by Emma Jameson
He wasn’t supposed to know about Sir Duncan, so of course he’d made it his business to find out everything he could. Half of Britain seemed to think him an innocent man fitted up by government hacks. The other half thought he’d got away with murder many times over.
“I don’t think he’s actually obsessed with me,” Kate said. “He’s just the sort who can’t resist making a conquest. Every time he flirts with me, I have the feeling he’s laughing inside.”
Henry squinted at Kate’s silhouette. It was impossible to make out her expression. But clearly she was the Kate. The one a serial killer’s eye had fell upon.
“Yes, well, it’s all fun and games until he stops me in the street and threatens to kill you,” Tony said. “He wasn’t laughing. And he wasn’t bluffing.”
Henry went cold. Suddenly he needed the toilet, badly. He’d always known Kate’s job was dangerous. But not that she might die. Not that London’s upper crust boogeyman might kill her.
“In the street?” Paul repeated. “When?”
“Around the same time he was tormenting you with the attack dog. The appropriately named Kaiser,” Tony said. “He just so happened to be walking the dog along our street in Mayfair, timed perfectly to cross my path. He said killing me wouldn’t be nearly as fun as killing Kate and watching my reaction.”
Paul set down his bottle hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because this is how you react,” Tony said. “It serves no purpose.”
“Fine. I don’t like death threats. Silly me,” Paul spluttered. “What did you do?”
“Told him I’d kill him first.”
“How?”
“How do you think?”
The discussion veered off into densely garbled adult-speak: references to old cases, retired MI5 agents, Arifs, and Brindles. It made no sense to Henry. Besides, if he didn’t get to the bog soon, he’d have an accident.
The lift seemed to take forever. He rushed to his room’s en suite, used the toilet, and rushed back to the lift to re-enable the floor chime. Then it hit him again, harder than it had downstairs.
Kate could die. Kate could die.
He was lying in bed under his new Avengers Infinity War sheets and staring at the ceiling when Kate rapped lightly on his door.
“It’s only me.”
“Come in.” He sat up and switched on the bedside lamp.
“Oh. Look at you, snug as a bug. What’s the occasion?”
“I got sleepy,” he lied. He couldn’t tell her he was too scared to do anything, even play on the Xbox. If he did, he’d have to say why. And if he pleaded guilty to eavesdropping, the grownups would take precautions, and he’d never, ever hear anything important again.
“Seem wide awake to me.” Kate sat on the edge of the bed. She was already in her sleep uniform—striped socks and an oversized T-shirt that fell to her knees. She smelled like lilac moisturizer. “Thinking deep thoughts?”
“No. I, um… had a bad dream. That you died,” Henry blurted.
“Yikes. Hope it was death by chocolate.” Kate smiled at him. “Just because I turned thirty-four doesn’t mean the Grim Reaper’s on my trail.”
“You didn’t die like that. Natural, I mean. Someone killed you.” Realizing himself on the brink of tears, Henry reached for his specs and put them on. Usually he could stuff down his emotions if he gave himself a few seconds’ breathing room. He wanted to sound neutral, like Tony. “You were after a murderer but he got to you first.”
“Oh. Well.” Kate nodded. “Lot of optimistic statistics on the web about stuff like that.”
“I know.” Henry had the sites bookmarked. “It’s more dangerous to be a bin man or a builder than a detective. But you deal with murderers. There’s no statistics on detectives who run about chatting up murderers all day.”
“All day? Is that what you think my job is? I wish,” Kate said. “If only I could sneak you into the Yard to see all the paperwork. The conference calls. The mandatory seminars.” She accentuated each duty with a little huff. “Interviewing the murderer is the icing on the cupcake. The rest is bureaucratic boondoggles with a double handful of wank.”
Henry giggled.
“Forget I said that. At least don’t go about repeating it.” Kate wagged a finger at him. “Every time you say something rude in public, I get labeled a bad—” She cut herself off. The unspoken word, “mum,” hung between them.
Henry didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole. All he could think about was Sir Duncan telling Tony—Tony!—that he’d murder Kate.
“If I tell you a secret,” Henry said, watching her face, “will you answer me one question? Honestly,” he added. Making a deal with a grownup was often like asking a genie for something. Failure to use the correct words could result in a wish that turned bad.
“Well. Sure.” Kate sounded a little nervous. Nevertheless, she leaned closer, brushed a lock of his hair into place, and said, “Fire away.”
“I know how Ritchie got the lighter.”
She blinked. “Is that so? Did he tell you?”
“No. I think he’s forgotten the whole thing. I know some people,” he huffed, “think it was mine, like I’m Mr. Fags-on-the-sly, and Ritchie took it out of my school bag or something. Which is profoundly stupid because I hate smoking.”
“‘Profoundly,’ eh? Where’d you get that one?”
“Comic book. Anyway, I knew it wasn’t mine. And I didn’t think it was my mum’s, either, because she knows Ritchie as well as we do. But I asked her anyhow.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said only a bleeding muppet would put a lighter in Ritchie’s path. And she showed me the one she bought when she got out. Flameless,” Henry said. “The only kind her halfway house allowed.”
“I should get one of those,” Kate said. “Not sure how they work, mind you.”
“It’s an electrical arc. Between two ceramic points. With a lithium battery,” Henry supplied impatiently. “I told you about it after the fire. You weren’t listening. Again. Anyway. I knew I was innocent. I eliminated Maura as a suspect. So I expanded my investigation.”
“Did you now?” Kate sounded pleased.
“Yeah. Tony quit smoking twenty years ago. Did you know that? He has an old lighter in his valet case, but it’s out of butane,” Henry said. “You don’t carry a lighter. Harvey does, but it’s always on him. And it’s cool—a square Zippo that clicks. The one Ritchie had was rubbish plastic. It melted away. Fire inspectors only found the flint wheel.”
Kate looked impressed, which made Henry’s next words tumble out excitedly.
“Mrs. Snell doesn’t carry a lighter. And none of Ritchie’s assistants bring lighters or sharp objects into their clients’ houses. So by process of elimination,” he said, savoring the phrase, “we arrive at Paul. Who once told me he always carries a lighter for birds and perps. I saw him take it out of his Armani coat. Rubbish plastic from Bugden. Last week, I asked him why he never wore that coat anymore, and he said he forgot it at Wellegrave House. That it burned up in the fire,” Henry said triumphantly. “Maybe the lighter fell out. Maybe Ritchie poked around in the coat’s pockets and pulled it out. It doesn’t matter. That’s where the lighter came from. Case closed.”
Kate slow-clapped him. Henry’s chest swelled. Then he remembered why he’d kept his investigatory findings under wraps.
“But now that you know, you can’t tell him. Paul will be gutted if he realizes it was his lighter. It was an accident. And it’s not like telling him will change what happened.”
“Well done, you. I quite agree.”
Henry basked in that for a few seconds. This was true happiness. He was snug in his warm flannel pjs under Avengers sheets, Kate was impressed, and life was perfect. Then it hit him. “You worked it out already, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Well. It’s my job, isn’t it? Not only to solve mysteries, but to protect Ritchie. I’m his guardian, just like I’m your guardian.”
&nb
sp; “Does Tony know?”
“I haven’t brought it up. Paul admires him so much, and Paul would die if he knew he was technically at fault. If he knew Tony knew—I guess he’d die twice. Paul needs a win,” Kate said firmly. “He’s been losing for too long.”
Henry thought about that. “But… Maura’s solicitor said the fire was a win for them. Since you and Tony can’t even say where the lighter came from. He said it’s proof you provide an unsafe home environment.”
“Whereas a flat with a semi-functional toilet in Norbiton is ideal.” The bed creaked as Kate shifted slightly. “I’m not worried about it. So. What did you want to ask me?”
Henry took a deep breath. “If you were in danger… in real danger… would you tell me?”
“No.”
“Just—no?”
Kate folded her arms against her chest. “If I were in real danger, I’d sort it, thank you very much. Or more likely, Tony and I would sort it. It would be done and dusted and forgot without the slightest interruption to your homework, or your hot dinner. Feel better?”
“No,” Henry shot back, astonished that even a grownup could be so thick. “Nobody’s invincible in real life. You can’t sort everything. I don’t like being afraid. I want to know when it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Don’t we all, kiddo. Don’t we all.”
Chapter Seven
“Wotcha,” said an attractive blonde woman to Paul Bhar as she passed. She was walking her dog along the Victoria Embankment, home of what he called the new New Scotland Yard. In the short time that London’s Metropolitan Police had been headquartered there, Paul had learned many things about the Embankment. Not the least of which was the time when the smartest, most enticing women passed through—half-seven, Monday through Friday.
“Pretty.” He grinned at her.
“Fresh.”
“I meant the Maltese,” he said, nodding at the little white dog with its bejeweled collar and pink leather lead.
“No, you didn’t.” She passed him, hips swinging, and peeked over her shoulder. Her long hair and trim figure reminded him of Emmeline Wardell.
The thought of Emmeline gave him a pang. He’d meant to bring up the topic last night at the Hetheridges’—how he’d finally made a decision between Kyla and Emmeline. He was determined to surf the wave of change sweeping through his life, rather than find himself underwater once again.
That wave had begun with Kate’s arrival on the Toff Squad. Even good change was still change, and while Kate had rapidly become Paul’s best mate, her presence had shaken up everything. Until her arrival, Paul had believed his professional redemption was just around the corner. Tony was a generous boss with nothing to prove, willing to share credit and let subordinates shine. And Kate had shone from the start. She’d solved two huge cases, made key contributions to two more, and after a rocky start, become a rising star.
Paul wasn’t envious—he refused to be envious—but he’d longed for more time in the spotlight. Then Tony was forced out, DCI Vic Jackson had taken the helm, and Paul’s chances at professional reinvention suddenly looked shakier. Jackson was less of an irritant now that he’d put the plug in the jug, but like Kate, he had plenty to prove. Hoping for DCI Jackson to share credit was probably a fantasy.
Paul’s personal life had been roiled, too. While working a case, he’d visited Tessa Chilcott in the secure mental facility to which she was confined, probably for life. He’d hoped it would be an opportunity to finally get her out of his head. Instead, it had reminded him of everything he’d lost.
Unlike his mum, Sharada, a successful romance novelist who wrote about predestined loves, Paul believed relationships formed out of chance, were dependent on chemistry, and faded with time; no magic or mystery required. At least on paper, he believed that. In truth, he’d gone through his teens and twenties without a serious girlfriend, just a series of one-offs and short-timers, only to meet Tessa at age thirty-three and fall arse over teakettle. With Tessa, it had been a say-anything, do-anything kind of love. Now that she was gone, he’d done his best to shake it, to ignore it, to deny it, to reframe his memories of their affair in the coldest possible light. Dating Emmeline Wardle had helped. She was the anti-Tessa: sure of herself, quick to anger, quick to forgive, never blue for long and ever up for a laugh.
Then there was Kyla. One had only to glimpse her to guess she was a model. She was tall with a cloud of dark hair, big eyes, pouting lips, high cheekbones, and a prominent collarbone sharp enough to slice bread. Pre-shoot, no makeup, hair pinned back, in trackies bottoms and a loose T-shirt, she looked forlorn, a rag doll in need of fresh stuffing. After the makeup artist and the hairdresser, sewn into a couture gown too snug to sit down in and balanced on stiletto heels, Kyla strode down the runway like a demigoddess. Paul loved watching her work. He was proud of demigoddess-Kyla in a way that he wasn’t quite proud of, if that made sense. Something about the intensity of his pride was off. He couldn’t say why.
At home, things were different. He always felt vaguely thwarted by Kyla, simultaneously drawn closer and pushed away. Since they’d become exclusive, she’d withdrawn, little by little. If Paul suggested they pop round to Chinatown for dim sum, she agreed, though according to the dictates of her profession, she didn’t eat enough to nourish a child. If he tried to spark a spirited discussion—giant West End productions like Hamilton vs. tiny fringe shows at the Hen & Chickens—Kyla shrugged and said she couldn’t decide. If he lingered over a kiss goodnight, she matched his ardor precisely. No more, no less. She never froze him out or made excuses, but she never made the first move. Ever.
Tessa had been the same. Maybe it wasn’t surprising, since Kyla was Tessa’s younger sister.
There was nothing wrong with that. There was no law against dating sisters. Moreover, it wasn’t as if Paul had known Kyla when she was a teen. Early in their acquaintance, he hadn’t even realized she was related to Tessa. He’d never brought up the connection to anyone, although Kate and Tony knew. He’d even put off introducing Kyla to his mum, Sharada, for fear she would guess the truth. Sharada had never liked Tessa, even before her final betrayal. She would see the shadow of Tessa in Kyla: the flutter of her lashes, the curve of her lips, the cascade of dark curls.
There’s nothing wrong with dating sisters, Paul told himself for the thousandth time as he veered for Pret A Manger. There was nothing new under the sun. Probably it had happened before. Boy meets girl. Boy plans to propose. Girl returns to her serial killer boyfriend, loses her mind, gets sectioned for life. Boy swears off serious relationships for a few years, meets girl’s sister, and again haunts jewelry shops for the perfect engagement ring.
Mum will come around when she sees I’m serious. She wants grandchildren. She hasn’t exactly been subtle about it.
The line at Pret was fifteen deep. Londoners ordered in precise bursts and passed over the money before they were asked; tourists read the menu aloud, asked each other what sounded good, and fussed with their pound notes and coins. Such was life on the Embankment. Outside Pret, Paul glimpsed the blonde dog walker again. Again, he was reminded of Emmeline. She’d taken the breakup a bit harder than expected, drunk-dialing him later the same night to comprehensively detail his flaws and bad habits. After vowing never to speak to him again, she’d rung back twice with additional slander. Paul had been touched. He’d never guessed he meant that much to her.
But if he was ready to settle down—and at thirty-six, shouldn’t a man be ready to settle down?—he had to be realistic. Marrying Emmeline wasn’t even in the realm of possibility. Her parents hated him. Her friends were just young enough to consider him boring and middle-aged, a term he couldn’t bear to hear applied to himself. Emmy herself was married to her new career as an estate agent, and making a go of it against all odds. It was the perfect job for a brash, flash blonde who was intimidated by nothing and no one. Would she want to put that on the back-burner to marry him, make nice with Sharada, and start a family? Not bloody like
ly.
“Flat white. Large one,” Paul told the barista, handing over two coins. He dropped his change in the tip jar and shuffled aside to wait.
Last night, he’d assumed he’d have impressive news for Tony and Kate: that he’d asked Kyla to move in, and she’d said yes. But instead, she’d smiled and said she was flattered.
“Only my career’s taking off,” she’d said. “I’ve wanted this since I was twelve. It’s finally breaking open, Paul. I’ll probably be in Paris come September. It wouldn’t be fair to you, saying yes to the next step in a relationship while I’m so busy.”
Paul didn’t know how to translate that to his best friends, given that they were cynical, suspicious types, just like him. Kate would hoot at the term “flattered.” Tony would frown at the phrase “it wouldn’t be fair to you,” which virtually every man from the Pliocene Epoch to the present had used while escaping a relationship. Kate and Tony would think Kyla was initiating the process of letting him down easy, and that was ludicrous. Better to skip the discussion until there was something concrete to report, like a ring on her finger.
Large flat white in hand at last, Paul skipped Pret’s bright red dining room in favor of the great outdoors. It was a pretty morning: blue skies with delicate mackerel clouds and a brisk wind off the Thames. The new HQ had been designed without internal gathering spots, to force Scotland Yard’s officers, detectives, supervisors, and support staff to get out in the community and mix with the public they served. Thus, it had no break rooms and no canteen.
The old guard, most of whom hadn’t been consulted, was predictably up in arms. To them, the old canteen had been a sacred place. Those two day-old sandwiches and vending machine coffees were copper comfort food. Paul, who’d despised the canteen, thought the new scheme was brill. Why would anyone yearn for a sullen, windowless dining room when they could do this: get out in the fresh air, sit down at a cast-iron table, watch the boats navigate the river, and soak up the sunshine?