Page 5 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

Behind her, DC Dawson’s typewriter clattered as he pecked out witness statements with two fingers – the real detective work she wasn’t allowed to touch.

While she’d been relegated to filing incident reports and driving Inspector Calloway, the men discussed theories and pursued leads.

She’d fought hard to get this far, harder than any of them knew.

A few years ago, she’d been poised to follow the life her family had mapped out for her.

The daughter of an eminent physicist, she had been raised in comfort, educated at Oxford, expected to marry well and settle quietly into society life.

Her parents had envisioned dinner parties and grandchildren in Belgravia. But Ellie had her own plans.

The war had opened a narrow door. With so many men called up, the police had begun recruiting auxiliary WPCs.

Most were steered towards minor cases: shoplifters, domestic disputes, ration cheats.

But Ellie sought more than scraps. She worked twice as hard as the men, proving herself ten times over to colleagues who saw her as either a novelty or a nuisance.

Dawson, still typing, cursed and she sniggered silently, her gaze catching the wartime poster near the doorway, one corner loose and drooping. Freedom Is in Peril. Defend It With All Your Might.

The taller of the agents – stocky, ex-military by the look of him, with cropped greying hair – snapped the file shut and met her eyes with all the warmth of a closing cell door.

‘I think we’re done here,’ he said flatly.

Ellie nodded and watched them walk away but they hadn’t taken everything . Her fingers curled slightly over the notebook resting on her desk. The code still echoed in her mind, sharp and insistent. Not much to go on, but it was a thread to follow, however thin.

Echo 7. White Hart. X. IX. Kingfisher. Merlin’s Eye.

The words pulsed in her mind, even as she tucked her notebook away.

Echo 7. Was it a place or a person? And the Roman numerals.

Ten and nine. Perhaps that was the tenth of September.

A meeting scheduled for today. She frowned, wondering if it was happening right now, somewhere in London.

But there was no time mentioned. How curious. A prickle of unease ran through her.

The office had quieted, the shift changing, the chatter moving to tea breaks and leave rotas.

A phone rang somewhere down the hall. The sort of noise you learned to ignore.

But when the black Bakelite telephone on her desk rang, it cut through everything.

She stared at it for half a beat, then, lifting the receiver, she pressed it to her ear.

‘Scotland Yard. WPC Harcourt.’

For a second, only silence greeted her. Then, a man’s voice, cultured and confident.

‘Drop the case, WPC Harcourt.’

Ellie tightened her grip on the receiver. ‘Who is this?’ Her voice came out smaller than she’d intended.

‘Stop digging. Some stones are better left unturned.’ A pause, breath crackling in her ear. ‘That’s a nice house your parents have in Mayfair.’

Dread pooled in her stomach. ‘What did you say?’ Cold sweat beaded on her palm.

‘Are you watching them?’ But the line had already gone dead.

She sat frozen, the receiver still pressed to her cheek.

Slowly, she lowered it into its cradle, scanning the office as the hairs on her neck prickled.

Was someone watching her? In wartime London, paranoia was a survival skill.

She swallowed hard, then grabbed her notebook to record the incident.

Word for word. Time. Voice. Threat. She circled Mayfair twice.

If they thought a warning would scare her off, they didn’t know her at all.

She wasn’t backing away. She was stepping in.

Her next instinct was to report the call, but MI5 had already swept in, taken over the case and removed the evidence. What if they had made the call? No. Not yet. Not until I know who I’m dealing with. She was still staring at the phone when a voice broke up her thoughts.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

She turned sharply. Jack Stratton stood in the doorway, arms folded, his sharp blue eyes critical, assessing.

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

‘You don’t look it.’ His gaze drifted to the telephone. ‘You got a warning, didn’t you?’

She didn’t answer. Trust no one . Her father’s voice, as clear as if he’d just spoken. Instead, she offered a half-smile. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t tell MI5 about it, would I?’ How long had he been there? Had he overheard the call?

Jack exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. ‘You’re too bloody stubborn for your own good.’

She shrugged. ‘So I’ve been told.’

As she stepped past him, he called after her, his voice quieter now. ‘Promise me that, if anyone does threaten you, you’ll tell me.’

She paused, hand on the doorframe as she glanced back at him. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she snapped, turning on her heel. She collected her coat and gas mask from the stand beside the door and headed outside as the cryptic telephone call needled her.

Whoever the caller was, they knew her name and they knew she was involved.

Ellie swallowed down her unease. As she walked, oblivious to the drizzle, she kept glancing around, making sure nobody was following her.

Talk about paranoid … Perhaps she ought to have reported it or at least confided in Stratton.

That was the correct thing to do, but was it safe?

She couldn’t risk it, not until she had more proof as to who was pulling the strings.

***

The rain turned to a steady downpour as she left New Scotland Yard.

Big Ben struck six, the sound echoing across Westminster.

Such a pity the clock face was no longer illuminated at night.

Another air raid protocol. Ellie huffed out a sigh.

Pulling her overcoat tighter, she strode towards Fleet Street, her mind still tangled with the code, with MI5’s interference, with the nagging sense that she was only seeing half the picture.

By the time she spotted the small tearoom, its glow spilling out briefly onto the wet pavement as a customer exited, she was already chilled through.

She ducked inside, the bell overhead emitting a discreet tinkle, and paused to shake out her coat.

The tearoom was warm and close, thick with tobacco smoke.

Rows of mismatched teacups sat in towers on shelves behind a wooden counter.

A hand-painted sign read Make Do and Mend .

She scanned the room for an empty table and was about to take one at the back when she froze.

Jack Stratton.

He sat in a quiet corner, posture slightly hunched, speaking in low, clipped tones to a man Ellie didn’t recognise.

The chap was jittery, his fingers tapping incessantly against his teacup, shoulders drawn up as if he was expecting a blow at any moment.

His coat draped across his frame, the sleeves eclipsing his hands, collar frayed.

But his black Oxford shoes gleamed in the overhead light.

Ellie slipped into a nearby seat, tilting her hat low to shadow her face. She opened a worn menu and pretended to read it.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ the man muttered, eyes darting towards the door as the bell chimed behind another departing customer. ‘I shouldn’t even be here.’

Jack exhaled slowly. ‘You came to me, Lambert. So tell me what you know.’

Lambert . She fixed the name in her mind as she wondered who he was. Did he work with Stratton or was he attached to a government department, perhaps?

The man shifted, lowering his voice. ‘I heard things. I wasn’t meant to, I swear. I keep my head down, you know that. But Templeton was meeting people. Asking questions.’

Jack’s fingers drummed once on the table. ‘What kind of questions?’

Lambert shook his head. ‘Not here. Not now. I just … I need to know. Am I in danger?’

Jack didn’t answer right away, his silence heavier than words.

Lambert swore under his breath, shoving a hand through his damp hair. ‘I knew it,’ he muttered. ‘I bloody knew it. I should’ve left London.’

‘Calm down.’ Jack’s voice was firm. ‘I need more than scraps. Either tell me what you know or walk away and forget we ever had this conversation.’

Lambert hesitated, then he pushed back from the table, the legs of his chair squealing on the tiled, chequered floor.

‘I shouldn’t have come. It’s not safe.’

Ellie glanced away as Lambert brushed past her, the wet soles of his shoes squelching softly on the tiles. His expression was tight, eyes flicking once towards the windows, as if expecting shadows to materialise from the rain. Jack stared after him, his expression unreadable.

Ellie lingered a moment longer, pretending to check her wristwatch.

Then, careful not to draw attention, she rose and slipped out of the tearoom, the name Lambert echoing in her mind.

Why was he so scared? And what exactly had Templeton been asking about before he died?

Whatever the answers were, she was certain now: someone didn’t want them found.

And someone was already cleaning up the mess.

As Ellie walked the rest of the way home with her collar turned up against the rain, her thoughts churned.

Fleet Street’s bustle had quietened to an evening lull, the glow of the half-moon shining pearlescent on the white-striped kerbstones.

The distant hum of motor cars mingled with the rumble of buses.

Somewhere, a dog fired a volley of woofs into the night before silence reigned once more.

Every passing shadow felt sharper now, more watchful.

Lambert had been terrified – that much was clear from his behaviour in the tearoom.

But it had been Jack’s reaction that worried her more.

She had seen it in the tension at his jaw, the calculation in his silence.

Jack had been worried too, yet he hadn’t offered Lambert any reassurance or help.

Why? If she didn’t know any better, she’d say Lambert was worried for his life.

And if he was in danger, what did that mean for anyone else asking questions about Templeton?

She should probably be terrified. But more than fear, what Ellie felt now was resolve. The fear would come later, she suspected. For now, she had more pressing matters on her mind. Who was her cryptic caller? And was he following her?