The Quasimodo Killings E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Detective Inspector Jacob Vance and his assistant, Detective Sergeant Brittany Shepherd, are called upon to prevent a series of murders across London.

The Metropolitan Police Commissioner has provoked a psychopath with her inaugural speech. Soon later, the commissioner receives a letter threatening a series of nine killings, culminating in 'the big one’, unless the police chief retracts her speech with a public apology.

To disprove her statements, the killer adds colour and poetry to the murders, all committed in the name of the mysterious Lord Robert. As the death toll mounts, Vance and Shepherd struggle to identify the victims in advance, and there seem to be no clues of the killer's identity.

With time running out, can the detectives capture the perpetrator and prevent him from killing again?

Leseprobe

THE QUASIMODO KILLINGS

VANCE AND SHEPHERD MYSTERIES BOOK 1

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Foreword

By Bestselling author Brian L Porter

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

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Appendix

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 Fading Street Services

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.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My sincere thanks go to the CEO of Next Chapter Publishing, Miika Hannila, and to expert author, Brian L. Porter, without whose encouragement I would not have embarked on what was a new genre for me in The Quasimodo Killings.

FOREWORD

BY BESTSELLING AUTHOR BRIAN L PORTER

John Broughton is an established and accomplished author of historical fiction with over a score of published works to his name. I was therefore flattered to receive a request to write the foreword to The Quasimodo Killings, his first venture into the mystery/thriller genre. Having spoken to John, I knew he was a little apprehensive about taking this big step, departing from the familiar and embarking on a new literary journey into what was, for him, new and uncharted territory.

The Quasimodo Killings introduces the reader to Detective Inspector Jacob Vance and his assistant, Detective Sergeant Brittany Shepherd, who are called upon to try to prevent a series of murders, after the new Chief of the Metropolitan Police receives a threatening letter after making a speech promising to ‘get tough’ with the criminal underclass that she perceives as the biggest threat to law and order in the capital. Unless she publishes a public retraction of her speech, the writer of the letter promises to exact revenge by committing a series of nine murders across London, all in the name of the mysterious Lord Robert. Thus, the scene is set, and Mr Broughton takes us into the heart of the investigation as Vance and Shepherd attempt to prevent the deaths of a number of innocent members of the population without any way of identifying them in advance, and with no clue to the identity of the would-be killer.

Usually at home in the world of Anglo-Saxons and first millennium Viking raiders, it’s safe to say that John Broughton has successfully made the transition from historical fiction to the world of present-day crime and its detection. It’s a perfect illustration of the old adage that, ‘you can’t keep a good man down’ as he does a great job of keeping his readers guessing as his first mystery/thriller is engaging and entertaining and will, I’m sure be the first of more to come in his latest venture into this new genre. It’s certainly a brave step to leave behind all he has previously achieved in order to try his hand at something he’d never considered until recently. I’m sure, like his historical novels, The QuasimodoKillings will bring him more success and may even bring about the birth of a whole new series featuring Vance and Shepherd…who can tell?

Brian L Porter

Bestselling author of the highly successful Mersey Mystery Series and the Family of Rescue Dogs series of award-winning nonfiction.

CHAPTER1

NEW SCOTLAND YARD, VICTORIA EMBANKMENT, LONDON, UK, 2021 AD

The new commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had every reason to feel satisfied. As only the second female in her position, following the early retirement of her illustrious ground-breaking predecessor and the first from a BAME background, Aalia Phadkar chose this press conference to impact not only on the general public but also the powers that be.

Even those most unconvinced by her appointment had to admit that she had considerable merits, not least, her striking looks. Some opted to call her statuesque, which her severest critics declared apt because she was, they grumbled, as hard and unfeeling as an ancient Greek bronze effigy dredged from the bed of the Ionian Sea. Instead, her ardent supporters pointed to her undoubted intellect and profound cultural preparation but mainly indicated her crusade to pilot the Met into the vanguard of modern policing techniques.

The occasion of the press conference called to bring to a conclusion the capture of Angus McBain, the so-called Glasgow Slasher, whose chain of razor attacks on innocent young women had terrorised the nighttime streets of central London for over a year, provided Phadkar with the platform she desired to outline her vision of the Met’s future.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Press,” she began in a clear voice in perfect received English—

“Strewth, she sounds like the Queen,” muttered a Fleet Street hack to his colleague, a petite redhead from a rival tabloid.

“She might as well be, with all the power she wields, but let’s hear what she has to say.” She tapped her roller ball pen on her notepad to demonstrate her concentration to him.

“I would like to begin by congratulating my colleagues in the Metropolitan Police from the assistant commissioner down to the most recent recruit among our constables and all the support staff whose magnificent work has led to the arrest of the so-called Glasgow Slasher, thus bringing to an end the disfigurement of solitary pedestrian women whose lives have been ruined by this species of lowlife. Regarding which, I wish to take advantage of this auspicious occasion to send a message to the disreputable specimens who, unfortunately, live in our midst.” Her voice took on a clarity that would have resounded in the crowded room without the aid of the microphones ranged before her.

Determination sounded in her every word. “It is my declared intention to propel the Metropolitan Police to the avant-garde of Western policing. I intend to press the Government for greater investment in technology so that our American cousins and Chinese counterparts will only be able to stare and attempt to imitate us. So, I address my next comments to the criminal fraternity of which Angus McBain is an all-too-typical exemplar. Today’s criminal hardly possesses the intellect of the fictional Moriarty. Scum like McBain have zero culture, an ignorance bred of disdain for the educational opportunities provided by society and wilfully spurned by their underdeveloped brains. This type of squalid individual had better beware since our intention at the Met is to clean the capital of such vermin using every means possible. Indeed, the modern police force intends to demonstrate the merits of an educational system second to none, which enables the force to draw upon the smartest brains the country has to offer.” She paused to beam triumphantly around the assembled denizens of the English Press.

Her pause was well calculated and allowed her philosophy to penetrate the minds of her audience. Now was the moment to strike. “To make the streets of our metropolis safe for the law-abiding citizen at every hour of the day, I unashamedly use this platform to address the Prime Minister himself—he has declared several times that he is the most public-spirited member of his party. As such, he will consider my appeal for an increase in staffing for our overstretched personnel. I refer not only to our old-fashioned constables on the beat in some of the more degraded parts of this fine city but also to the motorised elements and the invaluable deskbound members of our policing community. Thank you for your attention. May I end with a motto? Altiora etiam petamus, which is not the Met precept, but would do surprisingly well, as I am sure you will all appreciate. She beamed around at the shuffling embarrassed figures in the body of the room, many of whom felt like the uncultured criminals she had berated moments earlier.

“Let us reach yet higher,” murmured the redhead to her unkempt colleague.

“Yeah, whatever,” was his ungracious acknowledgement of her learning.

The commissioner provided them with a superior smile, her perfect white teeth transforming the cold, stern image of the speech into an irresistibly attractive portrait for the press photographers. Gliding from the platform like a black swan on a lake, she took the congratulations of the Met Press Liaison Officer and the high-ranking members of her force with gracious aplomb.

All in all, she reflected, gratefully sipping an espresso coffee dispensed by the top-of-the-range machine in her office as she sank into the plush leather swivel chair behind her desk, I couldn’t have asked for a better start for my inaugural speech. It’ll be interesting to read the daily papers in the morning.

She could not know that the most captivating literature the following day would arrive in the form of a letter. That particular communication, postmarked London WC1, she now laid on the green leather surface of her desk. Seething, she dialled an internal number and, her tone icy, said, “I want you in my office without delay, Detective Chief Inspector. I hardly need add that it is a matter of urgency.”

Malcolm Ridgeway closed a report he was reading on an armed robbery at a jeweller in Harrow, frowned, stared at the receiver on his desk, and dwelt on the unusual nature of the call he had just taken. The standard procedure would have been to use an intermediary, for example, the Chief Superintendent contacting him on behalf of the commissioner. Direct contact from the great chief herself and in such a brusque tone surely meant trouble of the kind he could do without. He glanced in the wall mirror, adjusted his tie by a millimetre, checked under his chin to make sure his morning shave had been immaculate, and smiled at the reflection of a fifty-four-year-old that stared back at him. Not bad for my age. I’d give myself ten years less. He hoped that he would meet with the same approval from the Ice Maiden herself. He knew perfectly well that she was born and bred in the United Kingdom, but he couldn’t entirely rid himself of certain preconceptions even if he considered himself a paragon of liberal acceptance. She had used his formal title, Detective Chief Inspector, not his name, which suggested she was in a bad mood. Once, she had addressed him as Mal, just like his other colleagues, who called him Big Mal, as much for his stature as his facial resemblance to a famous football coach of yesteryear. Oh well, I’d better shoot upstairs and not give her an excuse to lay into me.

Curious and full of trepidation, he knocked on her door. He had not enjoyed the privilege of entering the sanctum reserved for the top brass and didn’t know what to expect. The faint scent of perfume, mixed with the aroma of freshly ground coffee, wasn’t among the sensations he might have anticipated. Nor was the fleeting smile of welcome instantly transformed into an expression bordering on glacial. Yet, her voice was kind and gentle,

“Good morning, Malcolm. How are you? Well, I hope, and Ruth? How’s she doing?”

He cleared his throat, wondering how much information was appropriate. “Oh, she’s thriving. She signed another contract yesterday, you know, for those Regency romances she writes. Soon she’ll be making a name for herself. I wouldn’t give them shelf space if it weren’t for her being my wife. Not my type of thing.”

“I’m sure they’re outstanding, Mal. I must read one—I love that period, Jane Austen, Lizzie Bennett and all.”

“I’ll bring you a signed copy, ma’am.”

She almost purred, “Would you, Mal? That would be so kind. Now, then on to less pleasurable matters.” She opened a desk drawer and tossed him a pair of latex gloves. Needing no prompting, he wriggled his hands into them but couldn’t control his puzzled expression.

“You probably wondered why I called you directly?” Not giving him time to confirm, she hurried on. “It was because I want you to deal with this matter with the utmost discretion. For the moment, I don’t want the upper echelons of our force to know about it. Clear?”

“Abundantly, ma’am.”

“Good, here, this letter arrived this morning. As you can see, it’s addressed to me and was posted in the city centre yesterday afternoon after my press conference.” Ridgeway scrutinised the unremarkable white envelope with its typed address before withdrawing the plain, triple-folded sheet of A4 paper. Unfolding it, he read:

Dear Aalia Phadkar,

Or I’m sure you’d prefer Madam Commissioner, given your pompous love of titles and qualifications. Consider this carefully: Lord Robert instructed me to inform you that unless you publicly retract your calumnious diatribe against the criminal classes with a handsome apology, there will be dire consequences. Lord Robert wishes to inform you that many of his fraternity have an extensive cultural preparation, worthy of Conan Doyle’s arch-villain. Furthermore, he firmly believes that nobody in the Metropolitan Police, not even your exalted self, can aspire to his unsurpassed intellect and therefore, he has issued this challenge through his humble servant, yours truly, viz. if the said public apology is not forthcoming by the first day of the next month, to be circulated as a press release, the dire consequences will assume the form of a series of executions—eight, to be precise, which will only cease if the Metropolitan Police has the wit and cultural preparation to explain the theme underlying the killings in the minutest detail. If, and only if, by the eighth murder (how I dislike that term) your minions have not reached a solution, the ninth—the master killing will reveal all to even the dimmest of your detectives. May I suggest, Madam Commissioner, that you swallow your inordinate pride and issue the most grovelling apology that your arrogant nature is capable of?

I remain, your, and Lord Robert’s humble servitor,

One whose name is writ in blood.

Unsurprisingly, there was no signature.

Aalia Phadkar indicated a seat, its padded surface inviting Mal to sink into its softness.

“Before you take that down to forensics, Mal, I’d like to discuss the contents. Let me begin by saying that I have no intention of succumbing to the writer’s threat. What sort of an impression of police competence would a grovelling apology to the criminal fraternity convey?”

“Of course, ma’am, it’s out of the question. And there’s no guarantee that this is other than a crank getting himself off on threatening the most high-ranking police officer in the UK.”

“Strictly speaking, Mal, all chief constables are my peers.”

“Not for modesty, I wouldn’t think.” He further ingratiated himself with his schoolboy smile.

“What are your impressions of the writer and their threat, and what makes you think the sender is male?”

“The whole tone of the thing. The writer’s thrown in a few long words to make us think he’s educated, maybe to graduate level and added the last line to highlight that he’s a cultured fellow. You’ll recognise the allusion, ma’am.”

“Yes, indeed, a twist on John Keats’s epitaph.”

“Quite so. Clever really, substituting blood for water. In that way, he gets two messages across simultaneously.”

“Yes, he wants to underline that he’s cultured. But what do you make of this reference to Lord Robert?”

“Not a lot, ma’am. It may simply be a red herring. He wishes to insinuate that he works for a peer of the realm.”

“We’ll leave no stone unturned. There can’t be that many Lord Roberts.”

“That’s as good a starting point as any. But, you know, many people love to christen their kids Prince, Duke et cetera, so this Lord Robert might be a black guy from Brixton, say?”

“I can see that you’re already thinking laterally, Mal, that’s why I wanted you on the case. But what about a DI—do you have anyone in mind?”

Ridgeway scratched the short hair at his greying temple with his forefinger. “Given the delicacy of the case, ma’am, I think the best call is DI Vance.”

“Jacob Vance. Jake the Rake?”

“He did have a bit of a reputation as a lady’s man, ma’am, when he was a young constable but there’s no truth in it. He’s been happily married to Helena for sixteen years. It was his manner whenever he was near skirt that gave him his unwanted fame. He’s moved on, I’ve always found him a perfect gent.”

“Mmm, I see. I had wondered.” She smiled ambiguously.

“He works with DS Shepherd. They have an almost telepathic understanding—a good team.”

“Smart girl, Shepherd. I’ve followed some of their cases. I’d say she’s in line for a promotion but, as you say, shame to break up a good team. Use the phone, Mal,” she pointed, “and get them up here, smartish!”

Brittany Shepherd was first through the door, Vance hard on her heels. Aalia Phadkar had an eye for tiny, apparently inconsequential details. That Brittany had preceded Jake meant either that she was confident or that, as she suspected, Jacob had played the gentleman, holding the door for his DS. The third possibility was that Jake was scared witless and every second gained outside the dreaded room counted. She smiled secretly at this thought. Yet, of the two, Shepherd’s oval face was paler, contrasting notably with her short dark hair, cut in a 1920s straight bob. Her sapphire blue eyes, turned-up nose, and full lips made her the force’s sweetheart. Her lithe figure contributed to a certain bygone actress appeal.

“Good morning, ma’am.” Vance almost bowed but limited himself to an unshowy raising of the right hand, enough to convey friendliness but with respect. Aalia matched his warm smile with her own.

“Inspector, Sergeant, take a seat.” She waved a casual hand and, sitting, set the example. The desk seemed an intimidating barrier to the two officers, a sensation eased only by the presence of their immediate superior, who, at a nod from Phadkar, began to outline the need for discretion in this case. When he had read the contents of the letter, ostentatiously displaying his latex gloves, Jacob Vance asked. “Excuse me, sir, how can we keep the lid on this one? We’re going to have to involve Max.” He referred to Max Wright, the resident computer geek. If anyone needed to find out information about a person, Max was the turn-to guy. The problem was, Max worked in an open space filled with the desks of other curious detectives and computer specialists. Max’s workstation was the latter’s envy since, as they complained, he inevitably got the first-class equipment from his superiors, no matter the expense.

Before Ridgeway could reply, Aalia Phadkar intervened, “It’s a question of discretion, Jake. All I ask is that you do your best to avoid the usual speculation that accompanies a case when we try to keep it mum.”

“Of course, we’ll do our best, ma’am.”

Shepherd, with some colour returned to her cheeks, asked, “How seriously are we to take these threats? Do you envisage a killing spree based on the writer’s objection to criminals being labelled individuals of inferior intelligence?”

Phadkar formed her lips into a pout. “We don’t know who we’re dealing with, Sergeant, the man who wrote the letter, if it was a man, may be a psychopath.”

“That occurred to me, ma’am,” Brittany said. “This Lord Robert might not even exist but might be a voice inside the head of a delusional psychotic.”

“Good thinking, Brittany, and if that is the case, we may have to consider the threat of nine murders more than hot air.”

“In that case, ma’am, might not a cleverly couched apology save innocent lives?”

“To hell with that, Jake! I’m not taking back a single word of what I said in my speech. We can’t cut the kind of figure that will satisfy this troll! Meeting over! Get to work and collar this individual. Ah, Mal, I want the forensic report on the letter and envelope on my desk as soon as possible. We might get a lucky break. See to it!”

The three detectives left the room with their hearts in their boots. The case seemed intractable, and worse, impossible to keep under wraps.

“Surely, nine human lives are worth more than a pathetic apology,” Brittany murmured.

Jake Vance heard her and said, “C’mon, Brit, it’s not a simple sergeant who has to apologise, is it? If Her Ladyship made a public apology, it’d make headlines in The Washington Post. She’s right about that.”

“Bollocks! There’s nothing simple about this, Sergeant. Look out for a laxative in your coffee! Only joking, boss!”

“I wouldn’t put it past you, Brittany Shepherd, the Lucrezia Borgia of the Met!”

“Lucrezia—? Oh yeah, right! She got a bad press, you know. Talking about the bloody press—some historians say she never did anyone in.”

“Well, I’ll be inspecting my coffee from now on. Can’t trust female sergeants!”

They laughed their way back to his office, turning a few heads in the busy room.

“Coffee, boss?”

“Bloody hell, no!” he bellowed and since the door was ajar, more heads turned to stare in their direction.

“Well, go on, then, make us one. I’ll get onto Max after you’ve poisoned me!”

They exchanged a conspiratorial grin and Brittany winked. Had they known how many espressos they would consume during this case they might not have been so cheerful.

CHAPTER2

RIVERSIDE APARTMENTS, FULHAM, LONDON

The occupant stared over the balcony rail, looking down to the Thames, admiring the view, and watching the steady progress of a cargo barge sending a regular wave from its bows. A few pleasure craft, their owners taking advantage of the calm, sunny weather, cruised past the more cumbersome vessel. Time to go indoors and make a coffee, the observer decided, padding in soft moccasins over the polished parquet floor. Soaking in the ultra-modern surroundings, he blessed Aunty Amy’s bequest.

Never in his wildest dreams would he, a simple, comprehensive school statistic— and nothing else of academic note—from Southwark, have imagined owning a luxury £860,000 riverside apartment in Fulham. Not that he lacked intelligence, far from it. Concerning education, he had deemed the state GCSE examinations pointless and, even before this great stroke of good fortune, he had believed in his unique destiny that did not comprehend tests or university study. He alone knew what his brain was capable of. Years of isolation and a solitary diet of periodicals and encyclopaedias had, in his opinion, furnished him with a store of knowledge at the postgraduate level that included astrophysics, genetic engineering, and forensic science. When once, out of ridiculous and unfounded insecurity, he had done a series of IQ tests, without cheating, of course, he had scored a more than satisfactory 168. A pointless exercise since he knew he was MENSA standard.

He lovingly stroked the stone worktop in the kitchen and clicked the switch at the power point to set his coffee machine working. First, he ground the beans in a receptacle at the top, dispensed the freshly-ground powder into the holder, flicked another switch on the steel exterior of the machine, and listened to the hiss of the steaming hot water pass through the grounds to produce a delicious espresso that he sweetened with a level teaspoon of cane sugar. He raised the tiny cup in a silent toast to the apartment—he had only moved in two days before. The flat still seemed to hold a magical quality that he promised to maintain by keeping it fanatically tidy and clean. Apart from his obsessive nature, it was the least he could do in memory of Amy, whose house-pride was legendary in the family. His aunt had lived in a modest flat in the more elegant quarter of Clapham from where she made her fortune playing the stock market, trading in futures. He had understood broking techniques in a flash. He might do the same if ever her vast endowment ran low, which he doubted after his prudent investments. Amy was an astute woman, avoiding all the many pitfalls her chosen activity threw up daily. She worked with lower spreads, regulating them carefully, fully aware that 72% of retail CFD accounts lose money. He rinsed and dried his cup, putting it in line with the other four on the coffee machine hotplate, positioning the cup so that its handle matched the angle of the others perfectly.

It was time to do some planning. The resident shuffled over to his desk, only delivered from the warehouse yesterday afternoon. The delivery men had complained about its weight. So they should because it was a solid walnut, two-columned Victorian-style piece. He had wondered whether it would be out of keeping with the modern surroundings, but he needn’t have worried. The contrast pleased him enormously, as did the matching Kimberly-style chair in the same wood with green leather upholstery. He chuckled as he sank into it—oh yes, he had taste, which was easy to indulge when money was no object.

He glanced at the monthly calendar—the only clutter along with the antique pure copper pen holder he could tolerate on his flawless desktop—counted the days and smirked, only ten to the deadline he had set.

Turning the key in the top drawer on the right, he took out an A4-sized print of an abstract painting. He withdrew a pack of clear acetate sheets of the type used for overhead projection from deeper in the same drawer. Carefully, he laid the transparent plastic over the print, took a set of acrylic paint pens, selected the colours to match the painting, nine colours in all, then began to shade over the acetate with a delicacy and accuracy of touch worthy of a calligrapher.

One of the advantages of a solitary existence is that one’s mobile phone rarely rings. To make sure, he had put it on silent mode. Therefore, he was able to concentrate for the twenty minutes it took him to complete his matrix. With a flourish, he removed it from the original, held it up to the picture window, ignored the splendid view of the river and grunted in satisfaction. Next, to be sure, he took a sheet of white paper from a ream and placed the transparency over it with immense care. The reproduction of the abstract pleased him. The question that now tormented him was one of scale. He selected three maps of central London, each to a different scale. Deliberately choosing one he knew to be too large, he snorted and replaced it in its drawer. The second map might work, but it did not take him far enough to the north of the Thames, so it joined the first in the drawer. The third, as he suspected, was ideal. All he needed now was to position the transparency carefully and, with the point of a pair of dividers, prick through the plastic film to outline the boundaries of each colour. That would take him a long time of monastic-style dedication. He chuckled at the idea of a monk poring over an illuminated manuscript. Having selected yellow, he realised that it would take him an hour to circumnavigate just the one colour.

When he finished, he removed the transparency, rolled his neck to ease his tense muscles and drew back his elbows to relieve the pain in his upper back that was his constant accursed companion. Directing the light from an anglepoise lamp, the only other item he could abide on his desk, onto the map’s surface, he took a black pen and dipped the fine tip repetitively into the series of holes created by the divider. Brilliant! He now had a clear outline in the abstract shape of one of part London E2. He sighed heavily at the thought of having to repeat the procedure for eight other colours. Maybe he should do one a day, but no! The white area was so small that he could do two on that day, which would mean a week of pricking out, and he had ten days. There would be three days to spare, then he would fit in other vital preparations.

The next essential stage of his planning involved consulting the AZ of London for the street names in the yellow demarcation zone. Demarcation! He chortled. How apt to use a military term! He just hoped that the Met bitch wouldn’t apologise—no chance of that, surely?

It took him another hour of careful sifting through street names, in which he couldn’t find what he wanted, and he snarled with frustration until he had a brainwave—but then he would, wouldn’t he? In a new notebook, bought especially for the occasion, he inscribed 1) and next to it wrote Allenbury Lane, E2. That would give the police a hard time!

Thoroughly pleased with his ingenuity, he put everything away until the desk was clear, tilted the anglepoise back to its starting position, checking it out from different places in the room until satisfied. Replacing the desk seat with similar millimetric precision, he then took to an armchair, positioned by the window so that he could gaze at the river meandering past his apartment complex. He rolled his neck again before settling to consider the efficacy of his chosen method of execution. In truth, he had already decided on a technique that met his exacting criteria. Prime among them was cleanliness. Even murder had to be executed to meet his demanding standards: no mess, maximum speed and efficiency, and above all no traces left behind. Aalia Phadkar needed to know who she had to reckon with.

Ten days, from one point of view, seemed an eternity, but from the other, he needed to cram in a great deal of preparation. Moving home had cost him valuable time, but he did not regret it. In some respects, his choice of accommodation might prove another red herring for the police. The first action he had to take was testing the murder weapon in real life. It had overcome every obstacle in his fervid imagination, but you couldn’t beat a live experiment. Or should that be a dead experiment? He sneered at his joke—a pity the world could not appreciate him. But it soon would!

Standing slowly, to avoid a dizziness that plagued him, he drew his elbows back to ease the ache in his upper spine, walked over to the hall, unhooked a black hoodie jacket, slipped it on, and returned to his desk. Unlocking the second drawer on the right, he withdrew the murder weapon, already loaded that morning, and guided it into his pocket, handling it with all the respect something so lethal (he hoped) deserved.

As he descended in the lift, the question troubling him was where to commit the crime, not to mention the choice of victim. Much as he would like to murder a person, it would impinge on his overall plan. No, it would have to be an animal. A large dog would be perfect. Again, ideally, he would strike outside his preferred area. No need to alert the coppers in advance. Where did dog lovers tend to congregate? A public park would be suitable; plenty of confusion there to make his getaway. With this in mind, he took the underground as far as Green Park, crossed the busy road, followed the railings as far as an entrance, slipped into the park, kept strictly to the path, muttering that other people shouldn’t stroll on the grass—so unnecessary.

At last, he spotted an empty bench, where he sat to survey for a potential victim. A somewhat obese gentleman wearing an inappropriate pair of red shorts offended his eye, but his gaze lingered. Holding his attention was the retractable leash, on the end of which romped a black Labrador. As a potential victim, it was ideal. A young animal in prime health belonging to an aesthetically unpleasing owner seduced him.

There were no CCTV cameras in the park, so he needn’t pull up his hood until he wished to exit the recreation area. He concentrated, recognising that he must not draw attention to himself, especially after the deed. Somehow, he had to approach the dog while it was far from its owner. Waiting until the frisky Labrador’s perambulations brought it in his direction, he rose slowly, strolled casually towards the dog, went down on his haunches, took a striped humbug from his mouth between forefinger and thumb and held the boiled sweet out for the dog to sniff. Delicately, the animal took it into his mouth, wagging its tail. Its false benefactor made a show of ruffling the dog’s fur as it crunched the humbug before quickly and furtively extracting the weapon. The Labrador yipped and ran off, looking back accusingly, for the moment intent on resuming its sniffing. But only for a moment, just long enough for the murderer to resume his place on the bench to watch intently as the hound staggered, keeled over to lie twitching, and expire. Two minutes at the outside! The killer smiled smugly and rose to walk at a natural pace along the footpath to the gate he had used to enter. Just before reaching it, he looked back at the bereaved owner attempting to bend over his defunct pet.

Raising the hood despite the warm weather, the assassin, head bowed, left the park to stride along the pavement towards a bus stop. He would use his Oyster Card to take him as far as another underground station. It was good practice to mix up the transport as if he was under surveillance, which, of course, he was, just like the rest of the metropolis’s inhabitants, not that the ignorant masses, on the whole, knew or cared about that. He gazed across the aisle at a youth whose hair was shaved trendily at the sides and the back. Why did people ever follow fashion? He never would. Didn’t they realise that their desire to shake off a nondescript image had precisely the opposite effect by aggregating themselves in a stereotypical mould? For a fleeting moment, a yearning to stalk this individual to make him one of the select nine gripped him. Lowering his hood, he shook his head, deciding that he could not afford to waste time on a nonentity. Taking another humbug from its bag, he popped it into his mouth and rolled it around his tongue. He snorted, what a contradiction! It was because the youth was a nonentity conforming to fashion that made him want to kill. As usual, his planning overview took precedence. How could he imagine that the random killing of an adolescent on this bus would achieve anything worthwhile?

By the time he rose to alight opposite a tube station, his mind was at peace for once. Of course, when he got home, he would report to Lord Robert on the undoubted success of the method. Lord Robert was a busy man, so it was understandable that he tended to speak with him late in the day, often even after his servant had retired for the night. He felt sure that his patron would be delighted with the progress made on their grandiose scheme.

Back home, he carefully replaced the weapon, sat in his armchair, and smiled at the river. He had only gazed upon it for two days but already considered it an old friend. He admired the stately way it flowed past his home. The thought that the river could be relied on to continue what it had been doing for centuries pleased him. The waterway was permanent, not like futile humanity that could snuff from one day to the next, just like that dog. True, he had helped it on its way, but one minute it was romping in the sunny park, the next—

Well, he had a mission, and that made his life worthwhile. Maybe he should celebrate. A slap-up meal in the restaurant down in the complex reception area would be ideal. He loved the way the architects had designed the tree-lined boulevard to welcome visitors to the development. The precise topiary of the trees in their large vases, the fruit-laden orange trees in the entrance hall, and he would be able to enjoy the restaurant’s riverside terrace. Today’s work deserved as much.

CHAPTER3

NEW SCOTLAND YARD, LONDON

Ridgeway drummed his fingers on the desk, leant back in his leather chair, tilted back his head on its comfortable rest and stared at the ceiling. At certain times of the day the sunlight spotlighted the one small area that the decorator had missed when passing his roller over the surface. Small things like this no more than two-inch aberration irritated Mal beyond belief. Not that he would ever take steps to remedy the slight defect that nobody else would ever notice. Pragmatically, he preferred an excuse for irritation from a non-human source to doing anything about it except sighing whenever he focused on it.

The reason for his bad mood and boredom could be summed up in two words—unnecessary pressure. There was no point in the commissioner pressing him for a breakthrough, and on what basis? he asked himself. Why should a crank letter have an experienced professional policewoman so agitated? On reflection, the first days in a job of such enormous responsibility would test anyone’s nerves, he reasoned. More so if that person had to overcome the scepticism and prejudices that he had come so close to expressing. The more he thought about his attitude to Aalia Phadkar, the more he was ashamed of himself. Political correctness?I’m not a male chauvinist, nor am I racist. My Rachel would tear me apart if I confessed any doubts about Aalia. He glanced back up at the ceiling where, thankfully, the sun had moved a little to the right, no longer highlighting his fixation. Besides, she’s proved herself an exceptional detective. Not everyone would have pinned sufficient damning proof on the Talarico clan to dismantle it and break its stranglehold on the narcotics trade in London. She’s a damned good copper.

A knock on his door snapped him out of his trance.

“Come!”

Another woman he admired slipped into the room. Dr Sabrina Markham, head of forensic science, whose competence was second to none.

“Good morning, Mal. I thought I’d bring this myself since I’m the bearer of bad news.”

She probably was because he could detect her Manchester accent, only perceptible when tense or shocked.

“Regarding the big chief’s letter, Sabrina?”

She smiled very slightly in recognition of his sharpness.