The Brothers of Baker Street

by Michael Robertson

  “As I said, the calls were anonymous,” Emma offered, sounding defensive.

  “But was it the same voice each time?” said Reggie.

  “What if it was? It could have been a bloody cop calling for all I knew. They leak things. They have their reasons.”

  “Not on Wembley’s team,” said Reggie. “So—was it the same voice each time?”

  “I don’t know. What bloody difference does it make?”

  “The fan letter was the first step in encouraging you to give the Black Cab crimes a high level of coverage,” said Reggie. “All the anonymous tips that followed were to make sure that you kept doing so, and they’re all coming just a bit too early.”

  “What are you accusing me of? You seriously think both the fan letter and the anonymous tips were from someone involved in the crime?”

  “Yes. Exactly that. And it’s tit-for-tat: You receive the tips because your publisher gives the Black Cab crimes maximum coverage. I don’t know why someone wants to do that, but I know it’s what’s happening.”

  “I don’t know that at all,” said Emma.

  “All right, then. Here’s the other piece of information I have for you. You can confirm it with Wembley later, if you like; I spoke to him a few hours ago when I got out.”

  Emma interrupted so eagerly that Reggie thought she must surely have a recorder running in her purse. “How did it feel being on the other side of the law—being in jail for the first time? This was your first time, right?”

  “Nice try,” said Reggie. “As I was saying, Wembley’s forensics team has determined that the most recent Black Cab victim—the one that was thrown over the bridge—was not killed by brute force, as were the American couple. It was a gunshot, a single gunshot to the back of the head. Which makes my dead client not a good suspect at all. And although the clothes of the victim would indicate stockbroker or financial analyst or some other wealthy punter, his hands were as calloused as a dockworker’s, and there is every indication that he was dressed in his expensive suit after he was killed.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Emma. “Why would anyone even try to create a frame that would so surely be disproved by forensics?”

  “Obviously no one would,” said Reggie. “It’s not a frame for a conviction, it’s not a frame done for the consumption of the police or the legal system at all because, as you said, they would surely discover it, as they have done. So it’s a frame for a very short-term goal, and since it’s not a frame for the police, the only other possibility is that it’s a frame for the press.”

  Emma looked back at Reggie for a long moment. Then—

  “So you’re saying I’m being played?” she said.

  “I’m saying you can join the club.”

  She raised an eyebrow at that. Then she sighed and looked again at the letter Reggie had placed on the table.

  “You showed me this on the record,” she said. “That was the deal. So now I get to tell the world that you got suckered by a tip letter written to Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Go ahead. At the moment, it’s the least of my worries.”

  She laughed slightly, and then pushed the letter back at him. “The anonymous calls are from the same person each time—I think. It’s hard to be sure; whoever it is speaks through something to muffle his—or her—voice. But sounds the same each time.”

  “You say the fan letter was two months ago?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Reggie considered that. It meant the fan letter had probably been sent just before Nigel’s therapy group at Bath was disbanded.

  “No return address on the letter, I presume?” said Reggie.

  “Of course not. ”

  “A postmark?”

  “Yes, I did check for that. The postmark was for Bath.”

  “Does that location mean anything to you?” asked Reggie.

  “Well, it’s rather a large area, isn’t it?”

  “True. Are you familiar with the Mental Health and Recovery Center at Bath?”

  “No,” she said with a laugh. “Are you looking for a recommendation?”

  Reggie ignored that. “Do you know a man named Trimball?”

  She paused just for a moment before answering. Then she said, “Heath … do you have any idea how many names of people and places I cycle through in a year? I can go back and check my files, but—”

  “All right,” said Reggie. “‘Dr. Dillane’—does that name mean anything?”

  “I think I’ve heard mention from some paparazzi acquaintances. Not sure of the context though. I can give you their names, if you’re willing to go near them.”

  Reggie considered that. He nodded noncommittally. Then he pretended to check his watch. He paid the bill and got out of the booth to leave. “Thank you for your help.”

  She slid quickly out of the booth as well, clearly sensing a new story.

  “You have a postmark and now you’re off? It tells you that much?”

  “No, not by itself.”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said, following along as Reggie went out to the street.

  “Not likely. I’m not that foolish,” said Reggie. “But if you need a ride, I can drop you before I leave the city.”

  “Never mind then,” she said. “Thanks for showing me the letter. It might be worth a paragraph or two on page six.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” said Reggie.

  Reggie walked around the corner toward his car. As he did, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw the reporter getting into a Black Cab.

  Reggie drove out of the city on the M4, checking carefully at first to see that Emma Swoop had not waited to follow him in her cab.

  Apparently she had not. But with cabs looking so much alike, it could be hard to tell.

  21

  At the Flounder and Dab pub, one of the younger drivers at the bar was telling a story to Bill Edwards as Nigel entered.

  “She got into the back,” said the younger driver, “took her fur coat off, leaned forward with all that bling and cleavage, and whispered through the window that she understood that Black Cab drivers have enlarged hippocampuses. Mine was, I can tell you, and I was ready to hop in the back with her to prove it, until I found out that hippocampuses aren’t what I thought they were.”

  Edwards nodded, managed a perfunctory laugh, then got down from the bar stool and came over to Nigel.

  “Someone did a study at Oxford,” said Edwards, shaking his head. “And now I have to hear that same story every time I come into the pub. And if I thought he’d really hopped in the back with a fare, I’d boot his arse out of here. It’s bad for business, especially when the driver has such a high opinion of himself. Take the booth in the back. I’ll tell you a better story, but I don’t want every driver in the place to hear it, and we’ve got just a few minutes before the crowd gathers.”

  A few moments later Edwards brought two pints. He put them both on the table, settled in opposite Nigel, and took a long draught before getting started.

  “You hear all kinds of things,” he said. “Half of ’em at least are made up, just variations on urban legends.”

  “No doubt.”

  “But a month or so back, I’m at the bar there, and I hear Walters telling a story, and I listen, because I never heard him tell one before. He wasn’t causing much of a stir, because there really wasn’t all that much to it, and everyone pretty much prefers a cleavage and hippocampus story when they can get one. But he told a story, and he told it again two weeks later, and I listened both times, because it was plain he wasn’t telling it for the attention—he was telling it because it worried him.”

  “And now it’s worrying you.”

  Edwards took a moment to look about the bar, and Nigel looked, too. Several more drivers had come in since Nigel entered, but no one had approached within earshot.

  Still, when Edwards turned back toward Nigel, he spoke in a confidential voice.

  “The bloody navigation system worries me. It will destro
y the Black Cab profession as we know it. And these crimes are being used as a pretext to force it on us. If I can help you solve them, I will.”

  “So what was the story Walters told?”

  “Before I tell you what he did,” said Edwards, “you need to understand how it is when a driver first starts out. There’s the tuition he owes from the Knowledge School. Payments on the scooter for driving about and learning the streets. Neither of them cheap for young lads just trying to get a leg up. And then there’s the cab itself, which is hugely expensive. Walters just didn’t have the cash.”

  “What about his inheritance?”

  Edwards gave Nigel a quizzical look. “What inheritance?”

  “Walters told my brother there was an inheritance,” said Nigel. “He said his dad scrimped and saved it up, he got it when his dad died, and that’s how he paid for the Knowledge School and got started.”

  Edwards shook his head. “Walters was an orphan. He lived in foster care until he was seventeen and then went out on his own. He was in debt to his eyeballs by the time he picked up his first punter.”

  “You’re sure about this?” said Nigel.

  Edwards nodded. “I heard it not just from him, but from blokes who knew him.”

  “Odd thing to lie to his lawyer about,” said Nigel. “But go on, what did he do as a result of these financial straits?”

  “Mostly, he did the right stuff. He signed up as a radio cab driver. You know how that works. A customer calls the radio dispatcher for a cab, the dispatcher sends the driver, and takes a commission for it. It’s great for the customer, and better than nothing for the new driver who hasn’t got established at the cab ranks yet. Walters wasn’t too thrilled with it at first, because they weren’t sending a lot his way. But then he comes in the Flouder and Dab one night and tells me about one particular fare.

  “The dispatcher had called and said he had a customer who requested Walters specifically—requested him by his cab number, in fact, and you don’t expect your average punter to be that observant. Walters had no idea who the bloke was, but that didn’t matter; off he went, clear out to Hackney Downs, in the East End, which isn’t normally your center of activity at that hour.

  “He drives out there and picks up the fare. Then just being sociable, he asks the gentleman where he had taken him before. The man said, ‘Nowhere.’ He said he had made the request just on the recommendation from a friend.

  “As you might imagine, this made Walters even more curious, and so he asked the punter who the friend was. You know what the bloke said?”

  “No idea.”

  “‘Just shut up and drive,’ is what he said.”

  “And did he?”

  “Shut up and drive? Oh, he did. All the way down to Canary Wharf. Then around the perimeter of Isle of Dogs, and then back up to Hackney Downs again. Walters said he knew they had completed a roundabout, and most punters hate it when you take the long way anywhere, and so he asked the gentleman again where he wanted to go. Know what he said?”

  “‘Shut up and keep driving’?” offered Nigel.

  Edwards almost looked offended at Nigel jumping the gun, but then he said, “Right you are.”

  “And—?”

  “You mean, did he keep driving? Well, he almost didn’t, I can tell you that. But right then the punter slides a fifty-pound note through the window to cover the mileage to that point, and then another one right after that, which wasn’t even called for.”

  “So Walters kept driving?”

  Edwards didn’t answer immediately; he was looking past Nigel’s shoulder now, into the broader area of the pub, and nodding to someone.

  “We’ve got just a few more minutes,” he said.

  Nigel looked around, too, and he saw that the pub was now packed with cab drivers. And most of them weren’t even drinking; they were milling about, talking loudly, waiting for something.

  Edwards nodded again to someone else entering, and then he turned back to Nigel.

  “He did keep driving, that same East End route again in the middle of the night, until finally the punter checks his watch, gets out at a corner, makes a phone call at a paybooth, and then tips Walters another fifty quid and says that will be all for the night.

  “A week later, the same thing happens. A few days later, same thing again. But this time, the punter says he doesn’t have time to ride along, and from that point on, he says he wants Walters to keep doing that same route at those hours on certain days—but all on his own.

  “You mean, with an empty cab?”

  “Yes. That’s when Walters came in and told me his story for the first time. I puzzled over it with him, but we couldn’t figure it out.”

  “Did Walters describe this vanishing punter?” asked Nigel.

  “Walters said the fellow mumbled when he spoke and kept his face hidden in a hooded mac. Drivers learn when not to pry. Anyway, we couldn’t see any harm being done. So I told him to keep driving.”

  Nigel nodded. “True, there’s no law against getting paid to drive the cab empty. Nothing statutory, anyway. But why did Walters never tell my brother any of this? Surely he would have realized it was relevant to his alibi.”

  “Can’t help you with that one. But there’s something else. The day after your brother got Walters released at the magistrate’s court, Walters came into the pub and bought rounds for everyone like he had bangers to spare. And I heard him on the phone saying he was going to pay off the loan on his cab the next day.”

  “And you can’t see where he would get the money to do that?”

  “Right. It would take just too much to do it all at once. And that’s when I began to worry. And I realized that all these mystery rides were happening at about the same time as the Black Cab crimes across town. I made a list, and all the dates match up. I think it means something.”

  “It does,” said Nigel. “It means one cab is being used to create an alibi, while another cab across town is doing dirty deeds. And if it was all just as you say, it probably also means Walters was guilty of nothing more than being a pawn in a much larger scheme.” Nigel paused, then added, “At least up until the point he came into all that cash.”

  Edwards stood now.

  “I’ve told you all I know,” he said. “And we’re about to get underway.”

  “What’s the occasion?” said Nigel. Most of the cab drivers were now looking expectantly in Edwards’s direction.

  “The follow-up meeting for the navigation system is tonight. This time it will be before the full London Transport Authority. And just to make sure they understand that we understand that we have a stake in it, I intend that half the cab drivers in London will be there. So I’ve got a bit of organizing to do.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Nigel.

  “It won’t be if you’re anywhere else in the city trying to catch a cab tonight,” said Edwards. “And that’s the point.”

  22

  Reggie was an hour and a half out of London. It was very late in the afternoon now, but finally he reached the turnout from the M4. Within a few minutes, he was driving in a light rain on the narrow streets of Bath.

  A mile or so past the town’s Roman ruins, he found Old Bath Road. He turned west, driving another two or three miles on a country lane, until he reached the Mental Health and Recovery Center.

  The structures of the center had at one time been a nobleman’s estate. The main house, gripped on all sides by green ivy on old dark-red bricks, had been made into the main office for the center: to one side of that were the stables, which had become resident patient quarters; to the other side was a more modern addition, with placards identifying the therapy center and counseling rooms.

  Reggie entered the brick structure and walked past the wood panels of the main hall to the reception office. It was fortunately still open, but it had to be near closing hour for the general public.

  There was a reception desk, staffed by a middle-aged woman who was busy placing some items in a cardboard
shipping box as Reggie entered.

  Behind her were cabinets of patient records and a corridor that led to the offices of the psychiatric staff in the back. On the wall to one side of her desk were shelves of consumer brochures for the general public, and on the other side were shelves displaying professional publications.

  It did indeed appear near to closing time; the office lobby was empty except for the receptionist. Reggie wouldn’t even have to wait in line.

  The woman looked up.

  “How may I assist you?”

  Her manner was professionally pleasant and artificial, in a bureaucratic sort of way. Reggie had a sense that she knew her job, and getting information from her would not be easy.

  “I have an acquaintance who was recently a patient here,” said Reggie, as offhandedly and routinely as he could. “Her name was Darla Rennie.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the woman, “but I’m not allowed to give out any information about patients, or even to confirm if she was one.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right,” said Reggie. “Actually, I was just hoping, though, to get some information about a particular therapy group that she was in. Job Sobs, I believe it was called.”

  “Ahh,” said the woman. “The career disappointment group.”

  “Yes,” said Reggie. “Run by a Dr. Dillane, I believe. I understand about patient confidentiality. But perhaps I could speak with him in a general way about the group?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said the woman. But now she looked at Reggie appraisingly. “May I ask—is your enquiry in a professional capacity?”

  For a moment, Reggie thought she was asking if he were offering his legal services. Then he realized she was referring to the doctor’s professional capacity, not his own.

  “No,” said Reggie quickly. “Nothing like that. I would simply like to talk to him.”

  “Of course,” said the receptionist. “And the woman you mentioned—she referred you to Dr. Dillane?”

  “Actually, my brother Nigel gave me his name,” said Reggie. “My brother was a patient here, too.”