That evening my door bell rang at around half past nine, and I was confronted by a young woman in police uniform, carrying a clip-board.
"You'll be Jennifer Bewley?" she sighed, checking my name against her list. "Sorry to bother you so late, but it's the best time of day for finding most people at home. We're conducting house-to-house enquiries in connection with an offence that took place in this area last night. Would you mind confirming whether you were here all evening?"
I asked for proof of identity. The girl produced an official-looking card, showing her photograph and the words METROPOLITAN POLICE.
"It's good you remembered to check," she smiled. "Too much crime these days is caused by people being far too trusting." She paused for an infectious yawn. "Oh! Excuse me. I'm dead on my feet already and we've still got three streets to do. So, down to essentials. Did you happen to see or hear anything unusual during the night?"
I felt obliged to mention my strange visitor, and the girl's face lit up as if she'd found the one person who might provide an all-important clue. This had the disarming effect of loosening my tongue more than I'd intended.
"It was exactly midnight," I went on. "I met him on the corner of the common and then again, a minute later, at the end of this road."
"Someone you knew?" she yawned again. "Sorry, I do apologise."
"Not exactly, just a customer where I used to work. I've no idea what his name is. Anyway, we stood talking for about five minutes before he headed off towards the Broadway. He said something about surrendering himself to the police, though I'm pretty sure he just wanted to find somewhere to sleep. I don't believe he committed any crime."
"What makes you say that? You implied he was a stranger."
"Yes, but - well, actually he came back half an hour later, and I invited him in."
The girl stared hard into my face. "Have I got this right? You're saying a man whose name you don't know approached you in the street, and then you invited him in? Whatever for?"
"I told you. He wanted somewhere to sleep."
"So you offered him your bed?" she asked with a glare of disapproval. "What do you do for a living, Miss Bewley?"
I tried to assure her I was a perfectly respectable waitress, but I could feel my integrity slipping away.
"You don't sound like a waitress. How much did you charge this man for the use of your bed?"
"No," I protested. "You've got it all wrong - it was nothing like that. He cooked me a light supper, and we talked. Then he slept on my settee."
"Really? Do you mind showing me where?"
I took her into the living room, pointed to the settee and my bedroom, and stressed that I'd slept alone behind a securely locked door.
"Then this morning," I explained, "we were in the middle of breakfast when suddenly he announced he had to hurry off and visit someone else."
"I see. And while you were doing all this talking, did he happen to mention anything about breaking or entering, or confess to any criminal act?"
"No, not really, though he made some joke, I remember, about invading Number 10 Downing Street. I'm sure it was only in fun."
"Fun? What makes you so sure? You said he was a stranger. You seem to know quite a lot about this stranger, except for his name. It sounds to me as if you got to know one another pretty intimately during the course of your night together. You charged him nothing for your services? He left no kind of payment?"
I avoided an outright lie. "You're making me out to be some kind of prostitute."
"Your word, Miss Bewley, not mine. We may need to pursue that later. Tell me, are you aware there was an attempted break-in in Downing Street this afternoon?"
"Certainly not. Anyway, I thought you said you were concerned about some local petty theft?"
"Did I mention petty theft? Something as petty as what, Miss Bewley?"
"Well," I blushed, "for instance, like stealing a few roses from a neighbour's garden."
"Ah! He admitted that, did he?" She made a note on her clip-board, and asked if I knew whose garden.
"Not for certain, no. I just happened to see him through the window, peering into various front gardens as he walked up the road."
"Do you mind showing me where?"
I drew back the curtains and saw a burly police sergeant standing on my doorstep, also armed with a clip-board.
"Sorry to intrude," he began as I opened the window, "I'm Sergeant Adams, conducting house-to-house enquiries in connection with an offence committed in this area last night." He backed several paces down the path and stared up at the roof. "How many people were present in this house last evening?"
"I've just been through all that with your colleague," I said. "She's here in my front room."
The sergeant gave a derisive grunt and I let him in, to find his colleague now reclining on the settee.
"Oh, very cosy!" he remarked sourly. "Are you planning to resume your task, Mitchell, or is police work becoming too tedious for you?"
The poor girl jumped to attention.
"If you don't mind," she addressed me pleasantly, "I'd like a word with my sergeant in private."
I watched as they adjourned to the middle of the road, their heads frequently turning my way as if I was the subject of their discussion. Then the sergeant came back, followed lamely by his colleague.
"Miss Bewley," he growled. "What else can you tell me about this man you entertained last night? We'll overlook the dubious nature of your relationship for the moment. I'm more concerned to know if he left any clue as to his identity or indicated where he might be heading next."
"For goodness' sake," I said impatiently, "the man simply said he was locked out by a landlady who lives nearby, and asked if he could sleep in my hallway."
"And you believed him?" he barked, his hollow eyes full of mockery. "You think it's wise, Miss Bewley, to let a total stranger enter your house after midnight? Just what did you find to talk about during this lengthy period you two spent together?"
"Many things," I said, trying not to sound evasive. "The state of the world, unemployment, finding a job. I felt compassionate enough to offer him a roof over his head for one night. Where's the harm in that?"
The sergeant gave another derisive snort.
"Where indeed! I'd say that all depends, wouldn't you, Miss Bewley? Who else lives in this house besides you?"
"At present, no-one."
"I see. So, now," he gloated, "you spent the whole of last night alone together in this house, just you and this nameless man? Do you make a habit of displaying such generosity, Miss Bewley, sharing your accommodation with every passing stranger?"
"No," I insisted. "I only moved in two weeks ago. I can't help it if the upper floors are still vacant."
"No doubt you intend letting them soon to other deserving causes?"
"That's hardly my concern. Right now I'm interested only with making myself comfortable in this modest little flat - the living room here, the kitchen, the bathroom, and one tiny bedroom."
"Ah, yes. The bedroom. May I see the bedroom?"
"Do you have a warrant?"
"Do I need a warrant, Miss Bewley? Did your friend last night have a warrant? I take it you had no hesitation in showing him your bedroom?"
"Look here," I protested, "can we get this straight? The man spent last night on my settee while I slept in that room behind a locked door, okay? No hanky-panky, no rumpy-pumpy - just honest-to-goodness charity. This morning I woke to find him cooking breakfast, and after that he went off somewhere else, I've no idea where. I don't know this man's name or where he lives, and I really don't see how his visit connects with any theft, assault, traffic offence, or other crime I know nothing about. Please understand, I've no wish to obstruct the police in the course of their duty, but I must say I resent the implication that I'm involved in some kind of vice-racket. If decent human kindness has been outlawed in this country, perhaps it's time I emigrated."
Sensing my words were falling on deaf ears, I turned to his more receptive partner.
"Look, what's your name," I asked, "your first name?"
She flushed visibly. "Er, oh - Mary. Mary Mitchell."
"Well, Mary, would you kindly explain to your sergeant here - tell him I'm an ordinary working girl trying to lead a normal life in a respectable flat in a supposedly peaceful part of Ealing. Any crime that's been committed was without my knowledge, consent or involvement, so I suggest you both pursue your enquiries elsewhere. Tell him."
The two officers glared at each other, then mumbled a curt goodnight and left, walking not to any neighbouring house but down the road and away towards the common, presumably to expound further on my alleged misdemeanours. At first I was so incensed I felt like phoning police headquarters to complain, but in view of my nagging doubts I let the matter rest.
Early the following morning, I was clearing breakfast when I noticed a black box lying on my mantelpiece, and realised it was the young policewoman's mobile phone. Had she left it deliberately to pick up the sound of my voice, hoping I might incriminate myself?
"Now, who on earth left this here?" I said into it. "I'd better take this along to the police station in case it belongs to that nice young officer called Mary or her rude companion. 'Allo, 'allo, 'allo! Testing - one, two, three - Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white and wavy. But Mary much preferred her lamb with mint sauce, beans and gravy!"
Within minutes came a ring at my door, and there stood Mary dressed in a floral skirt and casual beige jacket.
"Hallo," she smiled sheepishly. "You might not recognise me out of uniform, but I think I left part of my equipment here last night when we were doing that house-to-house. Would you believe, we went on till nearly midnight, standing on people's doorsteps, then filing lengthy reports down at the station? You'd think at least we deserved the morning off - but no, we're ordered back on duty, usual time. What a life, eh? You say you're currently unemployed? After last night, I'm seriously thinking of joining you down at the Job Centre."
As Mary didn't appear to be on duty, I offered her a cup of coffee.
"I'd love one, thanks. I had to phone in sick this morning - daren't show my face till I find my radio."
I duly handed it to her and she caressed it fondly.
"What a relief - thanks! Without this I'd be lined up for the firing squad. I'm in enough trouble already. And, off the record, I'd like to apologise for the way we treated you last night. I realise we were horribly rude, and I'm sorry - unofficially, that is. I'm glad you had the guts to stand up for yourself. The truth is I've only been in the force a few months and I'm already having serious doubts. It sounded glamorous at first - smart uniform, loads of respect from the public - but it's not turning out that way at all. I'm not fond of walking and I loathe all the paper-work they give us. I like helping people, yes, but you don't get a lot of that. Last night was interesting, but I got so tired I ended up getting bitchy with everyone I met, including you. Sorry," she grinned. "Now I've got this back, I'd better tell the station where I am."
She retired to the hall and spoke so quietly I heard only the occasional squawked reply which meant nothing to me. Then she rejoined me in the kitchen, chatting like an old school-friend while I prepared coffee.
"You say this flat belongs to you, Jennifer? I'm so envious. I'm still living with my parents, and Mum gets very bitchy about the hours I keep. Lovely kitchen! Was it like this when you moved in?"
Inevitably I showed her the rest of the flat, including my bedroom, and we joked about her not needing a warrant. She seemed especially interested in my fitted wardrobe and its contents.
"Sorry to be nosey," she smiled, "but I can't help admiring some of these outfits. You're a size ten, I see - lucky thing! I wish I could get myself down to a ten again, but it's such a bind keeping those extra inches at bay. You and I are the same height too. Ever thought of joining the police force?"
I said it had never crossed my mind.
"You should consider it," she advised. "Or are you determined to stick to waitressing all your life?"
I told her I was open to all suggestions, that if anyone was prepared to offer me an enjoyable job I'd willingly give it a try. After several cups of coffee and further eulogies about my flat, the off-duty W.P.C. left me feeling thoroughly gratified that not all members of the force were as rude as her Sergeant Adams.
As regards my proposed meeting with Cindy of Intimate Breaks, I heard nothing for a week. I dialled several times but got no reply, not even from an answering machine, and I became increasingly disillusioned. It seemed as if the whole business had been an elaborate hoax, though for whose entertainment it was staged I couldn't begin to speculate.
By the following weekend I'd decided it was silly to pin faith on anything my mysterious caller had said, and I began to think about my working career, scanning the local papers for job opportunities, and writing dozens of applications for various posts including a telephonist, a dress-shop assistant, and a ballroom-dancing instructor. I registered my details with employment agencies, and applied for several clerical jobs, lying in each case about my office experience. Yes, my mystery man had already infected me with an uncharacteristic disregard for the truth.
A letter arrived the following Wednesday, inviting me for an interview with a firm of turf accountants in Chiswick. What I knew about racing could have been etched on the back of a snail, but I went along, hoping I might at least be offered a free lunch.
The interview was one of the most intimidating ordeals of my entire career. I was seated in a stiff chair facing four self-opinionated judges who kept interrogating me as if they represented a ruthless enemy power. After lecturing me on the perils of doping and race-fixing, and casting repeated doubts on my integrity, they declared themselves unanimously unimpressed by any of my credentials and openly accused me of wasting their time. After such a gruelling cross-examination I longed only for my freedom.
On my way out I paused to ask the receptionist if she could recommend somewhere for lunch. She directed me to a nearby café, and I felt profoundly relieved as I emerged into the reality of Chiswick High Road, and doubly reassured by the sight of a familiar London bus.
Inside the café, the usual midday scramble meant there wasn't a vacant table to be had. I spotted just one empty seat in a corner and hurried over with my tray.
"Hope this place isn't taken?" I asked the other occupant.
He glanced up, grunted something inaudible, threw down his newspaper in disgust and walked out. Still smarting from my interview, I sat meekly to eat my pie and chips, and idly picked up the paper.
"Do you mind passing me the ketchup?" said a woman's voice behind me.
I turned instinctively, but realised she'd been addressing her male companion at the next table. Though he had his back to me, there was something very familiar about his voice and hair-style.
"Curious how the English believe an unappetising meal can be rendered palatable by applying globules of red sauce," he was saying. "I confess I hate the sight and smell, even the sound of the stuff. Did I tell you I was once master-chef in a Paris hotel?"
There he sat, brazenly wooing his latest victim, spinning equally fanciful yarns about her finding fulfilment in his bizarre night-club.
"Well, if I can't persuade you," he concluded, "if I really can't convince you of my integrity, I'm sorry for taking up your time."
I shielded my face behind the newspaper. What did I care anyway? Why should I even bother to listen?
"I don't know what your game is," the woman hissed, "but this time you picked the wrong girl. And as for the insulting suggestion that that I might be willing to act as a common prostitute - well, I'm speechless."
The man stood up.
"What more can I do but apologise and take my leave? Let me at least pay for your lunch."
"Here what's this?" she called after him. "Twenty pounds? I don't want your wretched twenty pounds."
But her protests were ignored as he left, apparently without noticing me.
"Of all the nerve!" the girl exclaimed, defying the stares of curious customers.
"Do you happen to know who he was?" I asked as our eyes met.
She snapped back. "Did it sound like it? I couldn't tell what he was on about - some filthy nonsense about helping people with so-called needs. Put me right off lunch. The man's obviously a pervert."
After that she stared glumly out of the window, sipping the coffee her former companion had paid for. I quietly finished my pie, and was about to get coffee for myself when the woman touched my arm.
"There's a spare cupful here, dear," she said softly. "That other guy didn't want it, and I couldn't possibly drink two."
Somehow I didn't fancy the offer, yet it seemed churlish to go and buy a fresh one.
"I don't think I really need it," I declined. "Thanks all the same."
"That's okay. I don't blame you. I wouldn't want it either. Who's to say he hasn't drugged it? Blooming crackpot!"
"You think that's likely?"
"I don't know what to think. The wretched man got me so confused, talking about jobs and high security, like he worked for MI5 or something."
Curiosity impelled me to ask: "What exactly did he tell you?"
"On the face of it, nothing. You know how some people are - they'll talk a solid hour and still say nothing sensible. I kept thinking - go on, man, get to the point - but he wouldn't. Worse than a reporter, if you ask me, pumping me for information about my private life - you'd think I was royalty - not that I've anything to hide, mind, but we all need our bit of privacy, don't we? Downright nutter, if ask me!"
"I shouldn't worry," I said. "By this time tomorrow, you'll have forgotten all about him."
The woman didn't seem convinced. "But you hear such dreadful tales - men offering girls fake interviews, then luring them away." She drew a finger across her throat. "Creepy to think his next victim might have been me."
"He's probably not like that at all," I consoled her. "Remember, the man did say he was sorry."
She looked offended. "Were you listening?"
I could feel a tell-tale blush as I tried to deny my interest. "People couldn't help overhearing," I said. "Did he tell you his name?"
"I never got anything out of him, he was that cagey. I wonder what he was after?"
She stared out of the window, as if in a trance.
"Probably nothing more sinister than a friendly chat," I suggested, hoping to sound diplomatic. "We all get a bit lonely at times, eating on our own."
"I'd say he went to an awful lot of bother just for a chat. No, I reckon he was after something else, and it isn't hard to guess what. Oh, my God - look!"
She put her hand to her mouth. I followed her gaze and saw our man standing hunched on the other side of the road with his hat pulled down, a Humphrey Bogart look-alike, trying to look inconspicuous and failing badly.
"It's him!" she breathed. "He's still out there, waiting for me."
"Or me?" I echoed without thinking.
"You, dear?" She stared back. "Why you? Is he someone you know?"
"No!" I lied. "I mean, he could be waiting for almost anyone."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're quite sure you don't know him?" Then she came on strongly, full of accusation. "You know what? Yes, that's it! I reckon you're another of his crowd - that's it, you're one of his snooping minions who go around trying to interview people. Well, I'm not leaving here till you've gone across and told your mate to clear off, because I'm not interested, you hear me? I'm sick of being messed around and spied on."
"Listen, please," I whispered urgently. "Okay, maybe I do recognise him from somewhere, but he's no friend of mine. I recently had a job as a waitress, and I think I may have served him the other day, but he seemed harmless enough. If you feel he made some kind of improper suggestion, I'd say you probably misunderstood."
I tried to corroborate this by adding that I often exchanged harmless banter with my more regular customers.
"So he was regular then?"
"No - not really. All I'm saying is, it takes a while to sort out who your real friends are, and decide who you can trust."
"It does indeed," she smiled. "You really don't intend telling me any more, do you?"
She placed her palm against the window, a pre-arranged signal to the man outside, who quickly came and rejoined us.
"Defended you to the hilt," she greeted him. "A commendable candidate, you were right. And you can finish your coffee now - she didn't want it."
"Neither do I," he said. "Besides, it's cold. You certainly took your time."
"Stop nagging! We had to get acquainted first."
"Excuse me," I interrupted, "but do you mind telling me who you both are?"
"I think not," said the man hastily. "Not yet. I don't readily go in for names myself."
"Nor me," said his friend, standing up. "It's better this way, to begin with. But I enjoyed our chat. Nice meeting you, Jennifer."
I felt quite offended that they weren't prepared to take me into their confidence. Instead they both hurried out, and by the time I'd gathered my belongings and left a tip, there wasn't a sign of them.
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