In the Lion's Den

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘Irina,’ he exclaimed. ‘What a surprise. How nice to see you. Do come in.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to intrude like this,’ she said, stepping into the room as he opened the door wider and ushered her inside.

  She went on, ‘I did go to the Malvern office, only to discover I had just missed you. I spoke to Natalya, and she gave me your address. She suggested I come here, to give you this.’

  Opening her handbag, she took out a small package wrapped in silver-coloured paper and tied with silver ribbon. ‘It’s a gift for you.’

  Surprise flashed across his face. He smiled to himself as he looked at the gift, at the same time telling her to sit down in a chair. He took the other one. He opened the package and found himself holding in his hands the most extraordinary icon. It was the face of the Madonna, beautifully painted, and set in an ornate, gold-painted frame. It looked valuable to him.

  ‘Irina, this is just wonderful,’ James said, admiration clear in his voice. ‘Thank you so much. It is very kind of you to give me something so unique. I will treasure it.’

  Her face was ringed in smiles. ‘It’s my pleasure. I’m happy you like it. I found it in one of those old-fashioned antique shops in Mayfair. Most of them have unusual treasures, mostly from Europe. I understand this icon’s provenance is Russian.’

  ‘Then it is even more meaningful,’ he said, his voice full of warmth. He had been drawn to this young woman from the first moment they had met. She was younger than her sister and quite a different type altogether, a little softer, rather enigmatic, yet at the same time outspoken when she wanted to be.

  For reasons he didn’t quite understand, she reminded him of his ex-lover, Georgiana Ward. They did not look very much alike, and there was a big difference in their ages, but they exuded femininity and a quiet sexuality that was most appealing.

  He knew at this precise moment that he wanted her. He was hoping her visit meant she felt the same way. Yet he was also aware he must be cautious, go slowly with her.

  Irina said, ‘By the way, I must explain something to you. Our aunt would like to bring Aubrey Williamson to the supper on Thursday. He is alone in London and available. She feels she needs an escort, you see. Mr Lorne is still away. Is that all right, James?’

  ‘I would be happy to invite him to the supper, and I understand quite well how your aunt feels. No woman wants to be alone at a dinner. Anyway, it balances the table better. Now we will be six.’

  ‘How shall we handle it?’ Irina asked.

  ‘Your aunt can tell him, say he is very welcome, and I will send him a written invitation by hand tomorrow, if you give me his address. That is the proper thing to do.’

  Irina answered, ‘I will write it down for you, and then I must leave. I have imposed on you long enough.’

  ‘Oh no, please don’t go just yet. I so enjoy your company. Or perhaps you have another engagement.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t actually,’ she answered swiftly, wanting to be here with him, although she did not dare say that. She had fallen heavily for James Falconer, wished they could be together.

  ‘It’s settled then, you’ll stay for … I’ll make some tea.’ He jumped up. ‘Excuse me a moment. We only have a woman who comes in to clean – we fend for ourselves with food. My uncle is often out.’

  ‘My mother says a kitchen is a woman’s place and men are not allowed.’ She began to laugh, and he laughed with her.

  James walked towards the kitchen, and she followed him in, glancing around. ‘What a nice size it is,’ Irina exclaimed, and headed towards the large window. She continued, ‘It’s so light. I loathe dark rooms.’

  James filled the kettle, picked up a box of Swan Vestas, struck a match, and put it to the gas ring.

  Turning around, he walked over to the window. ‘It’s funny, I feel the same way. I too hate dark rooms. I prefer all the lamps blazing.’

  ‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ Irina wondered aloud, a brow lifting.

  ‘No. Still, I feel much better when everything is bright and cheerful.’

  ‘So do I.’ She looked up at him, and with her head on one side, she asked, ‘Can I come and cook supper for you one evening?’ She had surprised herself, but was glad she had found the nerve to ask.

  When he didn’t immediately respond, she said, ‘Oh dear, that was far too forward of me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all, I’d be thrilled, absolutely thrilled, Irina.’

  ‘I’m a good cook, and I make some interesting Russian dishes. They are tasty. I adore Russia and the food there, and cooking is my hobby.’

  He moved a bit closer to her. ‘I’m sure you’re a wonderful cook, but the most important part is that you want to come here to be with me, and spend an evening together.’

  ‘Do you like that idea, James?’ She looked up at him from under her lashes.

  ‘I do indeed. In fact, I was going to ask you to have supper with me tomorrow, just the two of us.’ He took hold of her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. ‘You see, I’ve longed to be alone with you, to get to know you better. I’m very attracted to you, Irina.’

  ‘Oh, James,’ she whispered, turning pink and moving even closer to him. Looking up into his face, she whispered in a low voice, ‘That makes me so happy, because I am very drawn to you … very much so.’

  Looking down into her large, dark eyes, he saw the desire in them. It was a yearning for him. Before he could stop himself he bent down and kissed her. She moved into him instantly, her body pressed to his. He pulled her buttocks hard against his crotch. She gasped as she drew her mouth away from his. ‘I’m overwhelmed by you, James. And you are feeling the same. Your body tells me that.’

  When he was silent, she said, ‘Well, you are, aren’t you?’

  ‘I want you. I’ve wanted you from the moment we met, and …’

  He took her hand and led her back to the living room. ‘Sit down here next to me on the sofa. I need to speak to you, Irina.’

  Baffled as she was, she did as he asked. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Everything is right. Oh so very right. However, I must ask you something before we—’

  ‘Obviously it’s something very important,’ she cut across him.

  ‘Yes, it is. I know you are young, only twenty-two, and I was wondering if you had ever …’ He threw up his hands. ‘I’m a man, so it goes without saying that I’ve had some experience. And I was—’

  ‘Wondering if I was a virgin,’ she interrupted. ‘That’s what you were going to ask, isn’t it?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘I have known a man. Only one man, and that was a few years ago.’

  He stared at her, discovered he was unexpectedly teeming with jealousy. He wanted to know who the man had been and where he was now. Pushing his jealousy aside, clearing his throat, he asked, ‘Would you tell me about him? Or is that too difficult for you? Is it rude of me?’

  ‘No, not rude at all. It’s natural you’d want to know. I don’t mind talking about him. He was very kind to me, very loving. Ask me anything you want, James.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘I was seventeen, and he was twenty-nine. He was Russian, a friend of my Russian relatives. He’d known me for years.’

  ‘And this happened when you were in Russia? I know you and Natalya went there a lot with your Aunt Olga.’

  ‘Yes. Vladimir and I came together at his dacha. He had come to check on the estate, and he came to see Aunt Olga. When he left, I asked if I could walk with him back to his dacha. He agreed, and when we arrived, he told me we had to say goodbye because he loved me. He said I was too young and also he was married. But Aunt Olga had told me he was in the middle of a divorce. His wife had left him for a woman so I picked a rose in the garden and I gave it to him. I told him I had loved him since I was a little girl. And so we went into the house, and talked, and I just stopped him at one moment because he was afraid. I said goodbye and left the dacha.’


  ‘I suppose he ran after you, didn’t he?’ James observed. ‘And he made you his.’

  ‘That is true. And we were together in his bed. We were … very close for one year, lovers, and then he fell ill. It was tuberculosis. Very infectious. Fortunately, I had never lived at the dacha. I couldn’t. Our relationship was a secret. Aunt Olga never knew. I couldn’t – there would have been a scandal. Anyway, he went into hospital. No one could go and see him. I never got to say goodbye. Vladimir died.’

  Her voice cracked a little and then she sighed. ‘He was like you, in a sense. He worried about taking my virginity.’

  James was silent. At last he said in a low, gentle voice, ‘I am glad he was a considerate man, and thank you for telling me. I’m sorry for your grief. It must have been a hard time.’

  ‘Thank you. But I was eighteen when he passed away, and now I’m almost twenty-three. Have you had many lovers in your life?’

  ‘No, only one. Her name was Georgiana. She was older than me, a young widow. She was lovely in every way. She had dark hair and violet eyes, and like your Vladimir, she was kind and loving. She made me happy.’

  ‘Is she dead?’ Irina asked.

  ‘No. She left where she was living and moved to London, but has left here now because of her health and the pollution from the coal fires. She went to live in the country to look after her sister, who was ill.’

  ‘And you never see her any more?’ Irina probed softly.

  ‘No. And I’ve never heard from her.’ He took hold of Irina’s hand. ‘You remind me of her, in certain ways, in your personality. She made me feel comfortable and so do you. You arouse me as she did.’

  He put his arm around her and pulled her closer. They began to kiss each other, their excitement growing. It was Irina who pulled away first. Looking deeply into his blue eyes, she whispered, ‘Let us stop now. We understand how we feel, that we want to make love. But it can’t be hurried, because the first time must be perfect. And I must have protection.’

  His disappointment showed on his face, and she was well aware how hard he was. She said in a whisper, ‘It will be tomorrow, James. Tomorrow I will be yours.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Detective Inspector Roger Crawford sat at his desk in his office at Scotland Yard, checking off the appointments he had kept that day. It had been unusually busy. But when wasn’t it? Criminals never slept.

  Only one left, he thought, staring down at his engagement book. It was Monday 7 July, and the appointment was for eight o’clock. Sergeant Mick Owen would be on time. To the exact minute. Punctuality was his middle name.

  A half-smile flickered on the inspector’s face for a split second and was gone. He had no idea why Owen wanted to speak to him so urgently, but he had agreed to see him tonight … because he was able to do so. Anyway, he had great respect for Owen, who was a superlative policeman: dedicated, diligent, and clever at his job. If he could help him in any way, he would.

  Crawford glanced at the alarm clock he kept on his desk. It was one minute to eight. As the hand moved, there was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he called out, and Mick Owen did so.

  Roger Crawford stood up, walked around his desk, and shook hands with Owen, greeted him warmly. The sergeant responded in kind. They went back at least fifteen years.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ Crawford asked, stepping back around his desk, adding, ‘Take the weight off your feet, Sergeant.’ He motioned to the chair facing his.

  Once they were both settled in their chairs, Mick Owen said, ‘There was a strange event last night when I was on patrol in Soho with my partner. We might have missed it, me and Jerry Cookson, if a woman hadn’t started screaming at the top of her voice and a man hadn’t called out for the police.’

  ‘And so you both ran to help. What was happening?’

  ‘Two men were being attacked in a nearby dark alley. Imagine our surprise when we reached the man who had shouted for help. It was Billy Watters, the British lightweight boxing champion of the world.’

  Crawford nodded, wondering what was strange about this event. Surely not meeting the boxer.

  Before he could ask this question, the sergeant continued, ‘We ran down the alley, only to discover that the young men had already dealt with their attackers, who were odd-looking blokes. Dressed entirely in black. It was dark a’ course, but I recognized one of the young men. It was James Falconer, Inspector Crawford.’

  Crawford was momentarily startled and instantly sat upright in his chair, leaned forward, his expression alert. ‘Don’t tell me he had been beaten up again. I couldn’t bear to hear that, not after what happened to him a few years ago.’

  ‘No, no, fortunately Falconer was not injured, and neither was his colleague, Peter Keller. The latter had kicked one of the assailants in the balls with his boot. Falconer had punched the other bruiser on the jaw, and quite a few times. They were down and out of it.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear that. You cuffed the attackers, took them off to jail, I presume, to be charged?’

  Owen nodded. ‘I needed to come and tell you about it, Inspector, because it was so like that last attack on Falconer. I worried about it all night, couldn’t sleep, in fact. Do you think someone really is out to get Falconer, sir?’

  A concerned expression settled on Crawford’s face, and he was silent for a moment, his mind racing. ‘I don’t know, Sergeant. But it’s strange. I agree with you there. Didn’t Falconer’s friend, Dennis Holden, die from his head wounds?’ Sudden rage swept through Crawford and he exclaimed, ‘Damn and blast! Why wasn’t that case ever solved? I can’t believe it! That some rotten buggers got away with murder – and of a young lad, no less.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I had to talk to you because it’s been bothering me so much.’

  Crawford nodded. ‘I need to know as much as you can find out about these two assailants. And I’ve every intention of opening that cold case, making it active immediately.’

  ‘Where would you start, sir? Quite a lot of time has passed,’ Owen said cautiously.

  ‘It has indeed, but I’ve a mind to start with that bar, Tango Rose. And, by the way, what are the names of those two attackers of last night? And how much did you get out of them?’

  ‘Their names are Sid Puller and Johnny Clark, but who knows if they were telling the truth. I questioned them at the scene and in the jail. They didn’t talk at all. Told me nothing. Clammed up, they did.’

  ‘What about James Falconer and his colleague, Keller? For instance, what the hell were the two of them doing in a dark alley in Soho?’

  ‘They said they’d had dinner at Chez Simone earlier, and Keller had led them into the alley, because it was a shortcut to the music hall they were headed for.’

  ‘Bad choice,’ Crawford said, and grimaced. Standing up, he looked across at Owen. ‘I’m glad you came to see me, Sergeant. Are you on duty now?’

  ‘No, Inspector, I’m not. It’s my night off.’

  ‘Then come and join me for a pint. I for one need a beer after what you’ve just told me. And incidentally, I do think Falconer is being targeted. I aim to find out who is behind this and put the bastard behind bars.’

  ‘With my help, sir. And I wouldn’t mind a pint in a cheerful pub.’

  On this Tuesday morning, the inspector sat at his desk at Scotland Yard drinking a mug of tea and running Owen’s memories through his mind yet again.

  Over a few pints of bitter at the Pig and Whistle last night, Mick Owen had told the inspector everything he could remember about the attack on James Falconer, now approximately two years ago. And he had a good memory, even for small details.

  For the umpteenth time, the name Milly Culpepper loomed large. And he knew the reason why. She was the only person who was friendly with Falconer and Holden. In fact, she had gone out on dates with Denny Holden several times. No one else who frequented Tango Rose on a regular basis had paid much attention to the two young men.

  She was the link.


  Whichever way he looked at the pages of information in the folder of this cold case, he always came back to her. She knew them, chatted to them, and even saw Denny alone. And more than likely she knew what they were doing and where they were going when they were not at the bar. There was nothing wrong with that. It was quite normal, chatting with friends. What was dangerous was who this information was repeated to.

  And so he kept coming back to the idea that Milly Culpepper might well have fingered them without even realizing she was doing that. Totally innocent of any wrongdoing. Yet Dennis Holden had died from his severe head wounds. He had never come out of the coma which had enveloped him in King’s Hospital.

  Somewhere out there was a murderer. Chief Inspector Roger Crawford did not like that at all. The monster had to be found, charged, tried and found guilty. If Crawford managed to solve this cold case, he would make sure that murdering bastard swung at the end of a rope.

  Drinking the last dregs of the tea, Crawford decided he would find Milly Culpepper no matter what, even though Mick Owen had told him last night that she no longer worked at the popular bar near the Thames. Somebody would know where she was or know someone else who did. He was an old hand at finding people.

  Once outside in the bright sunlight, the inspector cheered up. He threw off the sense of defeat that surrounded this cold case. He set his mind on its resolution. Unexpectedly, he suddenly felt full of piss and vinegar, as he was wont to call it; bursting with energy. He was also in a hurry because he kept wondering if the attack last night was linked to the attack two years back. If so, it made it all the more deadly. Whoever it was who had it in for James Falconer was obviously not going to give up. At least not until Falconer was dead. And that must not happen. He couldn’t let it.

  When a hansom cab came by, Crawford hailed it immediately. He gave the driver the name and address of the bar and climbed inside. The cab moved forward at a quick trot and in no time at all he was being dropped off on the Embankment overlooking the River Thames.