Copyright © 2021 by Peter Jay Black
The right of Peter Jay Black to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form on, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, brands, titles, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (apart from Maggie), or actual events is purely coincidental. This novel also depicts an imperfect, fictional, and incomplete view of mental health issues and/or disorders. It in no way represents any aspect of real life.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
OAKBRIDGE
030921
ISBN 9781838053543 (eBook)
ISBN 9781838053536 (case hardcover)
ISBN 9781838053529 (paperback)
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021913928
Black, Peter Jay
Death in London / Peter Jay Black
New York . London
*Note to the reader*
This work is a mid-Atlantic edit.
A considered style choice of both British and American spelling, grammar, and terms usage.
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Other Books
1
Four Days Ago
How long have I been driving? An hour? More?
Sophie gripped the steering wheel, arms locked, back pressed against the seat, and as she pushed the accelerator hard to the floor, her right calf trembled under the strain.
She had to see him. Every second spent getting there was another second wasted.
The engine roared, and wipers thud-thud-thudded against the blizzard with little effect. Though the snowstorm reduced visibility to mere feet, Sophie could not slow down or bear the thought of missing him.
She pinched sweat from her upper lip. It would be just her luck if she was too late.
Out of the darkness, a corner appeared. Sophie yanked the wheel and the Lamborghini Countach fishtailed. The car veered left, right, left again, and almost clipped a Welcome to Biggin Hill road sign, but somehow she kept all four wheels on the tarmac.
The way ahead straightened.
Faster.
Gears crunched under her out-of-practice touch, and the fabric of Sophie’s ball gown swished as she wrestled the stick into fourth and then back up to fifth. Another corner, another moment of almost losing control, and then came a flash of lightning.
Sophie shielded her eyes. “Thundersnow?” she yelled. “Are you kidding me?”
Still, she did not ease off the accelerator.
However, after what seemed like an eternity of never-ending, twisting, treacherous roads, Sophie spotted the farmhouse perched on the brow of the hill, its roof laden with two feet of snow.
Her heart skipped a beat as she turned onto its narrow driveway, then she slammed on the brake. The car slid for thirty feet before coming to a stop in front of a gate in the middle of an eight-foot brick wall.
Sophie lowered her window.
A security guard in his late thirties, wearing a baseball cap, stepped from a hut and greeted her. He had a salt-and-pepper beard, and his dark-blue uniform strained over his paunch. “Y—You got here in one piece, then?” he asked, in a surprised tone.
Sophie glared at him. Is he serious? Jacob knew full well she’d made the trip plenty of times before, and that a dusting of snow wouldn’t put her off.
Mind you, this will be the first and last time I’ll choose a manual car.
Despite the guard’s skepticism, Sophie forced a smile. “How long have I got with him?”
Jacob consulted the clock on the wall of the security hut, which read 3:56 a.m. “I’d say twenty minutes, give or take.”
Sophie groaned. Still, that was better than nothing.
“P-Power’s out down there.” Jacob handed her a torch.
Sophie frowned. “How come?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. The, erm, fuse box thing keeps tripping.” Jacob glanced at the gate, lifted his cap, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “W-Want me to come with you? I can do that. You know, if you’d like.”
“No,” Sophie said a little too quickly. “I mean, no, thank you.” She forced another smile. “I’ll be fine.” Hurry up.
Jacob nodded. “Do you remember the new code?”
Sophie countered with a sheepish expression. “Tell me again.”
“Four-two-eight-seven.” Jacob hesitated and stared at her for an uncomfortable second or two. Then he shook himself. “B-Be safe.” He tipped his baseball cap and hurried back to the security hut.
Jacob pressed a button under the desk, and the gate slid aside. As soon as the gap spanned the width of the car, Sophie raced across an expanse of snow broken by patches of cracked concrete and ice.
She pulled as close as she dared to the side of a warehouse, opened the car door, and swung her legs out. Sophie took a breath, gripped the doorframe with one hand and the headrest with the other, then levered her eight-months-pregnant body out of the bucket seat.
Once upright, she placed a clenched fist in the small of her back and grimaced. Then Sophie reached down for her handbag, shoved the car keys into the front pocket, and zipped it up. With Jacob’s torch in her other hand, Sophie slammed the Lamborghini’s door shut, and then picked her way across the snow and ice in her heels, doing her utmost not to slip.
At the warehouse door, she typed the security code into a mechanical keypad. The lock gave a soft click, and she entered.
For a moment, Sophie stood in the dark and inhaled the scents of old leather, metal, stained wood, beeswax, and linen. Then she switched on the torch and strode between shelves crammed full of antiques and priceless artifacts. Some w
ere on show, tagged and numbered. Others were covered in dust sheets, with the rest sealed in boxes and crates, ready to be shipped to their secret destinations.
Shadows danced as Sophie hurried past statues from Ancient Egypt, Rome, and Greece. She passed rows of ornamental Chinese vases painted in intricate blue and red flowers. Funerary masks from the Americas, ceramics, figurines, and countless other precious artifacts graced the shelves, most long since thought lost.
At the end, Sophie stepped into a loading bay. Ahead stood a six-foot-tall wooden crate strapped to a pallet. On a workbench next to a roller door lay a cordless screwdriver and a handful of screws. The front of the crate was propped against the nearest wall.
Sophie rushed forward. “He opened it for me. Bless him.” Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She took a few deep breaths before she steeled herself and faced the open side of the crate.
Sophie’s fingers trembled as she raised the torch and shined the light into the dark interior. She gasped, “He’s beautiful,” and tears filled her eyes.
For most of her life, Sophie had dreamed of seeing something so awe-inspiring. She swallowed. Sure, she’d seen plenty at a distance, several times. But to be this close? Sophie was mere feet away from a vital part of her history: a moment she had imagined since long before she’d moved to the United Kingdom.
Time slowed as Sophie committed every minute detail to memory, afraid that she might someday forget that moment. She stretched out a hand, wanting to touch him, to place her fingers where—
Sophie pulled back and frowned. “What the f—”
2
Present Day
Claire Campbell, a crime journalist for the Thames Press, strode past the British Museum. Her assistant, Melody, trotted alongside.
Claire wore a wool coat and one of several tailored suits she owned—Savile Row’s finest—plus a pair of Gucci heeled shoes polished to within an inch of their lives.
Whereas Melody wore a parka, mismatched jacket and trousers, and flats. She’d tied her blonde hair into a bun at the back of her head, that stretched her already sharp features to a dangerous point. “What makes you so sure Emma will tell us anything useful?” Melody asked as they crossed the road and weaved between cars. “You still think this Nightshade person did it with her help? They’re killers?”
“If they aren’t, we’re in trouble.” Claire glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “And if we don’t uncover what really happened, the chief will demand my resignation.” She hadn’t broken a juicy story in months, and now was her chance to put that right.
“I don’t know,” Melody looked dubious. “This sounds like a waste of time. Both families refuse to talk. And the police don’t have an ounce of evidence against Nightshade.”
Claire’s jaw tightened. “What did you expect? Emma’s spent her entire life with mobsters for parents.”
Melody studied her boss. “For all we know, Nightshade is a figment of our anonymous informant’s imagination.” Claire opened her mouth to respond, but Melody continued, “All I’m saying is that even if Emma does explain what happened, how can we be sure anything she says is true?”
“Something’s changed.” Claire took a breath and fought down her anger. “Emma called and said she’d explain.”
“Why now, though?” Melody asked. “She’s never talked before.”
“Perhaps Nightshade has gone a step too far and Emma wants to clear her conscience,” Claire said. “I want to know everything about Emma’s friend: how she’s involved and where she is now. We don’t leave until we get every tiny detail. Got it?”
Melody still didn’t seem convinced. “Why didn’t Emma contact Crime Stoppers, then? Could’ve remained completely anonymous. She’s taking a huge gamble speaking to us. From what we’ve heard, the Police are close to taking her in, despite what the lawyer claims.”
Claire shook her head. “They won’t risk losing Nightshade. We’ll hear Emma’s side of the story before we pass on what we know.”
They turned the corner into Bedford Square. Ahead loomed a row of Grade I listed Georgian terraced houses—dark bricks and white trim. Sash windows stretched over five floors. In front of one, men loaded furniture, crates and boxes into a removal van.
Melody raised her eyebrows. “Is she going somewhere?”
They hurried up the steps and into the hallway. To the right stood a flight of stairs, beside which an open door led to an office crammed full of CCTV monitors.
“Paranoid much?” Melody peered into the empty lounge opposite, which had a parquet floor and a marble fireplace big enough to stand inside. “I could fit my entire flat into this room. Twice.”
“Can I help you?” A beefy Asian guy stepped out of the security office. He was ninety percent muscles, ten percent scowl.
Claire flashed her UK Press Card. “Emma’s expecting us.” She only hoped the girl wasn’t playing some kind of weird prank.
The security guy eyed the journalists for a few uncomfortable seconds, then motioned for them to raise their arms. He patted them down, then gestured to the stairs. “Last door on the right.” He consulted his watch. “You’ve got ninety minutes.”
Claire headed on up, with Melody close behind her.
At the door, Claire whispered, “I’ll do the talking and record what Emma’s got to say; you take notes. Study her, and we’ll compare observations. She will give up Nightshade, whether she wants to or not.”
Keep people talking long enough, and they all make a mistake eventually.
Claire raised a hand to knock but turned her ear to the door instead. A young woman argued on the other side, her words muffled. Claire rapped a knuckle. The quarrel ceased, and a small dog yapped.
Melody grinned. “I love dogs, and dogs love me.”
Claire wouldn’t have been surprised if Melody thought tarantulas were cute. The eternally upbeat assistant probably kept a few at home.
“I know everything about our canine companions,” Melody persisted. “Ask me a question.” She gave her an expectant look. “Go on. Anything you like.”
Claire sighed. “How many teeth do they have?”
“Thirty-two.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed, and she was about to pull out her phone to check when the door opened.
A woman in her mid-twenties greeted them. She wore a hoodie with the hood up, and dark strands of hair poked out of the sides. Shadow and sunglasses obscured the rest of her face. Emma cradled a blonde dog in her arms—some kind of Maltese crossed with a Yorkie—that recommenced its yapping as soon as it spotted the journalists.
“Are we interrupting?” Claire scowled at the dog, then peered into the room. “We heard a raised voice. Everything okay?” She eyed the outline of a phone in Emma’s right jeans pocket and guessed that someone had called to dissuade her from speaking to them.
Emma massaged one of the dog’s ears. “Sorry about that,” she said in a soft voice. “I talk to myself.”
“Proof of a high IQ.” Melody beamed at her. “All clever people do it.” She gave Claire a sidelong glance. “Do you talk to yourself?”
“No.”
“Figures.”
The dog yapped again.
“Shhh, Maggie,” Emma said. “That’s enough.”
Claire jerked her head in the direction of the stairs. “You have some impressive security.”
Emma’s brow furrowed. “Mum and Dad’s doing.”
“Beautiful Maggie.” Melody reached out to stroke the dog, but it started yapping again. She pulled back with a shocked expression.
Emma smiled. “My little burglar alarm.”
“Not that you need it,” Claire muttered.
Once Maggie had shut up and lost interest in the visitors, Emma set her down and she padded off to her bed, claws clacking on the bare floorboards.
The room took up most of the first floor but stood empty, save for a few boxes by the wall and an easel in front of a sash window. On the easel sat a framed canvas, covered
in a dust sheet. A small section of the artwork remained visible, the edge of Westminster Bridge with its stonework tinted red.
“Do you mind if I draw the curtains?” Emma asked.
“Feel free.” Claire glanced around the sparse interior.
Emma pulled them two-thirds of the way across each window, and then let out a relieved breath. She turned back to her guests and lowered her hood, revealing long, black hair. Then, as though steeling herself, shoulders hitched, Emma removed her sunglasses.
Despite the reduced light, and the fact she squinted, Emma’s piercing blue eyes were still visible, and her most striking feature.
She took a few more breaths and relaxed. “Sorry.”
“Your eyes look bloodshot,” Melody said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I haven’t slept much since Sunday.”
“Understandable,” Melody said. “Considering what happened.”
Emma unfolded three metal chairs, placed two side by side—lining them up exactly parallel with the floorboards—and the third faced them, six feet away. “Hold on.” She rushed to a box next to the door and pulled out three cushions. Emma set them on each chair, then backed away. “Okay.” She walked to the kitchenette and filled the kettle.
Death in London: A Nightshade Crime Thriller (Emma & Nightshade Mystery Series Book 1) Page 1