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Author's Note: Like The Breakup, this is a story I began writing several years ago. It's not a sequel per se, but it does draw on incidents and conversations in that earlier story, so best to read that one first for continuity. Feedback is always appreciated!
Thursday 24 August 1944, late afternoon
DCS Foyle closed the manila folder on his desk with an air of finality. "… so the KC seems confident. Airtight case," he concluded. "Your report along with the evidence ought to be enough to get the whole gang several years at hard labour, longer for the ringleaders. Well done."
His assistant, Detective Sergeant Paul Milner, looked pleased but nodded modestly. "Thank you, sir." The long months he had spent infiltrating a particularly clever ration-book forgery scheme dogging the South Coast had finally paid off with the arrest of no less than nine racketeers and the recovery of a large quantity of cash and false documents.
Foyle set the folder aside picked up a plain white envelope which he handed nonchalantly across the desk. "One thing more. I saw the Assistant Commissioner while I was in London. Asked me to give you this."
The DCS sat back slightly in his chair and laced his fingers as he watched his sergeant extract the single typewritten sheet. He knew what the letter contained and had been looking forward to witnessing Milner's reaction to it. He was not disappointed; the younger man's expression changed from curiosity to incredulity as his eyes flew down the page. Milner read the through the letter twice before raising wide eyes to Foyle. "Inspector," he said in wonder.
His superior was smiling at him in an unusual show of pride and pleasure. "Congratulations."
"I can't believe it," the younger man confessed, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't really think I'd ever see another promotion."
"Nonsense. Long overdue. You've been handling investigations yourself for a year now, but not many promotions in wartime. Now you'll have rank to match your responsibilities."
"Sir, I … thank you. I know you must have put me up for this. I can't tell you how much it means …"
"You've earned it," Foyle told him, gesturing to the folder with its forgery report. "The AC was very impressed with your work on this ration-book business. This was his decision, not mine. Well deserved." And he reached across the desk to shake Milner firmly by the hand, his mind flashing back to that day four long years ago when their partnership had been sealed with just such a gesture.
Milner closed Foyle's office door quietly behind him and stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, savouring his triumph. Inspector! It was more than he had dared hope for, at least since Trondheim. True, his career had seemed promising enough when he'd first made sergeant at the unusually young age of twenty-three, but the shell which had taken half his left leg had put paid his hopes of achieving higher rank. Who had ever heard of a crippled police inspector? He had half-resigned himself to spending the rest of his career as a detective sergeant, feeling himself lucky to have been taken back on the force at all.
But now, despite everything, he had made it. Inspector Milner. And at thirty, no less, still a relatively young man. He laughed a little under his breath and started down the corridor, his feet carrying him not back to his own office but in search of the one person in the station who he was sure would rejoice most enthusiastically in his news.
He found her in the station kitchen, washing up the last of the cups and saucers from afternoon tea. Jacket and belt doffed and sleeves rolled to the elbow, she was humming "The White Cliffs of Dover" softly along with the wireless. A few wisps of red-gold hair had escaped from her Victory roll and curled damply against her neck in the heat of the August afternoon.
Sam spied his tall figure out of the corner of her eye and broke off in mid-tune. "Oh, hello. Did you want some tea? There's a bit left in the pot, but I'm afraid it's not very hot - " her words trailed off at his expression. "What? What's happened?" He didn't reply, just handed her the letter. Her eyes flew down the page and she broke into a brilliant smile. "Oh, Milner! You're being promoted! How absolutely marvellous!"
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" He grinned, letting himself bask for a moment in the accomplishment and in the wholehearted delight on her face.
"Well, that's certainly something to be proud of. And just before you go on holiday, too! How are you going to celebrate?"
"I hadn't really thought. I only found out just now …" he paused, considering. "I know. What would you say to a really nice dinner out? Someplace special?"
"You mean … with me?" Sam was a little surprised; she had been thinking more along the lines of Milner standing a round for his police mates at the King's Head. "Tonight?"
"Of course. Who better? Unless you have other plans."
"No, no … I'd love to!"
"Good. I'll ring up a few places and see if I can book a table."
Sam hung her cap on the hall-tree of her digs and hurried upstairs to the first-floor sitting room, where her three fellow boarders were relaxing. "Ah, there you are, Sam," Fiona greeted her from the sofa with a lazy wave of her cigarette. "We were just deciding if we should go to the pictures tonight. It's right up your street, Sam, another mystery. Double Indemnity at the Ritz. Did your Mr Foyle keep you late again?"
"Yes, he did, and he picked a jolly bad day for it," she replied, fingers flying down the buttons of her jacket. "Sorry, no cinema for me. I'm going out to dinner and I've got exactly forty-five minutes to put myself together."
"A dinner invitation? Who? Where?" Ruth swung her legs off the arm of her chair, her face alight with interest.
"With Milner. And believe it or not, Les Bijoux!"
"Milner! One of your policemen? Since when are you stepping out with him?" asked Lesley from the window seat.
Sam was tugging at the knot in her tie. "We're not stepping out, Lesley, he's just a friend. He's just been promoted and wants to celebrate. But I've no idea what to wear. Help me, girls?"
In the two years they'd been lodging together in Priory Lane, the four young women had become great friends. Together they had perfected the art of helping one other transform from their workaday uniforms and drab utility clothes into the height of wartime chic, often at short notice. Clothes, shoes, jewellery and make-up were lent freely as they pooled their meagre finery.
Over the past few years Sussex had become temporary home to large numbers of servicemen - Canadian, American and Australian as well as British. Their presence all but guaranteed a busy social life to any interested young woman. Hardly an evening had gone by when at least one of the girls had not stepped out with some soldier or airman; gradually they had built up a coterie of favourite escorts who would frequently take all four out together for an evening of dancing and frivolity.
But the delights of this social whirl had tapered off sharply the previous spring as the Allied armies began final preparations for the invasion of France. Now, two months after D-Day, their beaux were all on the other side of the Channel and evenings out had become a rarity. At Sam's last-minute invitation—and to Les Bijoux, Hastings' most elegant French restaurant - her three loyal friends swung into action.
Lesley drew her bath while Fiona, who had a relatively generous supply of pre-war evening dresses handed down from three elder sisters, rooted round in her wardrobe. "Here we are," she declared, sweeping into Sam's room after she had emerged from the bath. "This one. And no arguing, Sam, it's just the thing."
"Oh, Fee, really … the yellow silk? It's lovely, but don't you think it's a bit … daring?" Sam said hesitantly, running a tentative finger along a smooth lemon fold.
"No! The colour's perfect for you, and it'll be lovely and cool on such a warm evening. Good job you're so slim; you won't need an iron corset like poor Ruth," said Fiona. "Now, where are your stockings?"
They buzzed round her like bees, eager to turn Sam out looking her very best. She watched her reflection in the glass as Fiona zipped the frock. Oh, my, she thought, a little abashed, Dad would not approve, not one little bit! At the same time, though, she couldn't help be pleased with what she saw. The soft shade of yellow, neither too bright nor too pale, set off her vivid hair and dark eyes to perfection. The satin bodice clung snugly at waist and bosom and rose to clasp behind her neck in a smooth halter, exposing her shoulders and upper back along with the tiniest hint of maidenly cleavage. The silk tulle skirt fell to her knees and rustled delightfully when she moved. Simple yet elegant, it was far more sophisticated than any dress she'd ever worn and it made her feel pretty, alluring and more than a little bit daring.
Lesley, correctly interpreting the expression on her face, said lightly, "Oh, Sam, buck up. You don't have to dress like a vicar's daughter all the time, you know. You look smashing. Now come and sit so Ruth can fix your hair!"
Overwhelmed by her friends' enthusiasm, she meekly submitted to the ministrations of Ruth, who had been a hairdresser before the war and was a genius at subduing Sam's flyaway curls. Then mascara to darken her lashes, a touch of eyeliner, a dusting of power – her natural high colouring making rouge unnecessary – and a careful application of coral-pink lipstick.
She dabbed her throat and wrists with the stopper of her favourite bottle of floral scent, carefully hoarded for special occasions as it was now impossible to find in the shops, while her friends debated the question of jewellery. In the end they settled on no necklace, no bracelets, just Sam's own little garnet ring and Lesley's diamante ear-bobs. After she rose from her dressing table there was another good-natured wrangle over footwear. "Not those old brown pumps, Sam!" Ruth scolded, insisting on lending her new and very high-heeled cream court shoes.
"But they're too wide for me, Ruth, I'll trip!"
"Nonsense. Just walk slowly. You're not going dancing afterward, are you?"
"No …"
"Fine. You look perfect. Your policeman won't know what hit him."
"I told you, it's not like that. He's just a chum," Sam repeated as the doorbell rang.