Mr. Singh beamed again, blessing Elaine and Benford with his proud, broad grin.
The rich and sexy Danny could wait until tomorrow, Elaine thought. Right now, she wanted to find Hoodie Bloke. After closing the interview with Mr. Singh, she and Benford returned to the incident room. One of the technical boffins printed screen grabs of Hoodie Bloke’s face from the bus CCTV. Elaine kept two.
By this time, it was dark outside. She retrieved her car keys from her pocket. “I suppose you’ll want me to drive,” she said to Benford.
* * *
The Accident and Emergency entrance of Saint Stephen’s Hospital blazed with white fluorescent light. Elaine parked in a nearby space and verified that she had the printed pictures from the CCTV.
She and Benford struck gold at once. The nurse at the admitting desk spoke before they could identify themselves. “Hello, detectives. Welcome to our little paradise. Yes, I can spot you coppers before you’re through the door. What are you selling tonight? Road accident with a whisky chaser? A juicy little murder on toast? What is it?”
Elaine pushed the photo across the counter toward the nurse. “Do you know this man?”
The nurse gave Elaine a tired look, as if to say she didn’t need the interruption. “Not even a smile, eh? I swear you wouldn’t last long in A&E. Let’s see, then.” Her eyebrows rose when she picked up the photo. “Now what would you be wanting with him?”
“You know him. Who is he?”
“We all know him. That’s Dr. Willend, the surgeon. W-I-L-L-E-N-D. But most of the nurses call him Dr. Hunka-Hunka.” Seeing Elaine’s steady look, she continued. “He’s a senior consultant here.”
Another nurse in surgical scrubs walked to the desk and took the photo. “That’s Peter. He was on duty last night, but he won’t be back until Monday.”
Elaine took out her notebook and flipped it to the next blank page. “Do you know where he lives?”
“Somewhere up by Crouch End or maybe Highgate. In that direction, anyway. I’ve heard he shares a house with his sister. I’ve never been there. I don’t think anyone here has. He’s very private. Keeps to himself, mostly.”
“What does he do here?”
“He does what a consultant does—teaches and advises junior medical staff, helps set policy, provides emergency care. He has regular shifts here in A&E, but he doesn’t socialize much.”
Elaine scribbled in her notebook. “A bit of a loner, would you say?”
The nurse shrugged. “He’s moody, I guess. Some of us . . . some of the nurses have tried him on, but he’s never taken anyone up on their offer. He’s all right to work with. He doesn’t look down on us nurses, if you know what I mean. Just isn’t interested in anything after hours.”
“I think I know what you’re saying. I’ve heard he’s a Yank.”
“He’s from Texas. He was a surgeon in the American military. In Iraq. They say he got wounded there.”
Elaine looked up from her notebook. “We need to speak with him. How can we find his address?”
“Well, we wouldn’t have it here. The staffing office is closed for the weekend. You could check back Monday.”
“Perhaps we’ll do that. Thanks . . .”
“Sally. Sally Springfield.”
Elaine handed Sally and the other nurse her card. “If you see Dr. Willend, will you please ask him to get in touch with me?”
* * *
Given his profession, Elaine doubted that Peter Willend was going anywhere. But just in case, when she was back at the station, she instructed her team to send notifications to airport, rail, and ferry passport control offices to hold his passport and prevent him from leaving the country.
She then called the team’s researcher, DC Evan Cromarty. “I need the address of Peter Willend, surgeon, employed at Saint Stephen’s Hospital. American, lives in London.”
She knew that was all the impetus Cromarty needed. He was one of those invaluable people who got things done a step at a time—meticulous with details, full of quiet insight. Elaine had the impression that he was a man who measured each day by its small victories.
Cromarty would find Willend, and she and Benford would have a place to go in the morning. As she switched off the light on her desk, she realized she didn’t know what she had to eat at home. Probably nothing. That meant she had to stop to pick up supper. She didn’t know if her stomach could handle another curry.
* * *
A dog walker found a body. How trite is that?
Liz Barker laid her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes. It had been her first day of her first murder. She’d left her warm bed and cozy flat before dawn to drive through dark, wet streets toward God knew what. All the way, she’d gripped the wheel with all her strength to keep her hands from shaking.
It hadn’t stopped her stomach from clenching. Halfway there, she’d felt bile rising so fast she didn’t think there was time to stop, open the car door, and retch into the gutter. She’d made it though, just barely—no mess in the car or on her clothes for DI Hope to smell, thank God. A couple of peppermints and she was right as rain.
Hope had pulled up right after Liz arrived, the blue BMW skidding to a stop next to Liz’s dented white Astra. Her first words to Liz had been “Rotten morning, Barker. Let’s see what we have.” Hope had pulled on her wellies over her blue jeans, then felt around in the huge pockets of that ridiculous donkey jacket. Once she’d verified that whatever it was she was looking for was there, she’d looked at Liz.
“Got everything, Barker?” She then set a pace for the gate in the wall, so fast that Liz had a hard time keeping up. All the way to the gate, Liz had wondered if she had left something back at her flat.
As they circled the corpse, Liz had seen the wheels turning behind the DI’s huge brown eyes and had listened to her soft, deep voice describing, questioning, and explaining. Hope hadn’t seemed to mind the cold or the fact that rain had plastered her dark hair to her forehead. Liz had felt proud when Hope agreed with her hypothesis on why there were no footprints around the body.
But Liz had felt absolutely tiny and wretched when Hope had rescued her from that damned jackass! Why couldn’t she have handled Jenkins better? What must Hope think of her now, despite the pep talk?
Liz couldn’t let herself be bullied again. Success favors the bold and all that. She also knew she wouldn’t look bold if she yawned during the morning status meeting. She turned out the lamp next to her bed and closed her eyes.
FOUR
Elaine was burrowed deeply in the warmth of her duvet when her mobile rattled. Without peeking, she extended her arm and patted for the phone on the cluttered nightstand, toppling a cup and sending a rivulet of thick, cold cocoa streaming across the cover of her current novel. Crap. She blinked and squinted at the phone. Crap again. It’s seven bleeding AM on Sunday morning! Couldn’t they have waited another hour? She listened to the duty sergeant’s voice with her eyes closed, mumbling her responses. Cromarty had found Willend’s address. “Yes . . . Does Benford know? . . . Uh-huh, right . . . Text me the address, yeah text me, Sergeant, because no, I do not have a pen handy . . . Yes, I’ll collect Benford once he’s ready.” She groaned silently to herself as she ended the call. Testy bastard.
She looked down at Scratch the cat, who was draped over her leg and staring at her with typical feline annoyance.
“No need to stare at me like that, boy-o. I can’t help the phone calls. And have I ever not fed you?” She lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, willing her eyes open and her mind awake.
At least Scratch’s displeasure was easier to deal with than a man’s would have been. Not that she’d had to think about that for some time. It would be two years—give or take a week—at two o’clock on a Sunday morning, when Alan Number Two had appeared at her door drunk, wounded, and blustering because she hadn’t been home for thirty-six hours. Before they got together, she had warned him about her job’s intrusive, unreasonable demands. She had related how
exhaustion and constant stress triggered emotional outbursts or drove her to seek some kind of emotional catharsis through frantic sex. One way or the other, she exhausted herself.
Telling Alan about the realities of her life hadn’t made any more difference to him than it had to Alan Number One. She had given each a Hobson’s choice: endure the solitude and her emotional fluctuations or there’s no hope, lads. They had liked the sex part, at first, before they had realized that despite her attentions in the bedroom, her priorities lay elsewhere. She had not kicked any of them out. Each had eventually chosen to leave her.
She laughed to herself. They wouldn’t stay even for the sex; she wasn’t that good at it. Most likely there would be another man in her life, someday. There hadn’t been many men over the years; her trail of broken hearts wasn’t long. She was open to romance; she wanted warmth and companionship. But next time, she also wanted something that would last.
How many men in this world wanted to spend their lives with a gangly, six-foot-tall female detective? Not bloody many.
Enough of the daydreaming. Elaine shifted her leg to dislodge Scratch, rolled out of bed, and slouched to the bathroom. Her morning routine didn’t take long. She slid through a quick shower and into some jeans, a heavy shirt, and a woolly jersey; ran a comb through her thick chocolate-brown hair; and considered applying some makeup. No, it’s a murder investigation. Maybe there would be time for that later or perhaps not. She didn’t care if anyone she met today minded whether she had on makeup. They could take it or leave it.
Once in the kitchen, she dolloped some food into Scratch’s bowl and topped up his water. A glance at the clock told her she was running a bit late, but Benford hadn’t called yet, so she dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, filled the electric kettle, and spooned instant coffee into a large travel mug. She was halfway through a second piece of buttered toast when her mobile rattled and the reggae lilt of Jimmy Cliff’s “The Harder They Come” told her Benford was finally texting his usual one-word message: “Ready.”
She refilled her coffee mug and grabbed her worn gray-and-black donkey jacket as she headed out the door. It may have been shapeless and ugly, but it was warm and waterproof. People could take or leave the donkey jacket along with the makeup. On her way down the stairs, she patted each of the jacket’s capacious zip pockets. Her notebook and two pens were in their usual places in the left pocket. In the right pocket, she felt the rectangle of her wallet and the flat square of her warrant card. The old coat could carry everything she needed to meet a murderer.
* * *
The drizzle had ended, but the previous week’s damp, chilling gloom remained. Standing on the pavement with Benford, Elaine took stock of the house in front of them. It was situated in an upscale enclave of large and obviously expensive Edwardian-era detached homes. While its architecture gave a nod to its surroundings, the Willend house was evidently newer than its neighbors. The facade was dominated by a huge three-part bay window, the arc of which must have enclosed an area larger than a standard bedroom. Warm yellow light illuminated the home’s interior and shone out through the window. A straight drive ended in a portico at the side of the house. The sound of a piano filtered out to where they stood.
Benford asked, “Is that music?”
Elaine stifled a laugh. Benford was utterly tone deaf. “‘I Get a Kick Out of You.’ Cole Porter.”
“Ah. To me, it might as well be Coal Bucket. Mandie had the girls take music lessons, violin and piano. Nothing but screeching and banging, if you ask me.” He looked sidelong at her. “Which you wouldn’t, of course.”
Elaine didn’t turn her head. “I’ve learned never to question the guv’s taste in music, sir.”
“And that’s exactly as it should be.”
As they walked toward the house, their view through the large window revealed a man with a longish mop of dark hair playing a piano.
Benford turned his head to Elaine. “Can you tell if he’s any good?”
She listened a moment. The man’s fingers were having just a little trouble keeping up with the notes. “Enthusiastic is the word I would use.”
The chords of the piano were joined by an even more enthusiastic amateur tenor voice. “Some may fly high on cocay-ee-ayne. I’m sure that if I took even one sniff, it would bore me terrifically tooooo.”
Elaine pressed a backlit button on the right side of the door and chimes rang.
“But I get a kick out of yoo-ooo.” With a final flourish, the music stopped. A moment later, the man’s face appeared briefly at the side window, the lock turned, and the face reappeared around the edge of the partially open door. “Can I help you?”
He was Hoodie Bloke. Both detectives held out their warrant cards. Benford spoke in his gentle Jamaican accent. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Benford. This is Detective Inspector Hope. May we have a word, Dr. Willend?”
The man’s eyes indicated brief surprise. He barely glanced at their identification but spent a few moments assessing his visitors.
“Sure, come in.” He swung the door open and led the way toward two large gray leather chairs flanking an ebony-and-glass table. A similar table separated the chairs from a matching leather sofa.
Elaine looked around. The interior of the house was stylish, but not what she would have called flashy or trendy. The light wood floors were covered with rugs, geometrically patterned in deep blues and greens. The gray leather furniture wasn’t new but was well kept. It appeared that whoever furnished the place some years ago liked durable leather and clean lines, knew which pieces they needed, and bought quality. Overall the appearance was modern, inviting, and comfortable. She rather liked it. The sole cluttered area was the large window bay at the front of the house, which was nearly filled with a small grand piano, an electronic keyboard, two guitars and the associated amplifiers, loudspeakers, and cables. The top surface of the piano sprouted a forest of framed photographs and trophies. Clean, organized, but not OCD, she thought.
“I’d introduce myself, but it seems you already know my name. Would you care for tea? Coffee?” Willend’s accent was American, with soft Western vowels.
Benford spoke. “Coffee sounds nice. Thank you.”
Willend indicated the chairs. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Benford followed Willend into the kitchen. Elaine ignored the invitation to sit. Instead, she stood quietly near the piano, ingesting Willend’s every move. He appeared to be about her age and height—a couple of years past forty and an inch or two over six feet. A shock of shoulder-length dark hair topped deep-set blue eyes and a clean-shaven face. He was dressed in a tight-fitting long-sleeve T-shirt, its front silk-screened with “Hanwell Harriers” above a pair of oddly shaped oars. The shirt accented his broad, athletic shoulders and back. Below the shirt, loose-fitting sweat pants hung from his hips. When he walked across the room, he moved with the balanced grace of an athlete. Willend was attractive. Any woman, young or old, would gravitate to this man.
Elaine’s face tensed, as if the skin were pulling back, baring her teeth. She felt as if she were up on her toes, ready to spring. Perhaps she was recalling Sheila.
She inspected her surroundings, trying to get an idea of who this Dr. Peter Willend was. The ground floor of the house was open and full of natural light, even on such a gray day. While standing in the large bay window enclosure, Elaine could see that the sitting room extended past the entry door on her left to a double archway that revealed a dining area. Beyond the dining area, in the large modern kitchen, she could see Willend fussing over coffee preparations while Benford watched.
On her right, an open-tread stairway with a stainless-steel railing ascended to a landing that overlooked the sitting room where she stood. Above her, the ceiling peaked some twenty feet or so above her head. Cream-colored beams, extending from each side wall, framed juxtaposed skylights at the peak.
From where she stood, she could see two motion sensors atta
ched to the beams. There were also vibration sensors on the glass of each skylight and window pane, agreeing with the two alarm control panels she had noticed near the front door. She understood the need for an alarm system in a house like this, but having two systems was quite a lot of security.
Elaine turned and began examining the photographs that crowded the top of the piano. The photos were all of people. A younger Willend and a woman with blazing copper hair flanked a grinning, gap-toothed young girl dressed in a ladybug costume. A tall, raven-haired woman robed in a full-length academic gown, colorful hood, and scholar’s mortarboard posed formally in front of a tall limestone building. Over the woman’s shoulder, Elaine could make out an inscription on the building: “Ye Shall Know the Truth . . .” And who decides what that is? Elaine thought.
A variety of snapshots surrounded the larger photos. The raven-haired woman and Willend cheek-to-cheek with an older woman between them, clearly taken in a pub. Next to it, Willend and another man flanked a short dark-skinned woman, all of them dressed in military camouflage, standing outside a dismal barrack-looking building.
In another, a running athlete in a white helmet held a stick. Elaine could make out “-EXAS” blazoned in orange letters on the athlete’s jersey. The silhouette of a cow’s head with huge horns adorned the side of the helmet. The athlete’s face was obscured by shadow and the helmet’s heavy wire frame, so she could only presume this was Willend again.
But the photo that held her attention was one of Willend standing on a dais, clad in red-white-and-blue boxer trunks, gloved hands held high above him as if in triumph. Seated on the step in front of him was the copper-haired woman, dressed in a toga. Her arms were raised toward him as if in adulation, one hand holding a drink glass.
She snorted. Some people have a vanity wall, she thought. This bloke has a vanity piano. Is he a boxer?
“Rocky and his Acolyte.” Elaine whipped her head around to see Willend standing a few feet from her, holding out a cup of black coffee. “A Halloween party. Fancy dress, as you say over here. It was impossible to hold a drink with those gloves. Diana refused to wear a sleazy bikini like the women at boxing matches, so the costumes didn’t make much sense as an integrated theme.”
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