FOURTEEN
It was just before noon when I arrived back at my office following my morning labours and found a note pushed under my door. It was from David Llewellyn. It read: ‘Would really appreciate a chat. Can you make The Guardsman at one o’clock? DL’
The Guardsman was a pub not far from Scotland Yard where David and I often met up to sup a few pints and moan about our respective investigations. I was intrigued and indeed thirsty, so I did a quick about face and headed off in the direction of that particular watering hole.
As I pounded the dusty streets of the capital, I thought over what I had learned that morning. I had taken myself down to the War Office and made contact with an ex-client of mine, Bobby Driscol, a good-looking lad with a club foot who had been wrongly accused of bein
