The London Tram Murders E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Detective Inspectors Vance and Shepherd reunite in the second book in John Broughton's Vance And Shepherd Mysteries. After a murder is committed in a quiet suburban subway under a tramline, it becomes obvious that the murder squad is dealing with a copycat killer.

The murder is an uncanny repeat of their previous case, and their inquiries are complicated by the presence of the main suspect’s doppelganger, Melanie Bradshaw. The brilliant chemistry master student has solid alibis but Shepherd, flying in the face of the contrary evidence, is convinced that the deceased serial killer's sister and Melanie are the same person.

As the killings continue, Vance and Shepherd face increasing pressure from above building. Can they apprehend and bring the killer to justice before more lives are lost?

Leseprobe

THE LONDON TRAM MURDERS

VANCE AND SHEPHERD MYSTERIES BOOK 2

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Lorna Read

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CHAPTER1

BECKENHAM, GREATER LONDON

Oliver Waterman, a creature of habit, walked his cocker spaniel, Luna, the same way every early morning. Their relaxed stroll allowed plenty of time for the amiable bitch to satisfy her olfactory curiosity and to re-establish her territory by sprinkling it with urine. An endearing creature with a sensitive nature, the well-groomed spaniel often succeeded in rescuing her owner from moments of deep despair by putting her head on his knee and staring up at him with soft, half-moon eyes. Since redundancy had left Oliver feeling worthless and embittered, for he considered himself an expert at his job of twenty years, it was easy for him to lose hope of further employment as a precision grinder in this period of economic recession. One of his few reasons for living, after a messy divorce, was the little animal bouncing by his side, occasionally distracted by tufts of grass sprouting from the pavement in this generally well-kept residential area between Penge and Beckenham.

Their morning perambulations took the owner and his dog along a path flanked by tidy allotments, where Oliver paused with a half-formed idea of applying to the council for a plot.

His gaze swept over the admirable rows of tight cabbages and white-topped cauliflowers and he imagined how much soil preparation had gone into producing these pristine green sentinels standing to attention. He enjoyed gardening at the rear of his small semi-detached house, but there was not enough room for a vegetable patch; besides, his ex-wife had severely vetoed anything other than a floral contribution. Now, he had grown fond of his gladioli and dahlias and would be loath to exchange them for onions and carrots.

Luna barked at him to snap him out of his reverie and to continue their walk. Still, he thought, an allotment would give him something worthwhile to pass the time and stop him from brooding about his future.

At the end of the allotments, he and Luna came to an old, abandoned railway bridge where a tight curve of the disused line passed over the road. Now, the overhead bridge had gone, but either side’s high brick walls remained, flanked by a pair of neat, black, cast iron bollards. Passing through, Oliver considered, we might as well be on the moon; there’s not a living soul around. They continued until they came to another forsaken bridge, this time in the form of a tunnel.

Ordinarily, Luna loved sniffing around the delightful odours that her owner found so repugnant because less civilised humans than himself tended to use the secluded underpass as a urinal. Today, though, Luna dug in her heels and whined.

“What’s up, girl?” Oliver had a bad feeling. His little dog never behaved like this.

She trembled and whined continuously so he bent to comfort her, but, so unlike his little girl, she wriggled free and, nose pointing to the tunnel, began to bark, stopping only to turn her head to stare at him as if asking why he did not understand. Then, once again, she bristled, hackles erect, gave a series of short yips, and the whining restarted.

A dreadful presentiment gripped Oliver Waterman. Commanding the spaniel to sit, he reached into his tweed jacket pocket, pulled out his mobile phone, switched on the torch facility and headed into the gloomy tunnel, only slightly lit at the entrance by the early-morning light.

His torch beam picked out a huddled form on the ground. There was no doubt, it was a body. The corpse of a young woman, her blonde, braided hair stretched behind her, lay head towards him. He presumed she was dead. Common sense told him not to touch her. He caused a booming echo by calling out, but there was no response from the inert form, so, refusing to approach too closely, he dialled 999 and asked the operator for the police and an ambulance. He gave directions and told the professional-sounding operator that he thought the young woman was dead, but hadn’t gone close to avoid contaminating the scene.

At New Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Vance of the Criminal Investigations Department had just finished lamenting his lack of recent activity with his ex-Sergeant, Brittany Shepherd, now promoted to his rank, ostensibly for her role in saving the Commissioner’s nephew’s life, but on merit for her superb intuitions and lively intelligence. She still considered Jacob Vance her boss, although they shared equal grade. Old habits die hard; besides, they were good friends with an almost telepathic relationship as colleagues. Vance looked at the ringing phone on his desk with the expression of a ravenous wolf in the harshest winter. Action at last? He was tired of routine reports and staff assessments.

“Do you want to share this one with me, Brit? It might be something or nothing, but if Francis Tremethyk smells a rat, that’s good enough for me.”

“Count me in, Jake. I’m bored out of my mind in here. What is it? What’s alerted our dear old Cornish medic?”

“A young woman in her thirties. Dr Tremethyk says it looks like a heart attack, but his instincts tell him there was foul play.”

“Where is it?”

“Under the tramway at Avenue Road.”

Brittany Shepherd frowned. “That’s a quiet part of town.” she murmured. “Will you drive, or shall I? I won’t bother my sergeant. We can deal with this.”

Vance grinned. “Just like old times, hey, lass?”

“Except that I can safely give you more lip to keep you in line!” She giggled. “I take it I’m driving?”

Once inside the vehicle, an unmarked BMW, Vance asked casually, “You said it’s a quiet part of town. Do you know that area? I can’t bring it readily to mind.”

“Not really, but I connect Avenue Road with the tramway. Surely you remember the disaster at Croydon, the derailment that cost several lives and injured scores of passengers? That was in 2016 and since then, they’ve introduced loads of safety measures. I reckon the tram’s the best way to transport people without pollution and it’s so smooth for the traveller. I don’t know why they did away with them in the first place.”

“Before you go off on a long ecological ramble, Brit, maybe you could stick to the point.”

“Oh, yeah, well…” She turned her sapphire blue eyes on him momentarily. He knew that look. She used that when she was annoyed with him, so he smiled into her pretty oval face and gave her an encouraging nod. Her attention returned to the busy road, and she continued, “… that catastrophe didn’t put me off riding the tramway. I use it regularly to go from Merton Park to Gravel Hill.”

“Merton Park, I get that, but why would you regularly go to Gravel Hill?”

“My brother lives there. His wife died of cancer two years ago.”

“I’m sorry, how come you never mentioned it?”

Brittany’s jaw tightened. “There are some things you don’t bring to work.”

There followed a long silence broken only by traffic noise, until Shepherd swore at a motorcyclist cutting in front of her vehicle. Vance seized the opportunity. “So, what about Avenue Road?”

“There’s nothing there, Jake. The station is composed of only a green footbridge and a couple of litter bins, while very few people come and go there. I’ve read that it’s the least-used tram station, with an average of only about one hundred and sixty-nine passengers a day.”

“You’re a bit of an expert on trams, I see. I suppose most of those will be at peak times, too.”

They lapsed into thought, but soon, Shepherd pointed out the station sign: blue writing on a white background and a thick green stripe above, the logo of the London Tramways. “Here’s the station. I’ll leave the car. We can take the famous footbridge and walk to join the others.”

This they did. Jacob Vance made mental notes of the station. It looked like a perfect place for anyone who loved solitude. Brittany’s description had been spot-on. His first thought was: ideal for anyone who planned to commit murder undisturbed.

They entered the tunnel from the opposite direction to Oliver Waterman and found white-kitted officers around the body of a young woman. Vance’s instincts ran wild. For him, this was a murder scene. There were too many combinations for it to be a natural death.

The Chief Medical Examiner, a middle-aged gentleman, Dr Francis Tremethyk, looked up as the two detectives approached.

“My, my, two inspectors! Welcome, me-dears.” The marked Cornish accent meant that the doctor was troubled.

Vance spoke first. “What have you got for us, Doc?”

“Female, foreign extraction, eastern European I’d say, early thirties and, at face value, a heart attack. Dead ten or eleven hours. But it’s all wrong, boy.”

Vance was used to that form of address, common to southwest England, so passed over it to say, “What’s going on in that grizzled head?”

Tremethyk grinned. “I’ve got competition in that area, I can see.” He referred to the distinct greying at Vance’s temples. “I have to ask myself, a heart attack, here in this tunnel? It’s too conveniently deserted and if my time of death is accurate, which it’s sure to be, it would have been pitch black down here. Besides, there’s no apparent trace evidence, and the poor lass made no effort to call for assistance. Her phone was in her handbag when we got here. It’s all too neat.”

“Was?”

“Aye, was. The remarkable Markham has her mobile bagged up along with a pocket diary. Ye’ll be wanting to see that, me-dear. That puts the lid on it for me. This is murder. All tidy, as I said, but it’s murder, and I’ll confirm it as soon as possible.”

“So, do we have identification?”

“Passport. The photo matches, so she’s Gundega Krūmina, a Latvian citizen aged thirty-two.”

“Who found the body?”

“A chap walking his dog. Nice enough fellow, sensible, too. He didn’t contaminate the scene of the crime. He’s over there by the entrance with a cocker spaniel—the hound alerted him to the body.”

“Thanks, Doc and⁠—”

“Don’t say it, me-dear. I’ll get the results to you as soon as humanly possible. Cheerio!”

The doctor’s assessment of the dog walker was one Vance could agree with. He mentally eliminated the responsible Oliver Waterman from his inquiries. Shepherd, a dog lover, spent time petting Luna whilst her colleague sauntered over to Dr Markham, the attractive Head of Forensics. Vance greeted the competent specialist in her forties with a cheery grin.

The large brown eyes, which had won the heart of the department’s computer expert, Max Wright, fixed on the inspector.

“Oh, hi, Jacob, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for her personal effects. I’ll be as quick as thoroughness allows. I’ll bring them over from Lambeth myself. You’ll be wanting to read the diary we found in her pocket. I’ll lay odds on this being murder.”

Vance snorted, his face a mask of frustration. “That’s what Doc Tremethyk said. Don’t withhold the damned diary a minute longer than necessary, Sabrina.”

“You know that I’ll be in the Yard as soon as possible—to see Max! Has he told you yet?”

“Told me what?”

She laughed happily. “It’s up to him to tell you! I’d have thought he’d have done so by now.”

“Well, whatever it is, he hasn’t,” Vance snapped. “It seems everyone’s withholding information from me.”

CHAPTER2

METROPOLITAN POLICE HEADQUARTERS, NEW SCOTLAND YARD, LONDON

Vance slammed the phone receiver onto its cradle with enough force to break the heavy-duty plastic. The same violence used to shut his office door rocked the partition wall, threatening lesions to the plasterwork. Anyone familiar with Jacob Vance’s moods should have been diving for cover at that moment. As it was, he stomped straight towards Max Wright’s computer station. Max was the resident computer expert and the envy of the other informatics operatives, because such was his standing that he always obtained whatever sophisticated equipment he asked for.

DS Wright sensed rather than saw or heard his superior arrive. He looked up with a sincere grin that faded at the aggression on the detective’s face.

“Bad day, is it, sir?”

Vance’s sour expression contorted into a snarl. “What is it with you lot? Dr Markham tells me you’re sitting on the news you should have given me days ago. If you’re⁠—”

Max Wright laughed, cutting his inspector short. “Oh, that! It’s just that I hadn’t found the right moment, you know. It’s that we’re engaged! We haven’t fixed a wedding date yet, but when we do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Bloody hell, Max! You old dog! And what a catch! Congratulations, and I’m sorry if I stormed at you. People are withholding crucial information, and you know how that bugs me.”

“So, will you consider being my best man, sir?”

“No, I won’t. No need to consider. I’d be honoured.”

Max Wright leapt to his feet and, to the inspector’s surprise, caught him in a rib-crushing hug. “Sabrina will be delighted when I tell her.”

“Tell me what?” A faint Manchester accent broke up the man-hug.

“Sabrina!” they exclaimed in unison before Vance grumbled, “About bloody time!”

Max quickly explained the reason for the embrace, so that for the next few minutes police work firmly took second place to congratulations and excited wedding chatter, with lots of banter from Vance to embarrass the loving couple.

At last, the Detective Inspector put on a serious face. “Before I come to you, young lady, what have you got for me, Max?”

“Nothing unsavoury about our poor victim. Quite the opposite. Her grandparents, refugees, came over from Latvia in the twenties. Like many of their compatriots, they settled in Glasgow. Her grandfather worked in the Clyde shipyards. Instead, her parents transferred to Swinging London as a young married couple in the Sixties. No criminal records in the family. Indeed, her father held a steady job on the Tube up to early retirement for ill-health in 2019. He died last year, unfortunately. It’s sad, isn’t it? I mean, when a bloke works for years, gets retirement and then doesn’t get a chance to enjoy it. What’s worse,” he sighed, “is that we have to contact a widow about losing her only daughter.” He uttered the last sentence with a hangdog expression and a wince whilst passing an address to Vance.

“OK, I’ll see to that. But what can you tell me about the victim?”

“Gundega Krūmina, an only child, the star of the family. Upper second-class degree in Computer Science and Information Systems from Imperial College London and worked at Harrods. She held a responsible position as an Online Concessions Assistant. Her task was to meet planned sales targets. You have to be bright for that. I could do it, for example, because it involves data processing, trading, analysis and reporting. I’d say our Gundega will be a big loss to her employers.”

“You have been busy, Max. Well done! I’ll send my sergeant to Harrods for the usual info-gathering about our victim. As for you, Dr Markham,” he had simmered down throughout Wright’s detailed briefing; Jacob Vance needed to be surrounded by efficiency and not caprice, “please come with me to my office and enlighten me about your findings. All in your own good time, naturally,” he added, dripping sarcasm as he marched off.

Max and Sabrina exchanged conspiratorial grins before she placed a chaste kiss on his forehead and hurried after the occasionally irascible inspector.

“This is what you want, Jacob. Look, I’ve brought it as quickly as my scruples would allow.” She slid a plastic envelope containing a small diary towards him across the desk. “It’s an almost unused and outdated Lett’s Legacy Slim Pocket Diary. We found it in the victim’s coat pocket. But I can say with certainty that the killer put it there.”

Vance stared at the dark blue diary and grumbled, “I still haven’t heard from Doctor Tremethyk, and until I do, I can’t assume foul play.”

“Not until you open the diary, that is, Jacob,” Doctor Markham purred sympathetically.

He snatched up the plastic evidence bag, opened the seal and slid out the small book. Flicking through the pages, the puzzlement on his face grew. “But it’s empty!”

“Not quite. Keep going!”

Then he came to it. Feeling absurdly like Conan Doyle’s hero, he took a magnifying glass to read the minuscule printing of a square of white paper pasted onto a page.

“It’s typed in Microsoft Word, Jacob, Times New Roman’s smallest font—five-point. The gum is a standard paper latex glue, and, as with the whole diary, there’s no trace evidence. I believe that our murderer knew exactly what he—or she, more likely—was doing.”

Detective Inspector Vance was too absorbed in his reading to follow her with sufficient attention. Several expletives were followed by, “Eh, sorry?”

“Now that you’ve read it, you can see why I’m sure the woman was murdered.”

“There’s no doubt at all. Now, would you mind repeating what you said? I was distracted by the implications.”

Sabrina Markham nodded and repeated her words.

“It looks that way, Doc. But why do you think the killer is female?”

“You need Miriam Walker on it for a professional opinion, not me. Mine’s instinct.”

The forensics specialist referred to a psychologist the Met used as a profiler. She had been of great help in several high-profile cases.

“You’re right, but share your thoughts with me. I always find them invaluable.”

“Max always says that’s what makes you a good copper,” she beamed fondly at his stressed face, “your ability to listen and analyse. He’s right. So, look at the meticulousness in typing so small, without any errors, although she could have done it, say, in twelve-point then reduced it. But it’s the concept—it strikes me as unmasculine. Then, she cut the square of paper so carefully. Study the piece again, Jacob. What can you see? Anything?”

“Do you mean here?” He raised his magnifying glass and pointed to the paper.

“Exactly! Indentation caused by a pair of tweezers. Our murderess placed it accurately into position with the kind of implement I use for plucking my eyebrows.”

Vance couldn’t keep himself from staring into the pretty expert’s face. The large brown eyes twinkled as he studied her shapely brows.

“It seems our killer is right-handed,” he said, slightly embarrassed at his over-appreciation of her comeliness.

“You would think so,” she agreed, “otherwise, the indentations would have been on the other side.”

“But listen, Sabrina, science apart, what does this document make you think?”

“The same as you, by the look on your face. Tibbet?”

“We’re on the same wavelength, Sabrina.” He reached for his phone, dialled an internal number and barked, “Shep? Get your carcass up here double-smart!”

Dr Markham protested, “Jacob! That’s no way to treat a colleague, let alone a lady.”

“Lady? It’s Brittany Shepherd I was talking to.”

“I know. And if there’s anyone more ladylike on the Force, I’d love to meet her.”

“If you’d had to work in close contact with Brit, you’d soon change your music.”

The object of their exchange knocked and entered, the pretty oval face and turned-up nose under dark hair cut in a 1920s straight bob, confirming Markham’s assessment. As was her way, DI Shepherd went directly to the point. “Has the pathology report come through? It’s murder, isn’t it?”

“No, it bloody hasn’t! But yes, it’s murder, as our remarkable Doctor Markham can confirm.” Mention of the autopsy caused him to use Dr Tremethyk’s moniker for the forensic scientist, whose name the CME invariably preceded, out of respect for her professional ability, with remarkable. Vance picked up the diary, turned to the pasted passage and read, with the aid of his magnifier:

Arnold Tibbet was innocent.

The Met Police are inept bunglers.

Reopen the case.

Prove his innocence⁠—

Or others will die.

The detective inspector paused for dramatic effect, then read:

Signed, one whose name is writ in blood.

Brittany Shepherd leapt to her feet. “Bloody hell!” she yelled, confirming Vance’s earlier statement, questioning her ladylikeness. He gave Markham a smirk and received a wink in return.

“And that is why I want you to work with me on this case, Brit. I know it’s been assigned to me, but given the circumstances⁠—”

“Just try to keep me away from it! This note is bloody serious!”

“Only someone close to Tebbit would have ended with that sign-off. Somebody who knew the contents of his diary.”

“Exactly, or someone in the know on the Force,” Brittany muttered.

“Damn it, Brit. Are you suggesting a bent copper?”

“I’m just keeping an open mind. Don’t you think you should hassle Doc Tremethyk for the post-mortem results?”

“The good doctor has his timeframe, Brit. We’ll have to wait on it.”

The three occupants of Vance’s office drank coffee and chatted about Sabrina’s forthcoming wedding. “It’ll soon be news of the day all around the department,” Brittany laughed, after offering her congratulations.

A knock came on the door to interrupt this scene of conviviality.

“Am I disturbing a party, me-dears?”

“No, come in, Doc,” Vance beamed at the pathologist. “We were just congratulating Dr Markham on her engagement.”

The Chief Medical Examiner did a double-take of the forensics expert’s pretty face.

“Well, boy, you could knock me over with a twig.”

“I believe the expression is a feather, Doc,” Vance chuckled. “I must say, I was just as surprised. No offence, Sabrina, but I’d always considered you married to your profession.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Jacob, but there’s room in my life for Max.”

“The remarkable Max Wright?” the pathologist asked.

Tremethyk looked puzzled when all three laughed.

“The very same, Francis.” Sabrina smiled.

“They’ll be a remarkable couple, won’t they?” Vance couldn’t resist. “Now, Doc, what have you got for me?”

The Cornishman’s benign face suddenly became grave. “Murder, as you already knew. I’m afraid it throws up more problems than it solves. You’ll have noticed that the autopsy took me longer than usual. That’s because the crafty so-and-so nearly convinced me it was a heart attack. Although I say it myself, I’m to be congratulated on fathoming this one.” He stuck out his chest and beamed around the room, scowling only at Shepherd, whose attempt to transform her laughter into a cough hadn’t succeeded.

After a pause for his hurt dignity, the good-natured fifty-four-year-old resumed, “Almost certainly, the killer followed the victim silently into that infernal tunnel, where she used a cotton wad, like chloroforming the poor lassie, but not with chloroform, with something more sinister, and therein lies the problem.” As if to accentuate his perplexity, he scratched his grizzled locks at the nape of his neck.

Again, he paused, cleared his throat, looked around and, content that he had everyone’s undivided attention, continued, “Hydrogen cyanide is a clear colourless or blue liquid; its pre-evaporation time on the wad a mere two or three minutes, so our murderer moved swiftly, sure of himself. The result: seizure, slow heart rate, low blood pressure, loss of consciousness and cardiac arrest. The poor girl would have died almost instantly. Had the body lain there any longer, our killer would have got away with the perfect crime. Finding the cause was challenging. In the end, a blood sample showed a minuscule trace of the substance. You see, it decays— just enough remained to confirm my suspicion which was initially triggered by finding almost invisible cotton fibre in the nasal passage.”

Like a professor addressing a tutorial for university students, he expounded, “You see, not anyone can lay hands on liquid hydrogen cyanide. I’d go as far as to say that it’s impossible for the general public to get hold of. I’d start my inquiries at Porton Down if I were you, Jacob.”

“Good heavens! Are you serious? The government’s top-secret biological and chemical warfare research station? I thought our lot had signed up to abandon chemical weapons.”

“They did, in 1957,” Sabrina Markham intervened, “and since then, they’ve eradicated stockpiles. In 1996, Britain ratified the Chemical Weapons Convention, but Porton Down is still active, mainly in developing effective countermeasures to chemical and biological threats. You’ll certainly find hydrogen cyanide in liquid form there.”

“I’ve got an awful feeling about this case,” Vance grumbled.

“Here’s my full report, Detective Inspector. If you want my opinion, this was a random killing. The young woman was of good character.”

“What makes you say that, Doc?” Brittany asked.

“The poor lassie was a virgin. There aren’t many of those aged thirty-two around nowadays.”

Dr Markham smothered a laugh, remembering the seriousness of the victim’s death, but felt compelled to say, “Dr Tremethyk, I’m not sure whether to categorise that remark as old-fashioned or sexist.”

“No, no, me-dear gal, you should label it as respectful if anything, but I must be on my way.”

When the door closed behind him, Vance summed up everyone’s feelings with, “Dr Tremethyk is as old-fashioned as they come, a gentleman, and a damned fine pathologist, but he’s given me a right headache with this one.”

Dr Markham opened her case and pulled out another plastic evidence envelope. It contained the victim’s mobile phone. “I’ve typed you a list of names that featured in recent calls, Jacob. Nothing unusual strikes me. You’ll have to find out who they are. The most frequent is to Anete Krūmina, I presume that’s her mother.”

“Talking about which, Brit, do you have a female officer available to go round to this address?” He passed her Max’s Post-it note. “It’s time we informed the poor lady of her loss. Whoever you send should take Dr Markham’s list—maybe her mother can clarify whether they are friends, relatives, or colleagues. Notice there are no men on that list. I don’t think that she was in a romantic relationship, going by that.”

As soon as Sabrina Markham left, Vance and Shepherd chewed over the implications of the latest developments. “I’ll have to bring in Big Mal, Brittany.”

“Agreed. We’d better do that, given the Tibbet connection. I’m worried.”

“With very good reason. Me, too.”

Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Ridgeway joined his officers in Vance’s room. Deep-set eyes under marked eyebrows, a firm jaw and well-shaped lips under a slightly crooked nose—an old rugby injury—gave him an uncanny resemblance to the late flamboyant soccer coach, Malcolm Alison: hence, his nickname. All he lacked to be a perfect doppelganger was a straight nose, fedora and fat cigar.

“What’s so urgent, Jacob? Good day to you, Brittany.”

“It’s the Avenue Road incident, sir. As I suspected, it’s a homicide, but it’s taken a worrying turn.” He hurriedly filled in his chief on the diary and the lethal substance used for the killing.

“Good grief! What have we got here, a copycat killer on the loose?”

“That’s what it looks like and, after the Quasimodo case, I think we should be alarmed. If you recall, sir, that series of deaths also began with the murder of a thirty-two-year-old blonde. But if Porton Down is involved, we’re going to need some high-level clearance.”

“Not only that, Jacob, but remember that Tibbet’s intended ninth victim was the Commissioner’s nephew. I’m going to bring her in on this chop-chop.”

No sooner had he gone out of the room than Brittany snorted, “Did he really say chop-chop?”

“It’s a generational thing, Brit. Your grandchildren will take the mickey out of the way you speak before you realise it.”

“Bit of a tricky one, that, Jacob. Having grandchildren contains a whole series of implications.”

“Right, sorry I mentioned it.” He looked so contrite that Shepherd decided to let the matter drop. There was too much sorrow involved in that argument.

In a phone call from Ridgeway, the DCI confirmed that all three detectives were summoned into the Commissioner’s reception room, a plush affair illuminated by blue lighting, as with all the top-floor spaces. Seen from the outside, the blue light at the top of the building reminded the general public that they were under police tutelage. Vance—who rarely came into direct contact with The Black Swan, as he thought of her but would never dare put into words for the motive of political correctness and sheer cowardice, although he occasionally referred to her simply as The Swan—gazed at the profile of a Greek goddess. Aalia Phadkar, admired for her career and looks but feared for her iron fist, turned her gaze on him and demanded an update.

He obliged whilst trying and failing not to sound troubled. She picked up on it right away.

“I think we were all disturbed by the Tibbet case, Jacob, but we have to think positively now. There’s no reason to suppose that this new killer will possess his skills and cunning.” Her large black eyes turned on Ridgeway. “Malcolm, I think that Miriam Walker would be of great help to us with this case. Bring her in immediately. Another thing, you can have as many uniforms as necessary should matters become more complex. I’ll see to that myself. And Jacob, good thinking bringing Brittany onto the case. I’ll get priority clearance for the two of you and a detective sergeant for Porton Down. I want this matter sewn up as soon as possible. Arnold Tebbit was as guilty as Cain. There’s no question of reopening the case. Now, down to work, all of you.”

Her jaw set in the stubborn expression Vance had seen before when she refused to apologise for her inaugural speech, which he knew she had got wrong, but secretly admired. After all, in his book, where criminals were concerned, scum was indeed scum. He would never fault The Swan for her plain-talking, however undiplomatic for an inaugural speech.

CHAPTER3

NEW SCOTLAND YARD, WESTMINSTER, LONDON

Miriam Walker, a forty-nine-year-old psychologist with a string of qualifications to her name, greeted Jacob Vance with genuine warmth. Her somewhat frumpy middle-aged appearance, comfortable tweed skirt under a hand-knitted cardigan, flat shoes that looked like they had been rescued from a charity shop and mousy hair pinned back in a bun, combined to mislead anyone who did not know her. Concealed under the aspect prevailed a sharp mind and an empathic personality.

“Well met, Detective Inspector. With so much going on, it seems like a lifetime ago that we last worked together, it must be eighteen months at a guess.”

Vance smiled. Long gone were the early days of suspicion towards external interference when the very word profiler set his teeth on edge. Miriam was so unassuming and excelled at her work to such a degree that he welcomed her, though not literally, with open arms. “Precise as ever, Doc. It was when you gave us a vital insight into the mind of the evil Tebbit. Frankly, that’s why I’ve asked for your help this time.”

“Good heavens! Surely, you haven’t reopened that case? I thought it was cut and dried.”

“So did we, Miriam.” He felt comfortable now using her given name. “But someone else has a different idea. Come with me to my office and I’ll fill you in. Coffee?”

She sipped at her espresso as Vance read out the threatening message pasted in the diary. He fought back the urge to blurt out his thoughts because the psychologist needed to reach unprompted conclusions. He could almost hear the cogs turning in her brain. Miriam Walker was not one to blurt anything, ever. After due consideration, she half-rose in her chair and methodically placed the espresso-style cup and saucer precisely in the centre of a cork coaster.

“Jacob, the most disturbing aspect of this message is that whoever wrote it knew that the original letter sent by Tibbet to the Commissioner signed off with those words. Am I right in thinking that you never circulated Tibbet’s letter to the press?”

“Absolutely not.”

“That, as I’m sure you will have already concluded, means one of two things: either there’s a leak from within, which I doubt, or disturbingly, someone had access to Tibbet or his diary.”

“You’re right. Both DI Shepherd and I arrived at the same conclusion.”

“How is the lovely Brittany?”

“Would you mind if I brought her in on the next part of our conversation? Despite it being my case, we’ll work it together, just like old times.”

“Vance and Shepherd: just like fish and chips!”