He glanced over at the photographer as she came up beside him. Renata Russell was a lean woman in her late forties, her long mane of hair shot through with silver. She was wearing a man’s brown silk shirt with damp patches under the arms, and as she leaned over the laptop, he found that he recognized her smell. “I don’t know what to do. They’re dead on camera.”
As a stylist ran over to the models, hurrying to repair the damage caused by trickles of sweat, Karvonen pointed to the screen. “It isn’t them. We need a stronger sidelight. I told you this before.”
“And I told you before that it’s already too bright. We’re blowing out the detail.”
Karvonen enlarged the image on the laptop. The photo had been laid out to account for the magazine’s gutter, which was invisible, but had to be treated like another person, lurking unseen at the heart of the shot. “If it’s too bright, we can darken it later. But if it’s too dark—”
“You see, that’s the thing,” Renata said. “You want to fix everything in the computer. I’m trying to get it in the goddamned camera.”
Karvonen, opening up a contrast curve, said nothing. On any other day, he suspected, she would have been fine with his approach, but tonight was different. This wasn’t an assignment, but an audition piece, and everything from lights to craft services was being paid for out of her own pocket. He chose his words carefully. “Even if you’re right about the girls, the detail is killing us. We need to fuck it up a little. If we pump up the contrast here—”
He finished adjusting the curve. At once, the shadows were deepened and the highlights increased. “Look. If we put in a sidelight, we lose detail, but think about what we gain. All we see are those burning eyes.”
Renata looked at the screen. At last she nodded. “All right. But I won’t do this unless we can do it for real. Get an umbrella from the van. I’ll change formats. Somebody want to give me a hand?”
As an intern ran up to Renata, Karvonen headed for the door to the street. At thirty, he moved with an athlete’s grace, although he had nothing but contempt for most sports. For a photographer’s assistant, he was muscular and tall, with long, nearly white blond hair that made a sort of halo around him in pictures whenever he was caught against any kind of light.
Outside, the van was parked at the curb. The studio, which was rented for the night, lay on a quiet side street in Holland Park, not far from Renata’s home on Pottery Lane. Karvonen unlocked the van’s rear doors and fished through the jumble of equipment, finally unearthing a silver photographer’s umbrella. Closing the door, he was about to head inside again when, glancing down, he saw the symbol that had been chalked on the pavement.
It was a red crosshairs, drawn, as if by a child, on the rough stone of the curbside.
Karvonen studied it for a moment. Stepping onto the curb, he erased the chalk circle with the heel of his boot, then slung the umbrella over one shoulder and went back into the studio.
The rest of the shoot took less than twenty minutes. When they were done, Renata handed the camera to an intern and applauded herself. The crew, relieved, clapped politely, then began packing up the equipment.
As Karvonen put away his laptop, he became aware of two female presences hovering at his side. Turning, he found himself facing the models, their makeup gone, changed into matching hoodies and jeans. The taller one nudged the other, who gave him a smile. “Hi, there.”
“Hi,” Karvonen said, winding a length of cable around his arm. “What do you want?”
“So we’re staying at a model apartment with a girl from our agency,” the smaller one said shyly. “It’s not too far from here. We’re heading out for a drink soon, if you wanted to join us—”
Karvonen set the cable aside. “I have plans. And I don’t know if you should be going out anyway. Renata was right. You’re dead on camera. Ask yourself if this is something you want to celebrate.”
Before they could respond, he picked up his laptop case and turned away. As soon as they had wandered off again, hurt, he looked at his watch. Half past seven. He was about to head for the door when a woman’s voice came from behind him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want to fuck either of them.”
“You know better,” Karvonen said without turning. “I don’t sleep with little girls.”
“These days, it seems, you hardly sleep with anyone.” Renata sauntered into his line of sight. She had changed into a cashmere overcoat with a long, witchy scarf, a Birkin bag over one arm. “Am I going to see you later?”
As the lights of the studio went down, Karvonen headed for the doors. “I’m busy.”
“I see.” Renata drew the coat around her as they went outside. “Well, if your plans change, maybe we can do another session tonight.”
They reached the van, which was yellow, but seemed white under the sodium lamps. Karvonen handed her the laptop, then watched as she climbed inside. “I’ll do what I can. Should I bring the girls?”
Renata only shut the door in his face. Karvonen, grinning, put on his gloves and went over to his motorcycle, which was parked at the curb. Climbing onto the bike, he pulled on his helmet and roared off without looking back. He would need to push it to get to the meeting on time.
A quarter of an hour later, he was at a pub in Highgate, not far from the cemetery. The interior was a warm cave in dark wood and leather, fringed lamps hanging from the ceiling, the lintels picked out in damask. Karvonen went up to the curved green bar and took a spot at the end, next to an elderly man in a suit who seemed absorbed by his mobile phone. The bartender came up to him and smiled, her braids pinned up on the top of her head. “What can I get you?”
“Lapin Kulta, please.” Karvonen waited as she brought the beer, then gave her a five-pound note, telling her to keep the change. Turning away, he raised the bottle to his lips and took a long draught.
At his side, the man in the suit spoke quietly without looking up from his phone. He was missing part of the first two fingers on his right hand. “What name did Achilles use when he hid among the women?”
“Pyrrha,” Karvonen said without turning. “Because of his red hair.” He took another swig of beer. “What is it, then?”
“Three men in London,” the man said. “One delivery. And a bit of retouching.”
In the corner, where the window seat was heaped with games, two men were playing chess, their eyes lowered in concentration. Watching them, Karvonen replied softly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The other man said nothing. A second later, he gathered up his things and left the bar, having never looked up from his phone.
Once the man was gone, Karvonen finished his beer, then headed for the men’s room, which lay at the rear of the pub. Going inside, he found himself alone in a cramped, dank room lined with black and white tile. An industrial sink ran along the far wall. On the door of the toilet stall, nearly lost among a scrawl of other graffiti, was chalked a red crosshairs.
Karvonen went into the stall, closing the door behind him. Leaning down, he reached behind the toilet tank, where his fingers brushed a taped bundle. He pulled it loose, then brought it into sight.
Inside the plastic bag, there were three items. The first was a roll of film, which he slid into his jacket pocket. The second was an encrypted phone and charger. He switched the phone on, then pocketed this as well.
The last item was a pistol. Removing it, Karvonen ejected the clip and examined the cartridges. Then, sticking the magazine into his back pocket, he pulled back the slide and checked the chamber, which was empty. He pressed the release, sending the slide forward again. Raising the gun, he looked down the sights at the graffiti on the inside of the door, then pulled the trigger. Click.
Satisfied, he slid the magazine back into the grip and tucked the gun into his belt, under his jacket. He flushed the toilet, then opened the door and emerged from the stall. Aft
er washing his hands, he left the bathroom.
A minute later, he was back on the street. As he went over to his bike, he checked his watch and smiled. He had a number of things to do in the meantime, but if he hurried, he could be in bed with Renata by ten.
2
Even before the constable said a word, Rachel Wolfe knew what was coming. The officer at the door seemed like little more than a boy in a woolly pully, his face red and cheerful beneath its foolish helmet, as he studied her warrant card and returned it with a grin. “An American, then, are we?”
Wolfe smiled as gamely as she could. Somehow, no matter what she did in this city, they always sensed that she was a stranger. “Yes, I’m from New York. But I think I’m in London now. Are you going to let me in?”
“Afraid I have orders to limit the number of individuals on the scene,” the officer said apologetically. He gestured to the other side of the barrier tape, which was strung at the level of his waist. “Perhaps you can wait outside?”
Wolfe only pursed her lips and took a step back, as if to get a sense of her surroundings. She was in Stoke Newington, standing before one of the many garages and hand car washes that lined these dingy streets. A pair of panda cars was parked across the way, along with the green van of the scenes-of-crime unit.
Off to one side, next to the door where she was standing, lay the garage itself, its windows covered in steel mesh. Through the dirty glass, Wolfe could make out two men in white suits moving like ghouls around the interior, one with a camera, the other with a clipboard.
Turning back to the officer, she handed him a business card. “Listen, can you do me a favor? Give this to the crime scene manager, the one in the garage, and tell him I’m here to see Alan Powell. It’s an urgent personal matter.”
Wolfe sealed the deal with a bright missionary smile, the kind that had opened doors for her before. The officer looked uncertainly at the card, which bore the unfamiliar insignia of the FBI. “Well, all right. Hold on.”
He disappeared down the corridor, his shoes clicking rapidly against the linoleum. As soon as he was out of sight, Wolfe glanced over her shoulder to make sure that no one else was watching, then simply stepped over the blue-and-white barrier tape and entered the building.
Inside, she found herself in a foyer that smelled strongly of smoke. The front door had been knocked off its hinges, the bolt still intact in the frame, and was leaning against the wall to her right. As she moved forward, keeping to the approach path, splinters of wood crunched beneath her feet.
Going upstairs, she followed the sound of voices into what turned out to be the bathroom. In the far corner, near the tub, a plainclothes detective, probably an inspector, was examining something on the floor, his ample body blocking her line of sight. Kneeling beside him was a dark, lanky figure in a surgical mask, evidently the Home Office pathologist. From here, she couldn’t see what they were studying, but it seemed to be the source of the smoke.
Standing a few steps away, his back to her, was Alan Powell. When she entered the room, he glanced around to see who it was, then gave her a nod. “Morning, Wolfe. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Very interesting,” Wolfe said. Looking him over, she saw that he was even more disheveled than usual. With his thick glasses and high forehead, he did not cut an imposing figure, but a year ago, when he had requested her as a liaison, there were good reasons why she had said yes. And although he seemed abstracted now, when she looked at him more closely, she saw a familiar gleam in his eyes.
In any case, she knew better than to bother him here. Instead of crowding around whatever was beside the tub, she began going over the rest of the bathroom, knowing that there was no need to hurry.
The room was small and stuffy, the ceiling and walls covered in soot. Above the sink, a mirror gave back a tarnished version of her own face. It looked washed-out and faded, which was not entirely the mirror’s fault. Over the past year, she had adopted a more severe style, tying back her blond hair and using only a civilized minimum of makeup, as far as possible from the perfect Molly Mormon. As she studied her face now, though, it seemed to her that she had succeeded all too well.
She put on a pair of gloves to check the wastebasket under the sink, which contained a few rags coated with grease. A bar of abrasive hand soap lay next to the faucet. Inside the rim of the basin, there were several brown stains. Examining them, she found that they were relatively fresh.
Behind her, the inspector’s cell phone rang. Answering it, he moved into the hallway, clearing a space. Wolfe straightened up at once and, trying to seem casual, went over to the spot he had vacated, where she got her first good look at what had been left here for them to find.
Kneeling on the bathroom floor, propped against the tub, was a man’s body. He had been shot in the head, then set on fire. His flesh was blackened into a shiny shell, the skin of his chest, arms, and legs split by the heat. The body’s pose was particularly striking: the arms raised and elbows bent, the burned fists at the level of the face, as if in rage or supplication.
The pathologist, who was still crouching on the floor, seemed to notice her for the first time. He prodded the body’s flexed joints with a gloved finger. “Pugilistic attitude. Heat tightens the muscles and gives you this pose. Looks like he’s praying, right?” He turned to Powell, who was standing nearby. “As I was saying, he was dead before he was lit up. Burned to destroy trace evidence. And before rigor set in, which means within two hours of death.”
Powell made room for Wolfe to approach. “Any ideas about the accelerant?”
“Something that burned clean and hot,” the pathologist said. “When the fire truck arrived, it was already out. Could be a number of things—”
Wolfe spoke up. “It was potassium permanganate. I saw traces of it in the sink.”
The pathologist, who had turned back to the body, pivoted around to face her. “What was that?”
Wolfe heard a trace of amusement in his voice but saw that it was too late to retreat. “Potassium permanganate. It burns when mixed with glycerol. I recognize the stains from my Boy Scout survival kit.”
Powell smiled faintly at this, but the pathologist seemed to be taking the idea seriously. Before anyone could reply, footsteps sounded from outside, and the scene manager appeared at the door, followed by the officer Wolfe had encountered on the way in. The officer pointed to Wolfe. “That’s her.”
“Sorry, everyone,” the scene manager said. “She didn’t have authorization. Does she have permission to remain?”
The pathologist glanced at Wolfe, then turned back to the body. “She’s your protégée, Alan. I’ll leave it to you.”
“I wouldn’t call her anyone’s protégée,” Powell said, not unkindly. “She can stay.”
As the others resumed their inspection of the dead man, the scene manager took down Wolfe’s name, saying, “Watch where you step, or we’ll take your shoes. Maybe best not to go anywhere at all—”
“Actually, I’m almost done here,” the pathologist said, rising from beside the body. “I can show her around.” He gave a nod to Wolfe, who followed him into the hallway, sensing that she was being excluded from the scene.
When the pathologist pulled down his mask, however, she saw that he was surprisingly young and rather handsome, a West Indian who was the only person of color at the garage, aside from the victim. He flashed her a charming smile. “The name’s Lewis. Shall I show you around downstairs, then?”
Wolfe, who was in no mood to be charmed, made a strategic choice not to smile back. “Personally, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see the guns.”
Lewis seemed surprised by her abruptness. For a moment, his smile faded, only to be replaced by another, which, like its predecessor, was seductive and apparently genuine. “Of course. Follow me.”
They went down the hallway to the bedroom, a cluttered sp
ace with windows facing the street on both sides. The pathologist led her to the bed in the corner. “So what is it that brings you to London?”
“I’m a liaison officer,” Wolfe replied, ticking off the usual points. “Technically I’m a legal attaché with the Bureau’s embassy office, but they’ve given me a desk in Vauxhall. I’m here to assist with investigations pertaining to international organized crime. Powell brought me in.”
“I’ve heard that the two of you go back some time. What’s he like to work with?”
“Oh, he’s clearly brilliant,” Wolfe said, stepping around a scene investigator who was dusting for prints. “But he’s also the kind of man who can’t close a case without opening two others.”
On the unmade bed, an array of guns had been laid out on a plastic sheet. Each had its own label and exhibit number on a white card, placed there for photographic reference. Reaching out with a gloved hand, Wolfe examined the guns, turning them over to get a better look. Two Uzis, a Skorpion submachine gun, three pistols. She looked away. “This is all you found?”
“Yes, so far,” Lewis said, following her as she went to the window. “So what’s your interest in this man?”
“We were watching him. Unfortunately, we missed the part when he ended up dead.” Wolfe looked at the restaurant across the street, its sign lettered in Turkish. She wondered if the officers stationed upstairs could see her.
At her side, Lewis looked out at the silent neighborhood. “A gunrunner, I hear?”
“An armorer,” Wolfe said. “Aldane Campbell. A machinist who lived in Dalston, although he also kept a flat above this garage. We believe that he was a leading armorer for the Yardies.”
“So what are we talking about? Conversion of starter pistols into guns, or what?”
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