"Now remember," Sam said to Millie, pausing at the end of the street that led to The Cat's Pyjamas, "we mustn't seem to be together. But don't go anywhere I can't see you. And don't drink anything you haven't bought yourself."

Milicent Lovell nodded. "Got it," she said crisply. "But won't that look suspicious if this chap does try something? If he does buy one of us a drink and we don't drink it, he'll know there's no point."

"Tip it in your handbag or something," Sam suggested.

Millie sighed. "This is my last handbag," she said. "But alright. And if you think he's taken the bait, then signal to me when you leave, and I'll do the same. Drop our handbag as we leave. And whichever one of us it isn't …"

"Grab the constable," Sam finished. "I'll sort of discreetly point out which one he is when we get inside."

"Right," Millie said. She squared her shoulders. "I'll go in first. Count one hundred, then follow."

Sam watched the small, upright figure march down the street as if to face a firing squad. One, two, three …

She wasn't entirely sure it was a brilliant idea to involve Millie. After all, she's never been with the police.

But it would have been an even less brilliant idea to come alone. What if the constable blinks or something and misses me leaving?

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two …

And, Sam knew, if she'd suggested her plan to Milner he wouldn't have had a bar of it. I'm just another civilian now, as far as police investigations go.

Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five …

And Millie was level-headed and jolly good in an emergency. If something did happen, there was no chance she'd panic. She'd even made Sam draw a map of the bar and then show her on a map of Hastings where the nearest telephone boxes were before they'd both changed into as much finery as wartime rationing would allow and set out on their bicycles.

Seventy-nine, eighty …

Sam had to admit to herself she was a bit nervous. This is like proper undercover police work. And Mr Foyle wasn't entirely wrong those times he suggested it wasn't exactly my strong point.

But proper women police officers did it. I've read about it. And probably, at least some of them had been scared, too.

Ninety-nine, one hundred.

Sam started down the street.

She'd been to Cat's Pyjamas only once or twice, with Andrew, but she saw immediately as she entered that little had changed: the face behind the bar was one she didn't recognise, and the decor had worn to the edge of shabbiness, but that was about all. Making her way to the bar, she scanned the room for a face she might recognise from the station, hoping as she did so that she merely looked like a girl checking to see if her fellow had arrived. There. Marksbury's curly blond hair, that had earned him the nickname 'Choirboy', was unmistakable. She glanced around, spotted Millie sitting on her own, and discreetly signalled with her chin.

Millie gave a tiny nod, and sipped what looked like a Gin and It.

Sam ordered her own drink and found a place to drink it. She sipped slowly, as much out of consideration for her limited means as to keep a clear head, and made sure to look at her watch, and the door, a few times, trying to display increasing impatience each time. Finally she frowned and sighed, as if no longer able to deny the fact that her chap had stood her up.

There. The hook was set. Now to see if anyone would take the bait …

"Excuse me," a man's voice said, and Sam looked up to see a young man in the uniform of the Essex County Division. "Is this seat taken?"

Bingo.

"Well, I was waiting for someone," Sam said. "But it rather looks like he isn't going to show."

"Then perhaps you'll allow me to buy you a drink?" the young soldier said with what Sam would have thought was a charming smile if I didn't know what an absolute bounder he is.

"Thank you," she said. "I could rather use cheering up."

While he went to the bar she stole a look at Millie, relieved to see the other woman looking back at her. Perfectly safe, Sam told herself firmly. I just won't swallow any of the drink he brings me and the plan will work perfectly.

When he came back with her drink and one for himself and introduced himself as 'Samuel', she was able to fill up several minutes exclaiming over the coincidence of them both being called 'Sam' while she eked out the drink she'd bought herself and waited for him to turn his back. The topic of names being exhausted, she started in on her non-existent chap and his failings, using Andrew as a template but calling him 'Bill' and being careful not to mention that he was the son of a former policeman.

Finally she managed to sneak the glass off the table and tip much of the contents into her handbag. It made the bag squelch rather when she set it down again, but at least, when I give it to Paul, he'll be able to get it analysed. She was toying with her now half-empty glass when Samuel looked back.

"So do you, um," she started, and then surprised herself with a jaw-cracking yawn she only just managed to cover with her hand. "Oh, gosh, I'm awfully sorry. I have such early starts and it's an awfully long way to ride."

"I know exactly what you mean," Samuel said. "We're out of bed before dawn and after a day of drill and marching, I can hardly keep my eyes open by dinner."

"One thing I do hate about the war - apart from all the other things I hate about the war - is never getting a decent lie-in," Sam confided, and yawned again. The fatigue of the morning's frantic activity and the long ride seemed to settle over her like a shroud of lead. "I'm afraid I think I ought to go home." Was that the right thing to say? Her mind was fuzzy with weariness, but it seemed to make sense that she would have to leave at some point. He's not likely to try anything right here in the bar.

"Look, let me walk you," Samuel said.

"I have my bicycle," Sam said. "But you can walk me to that, if you like."

She managed to drop her bag on the way to the door, and bend to pick it up before Samuel could gallantly retrieve it for her. Can't have him notice it's dripping. It seemed an awfully long way to the door and when she tried look around to see if Millie had caught the signal the walls slipped and slid around her in the most peculiar manner. In the disorientation of leaving the lit bar for the blacked-out street outside she nearly lost her footing on the steps and Samuel caught her with an arm around her waist.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Oh, perfec'ly," Sam assured him. "Jus' tired. My bicycle - this way." Trying to disentangle herself from his supporting arm and head down the street, she found her feet rather too far away from her head to obey commands and staggered sideways, catching herself against the wall. "Oopsy."

Samuel caught her again. "Listen, maybe you shouldn't ride home," he said. "I think you've had a little bit too much to drink for that."

" 'M fine," Sam said, trying to push him away. There was something she had to remember, nagging at her under the warm fog of exhaustion that wrapped around her. Something … perhaps she would remember it after she'd had a little nap. She could have one right here, if only the wall would hold still and the ground would stop rocking. "Fine."

"How about a cab?' Samuel said. "There's one down there. My shout. I really don't think you should try and cycle home, Samantha."

Police! That was what she was supposed to remember. The police were coming. Sam squinted down the street and saw the dim bulk of a car. "A cab?"

"There's usually one here," Samuel said. "Come on. You can come back for your bicycle tomorrow."

There really was a cab at the end of the street. Surely by the time we get there Millie will get Marksbury to pay attention. She nodded agreement and the movement made the street whirl around her. She clutched on to Samuel to stay upright, although really, it would be much more sensible just to lie down and close her eyes for a moment.

"You really are a lightweight, aren't you?" Samuel said, sounding amused. "Come on. Let's get you home."

He half-led, half-carried her down the street, supporting her as her recalcitrant feet tried to go out from under her. Something's wrong, Sam thought distantly, unable to summon up any alarm at the thought. Perhaps she had a fever. The strange light-headedness and feeling as if everything was very far away was quite like a fever, but she didn't feel the aching misery of fever, only a comforting warmness that assured her there was nothing to worry about, nothing at all …

Samuel's face swum into her vision. "Where do you live?"

Where do I live? Sam wondered. The question drifted away from her up into the night sky. Mrs Henderson's, that's right. She tried to say so but her lips were too numb, her tongue too thick, to form the words. She felt Samuel take her handbag from her shoulder and then heard him exclaim in surprise, probably, Sam thought disinterestedly, at finding it filled with my drink.

He said something to the cab driver, and then Sam felt herself being put into the backseat of the car. She vaguely expected Samuel to get in beside her, and knew that would be a Very Bad Thing.

Somewhere in the distance was the shrilling of a police whistle. Sam heard it with a sense of relief she couldn't quite make connect with anything else. Samuel shut the cab door on her and turned away. Through the window Sam saw running figures, dim and wavering as if underwater. The whistle came again, then another from the other direction. Everything seemed to be getting further and further away, but she could make out Marksbury's fair hair as he seized Samuel by the collar.

Well, that's alright, then, Sam thought, her mind moving as slowly as treacle. She closed her eyes and let the motion of the car lull her to sleep.

.

.

.

A/N: I don't know if the UK Police Force used women officers in operations against sexual predators this early; however, the first women police officers to receive George Medals for courage were Sergeant Ethel Bush and Kathleen Parrott, who had been separately attacked by a sex offender they were on a stakeout in pursuit of in 1955.

Chloral hydrate, a sedative discovered in the 19th century, was the active ingredient in 'knockout drops' (or another term you may have heard, a "Mickey Finn" hence 'slip someone a mickey', named for a turn-of-the-century Chicago bartender who used knockout drops on his patrons to rob them once incapacitated) due to its solubility in alcohol or water and its relatively rapid action. Popular fiction promulgated the idea that the appropriate remedy was to make the victim 'walk it off', although unless an overdose has occurred, sleeping it off is harmless. I've played a little fast-and-loose with its effects for dramatic purposes.