned Marmion.

The older man smiled. ‘Why do you think I chose you?’

They were in the commissioner’s office at New Scotland Yard, the red and white brick building in the Gothic style that was the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Force. Now in his mid sixties, Sir Edward Henry, the commissioner, should have retired but his patriotism had been stirred by the outbreak of war and he’d agreed to stay in a post he’d held for twelve productive years. Marmion had the greatest admiration for him, not least because the commissioner had survived an attempted assassination three years earlier and, though wounded by a bullet, had soon returned to work.

Harvey Marmion’s father had been less fortunate. A policeman renowned for his devotion to duty, Alfred Marmion had been shot dead while trying to arrest a burglar. The incident had persuaded his son to give up his job as a clerk in the civil service and join the police force. Marmion was a chunky man in his forties with a physique that belied his bookishness. Astute and tenacious, he had worked his way up to the rank of detective inspector and was tipped for even higher office. Though he was well groomed, he was not the smartest dresser. Indeed, he looked almost shabby beside the immaculately attired Sir Edward Henry. Marmion’s suit was crumpled and his tie was askew. His shirt collar had a smudge on it. Fortunately, the commissioner did not judge him on his appearance. He knew the man’s worth and rated him highly.

‘There’s really nothing else that I can tell you, Inspector.’

‘How many other shops have been attacked?’ asked Marmion.

‘Far too many,’ said Sir Edward.

‘Presumably, they were mostly in the East End.’