I’d loved this man once. I had happily and willingly placed my life in his hands. I tried to remember that. Soon, I’d get angry again, but right now all I felt was sadness. Sadness at what had never been.
I shook Grant’s hand off and walked toward Paul. I stretched out my hand and touched the side of his neck. I felt no pulse and the skin was already beginning to cool. “Dead,” I said. “For some time.”
“Shall I call 911, Gemma?” Donald asked.
“Yes. But it’s 999.”
“My e-sim doesn’t cover phone calls,” he said. “How much will it cost?”
“I’ll do it,” Grant said. “Gemma, are you okay?”
“I will be. Make the call.” I looked quickly around the room. No one was hiding beneath the desk, the cot was low to the floor, and there was no place else to conceal anything larger than a rat. A pile of boxes stamped with the names of publishers was stacked against the wall. The drawers of the filing cabinet were closed. The whiskey bottle was about three-quarters empty; the bottom of the glass contained a tiny amount of liquid residue. It appeared as though Paul had been strangled, likely by a piece of rope or a length of cloth. At a quick glance, I could see nothing like that out in the open.
I gave Paul one last look, shook sentiment away, and said, “You two stay here. I’ll be right back.” I ran into the hallway. In one of my first acts when we bought the store, I’d had a modern lock installed on the door leading to the alley. One glance told me it was unlocked, but just to be sure the lock hadn’t jammed in the years since, I pulled the edges of my sleeve over the fingers of my right hand and twisted the knob. It moved, and I edged the door open. I peered into the alley. Even at midday the narrow alley was dark and gloomy, the buildings on either side looming over it, blocking the sun. A seagull was inspecting the trash put out by the business next door. It stared at me through one uncaring eye and then returned to its business. Vehicle traffic moved steadily down the Strand, and pedestrians chattered on Villiers Street, but no one was in the alley. I studied the ground. It had rained heavily yesterday, but the puddles were slowly drying. Some water remained in depressions in the paving stones and in the deeper shadows under the buildings. Several pairs of muddy footprints marked the alley, going in both directions, but they didn’t appear to have approached this door. Except for one set of small paw prints. A dog had tried to investigate, but its owner had likely called it to come and walked away. I pulled out my phone and took a photograph of the prints. The police might be able to locate the owner. Did dogs have individual paw prints? I’d never considered that before. I made a mental note to look it up as I checked the alley for CCTV cameras. None that I could see. Didn’t mean they weren’t there, though. I went back inside. I shut the door behind me, keeping my fingers covered, but I didn’t set the lock.
Grant came out of the office. “Anything outside?”
“No one lurking about, no. Nothing else I could see.”
“Police are on their way. The dispatcher said a protest is forming around Trafalgar Square so they might have trouble getting through quickly.”
“I trust you told them there’s no rush.”
“I did, and she asked me if I was a doctor. I refrained from commenting on that.”
I found the two clerks in the shop. Faye, the older woman, was bent over a map of London, trying to explain to a Japanese couple that you couldn’t get there from here. Tamara was chatting to a newly arrived customer.
“Everything okay?” Tamara asked me. “Did you find Paul?”
“No, and yes. I’m sorry, but the store is closing early. Everyone but the employees need to leave. Now.”
The Japanese couple looked at me and asked who I was and what was going on. At least I think that’s what they said. My Japanese is rusty. I grabbed the map, folded it into a tumbled mess, and shoved it at them. I gestured toward the door. They bowed, I nodded my head in return, and they slipped away.
Which is more than the other customer did. “Hoy! I dinna ’ave what I come for,” he said in a Scottish accent I found about as easy to understand as the Japanese.
“Sorry,” I said. “Police orders.”
He lifted his hands and backed up. “Dinna want no trouble with the coppers.”
I followed him to the door and twisted the lock once he’d left. I turned to see Tamara and Faye staring at me wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
“Who do you think you are?” Faye demanded.
I sidestepped the question. “You’re closed for the rest of the day. Maybe permanently. No one’s to come inside except the police. They’re on their way.”
“Police? What’s going on?”
“If we’re closed, I’ve got places to be and things to do,” Tamara said. “Tell Paul to call me if he ever opens again.”
“I suspect the police will want to talk to you,” I said.
She stared at me. “And why might they want to do that?”
“Paul’s … dead,” I said.
“You can’t be serious,” Faye said. “What’s going on? Who are you people?”
Grant and Donald stood behind me.
“Are you a copper?” Tamara studied my face carefully. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black, rimmed in thick black liner, the lashes sticky with gobs of mascara. But intelligence flared in their depths along with curiosity. I found it interesting that she didn’t immediately look to Grant, or even Donald, seeking confirmation. She recognized that I, a woman, was the person making the decisions here.
“No, we’re not with the police. Just concerned citizens doing our civic duty.”
“Far be it from me to stop you, then.”
Faye let out a long moan and dropped into the chair behind the counter. “Dead. Paul. That’s not possible.”
“Neither of your saw him this morning?” I asked.
Faye just groaned. Tamara said, “I was first in. Like I said, office door was closed, and I didn’t check. To be honest, Paul doesn’t do a heck of a lot of work around here, so I don’t much care if he’s in or out.”
“How did you get in?”
“Through the door. I didn’t climb in the window, you know.”
“Which door, and did you use a key or was it unlocked?”
“The street door. I have a key. So does Faye.”
“Was the door locked?”
“Yes, it was locked. It’s mighty sticky and a right struggle to open.”
“It always was,” I said.
She grinned suddenly and stabbed a finger in my direction. “Hey. You’re Gemma!”
“Yes, I am. The place has … declined somewhat since I ran it.”
“Yeah. Paul always says things were better when Gemma was here. Can’t say I’m surprised you left.”
“Grant, watch the door,” I said. “Let the police in when they arrive. I’m going to have a quick look around.”
“My bag’s in the back,” Tamara said. “Might as well get some work done while we’re waiting. Can I get it?”
“The police will want you to leave everything as it is.”
She looked for a moment as though she might argue. If she decided to get her bag despite my warning, even if she decided to take her leave, I would do nothing to stop her. Not that I could do anything in any event. I wasn’t going to wrestle her to the ground and order Donald to tie her up.
She shrugged. “I suppose. We’ve all seen that stuff on telly, right?”
Sounds were drifting down the street now as the protesting crowd increased in Trafalgar Square. I didn’t detect the scream of approaching sirens. Grant hadn’t asked for an ambulance, but one would have been sent anyway in case we’d made a mistake about the condition of the victim.
“What can I do, Gemma?” Donald was almost bouncing on his toes in excitement.
“Stay here. Ask these women if they noticed anything unusual about Paul’s behavior lately.”
Donald saluted smartly.
The back door was unlocked and the body growing cold, so I had no worries the killer was hiding in a closet or crouching behind a box of books, ready to leap out at the unwary. As soon as the police arrived, I’d be escorted out of the building. I might even be taken to the station for questioning. I didn’t have a great deal of time to poke around.
On first glance, this didn’t look like a robbery gone wrong. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed in the office, as there would be if there’d been a fight between Paul and a burglar. He’d been sitting in his chair, behind his desk, not asleep on the cot where he might have been taken by surprise. On the other hand, if he’d been drinking at his desk, he might have passed out before he could collapse onto the cot. When we’d been together Paul hadn’t been much of a drinker, and on the rare occasions he did overly indulge, it didn’t take much to put him to sleep. That, of course, might have changed in the years since.
The door to the alley was unlocked, but that might not mean anything, not if Paul wasn’t in the habit of locking it behind him when he came in or if he’d forgotten this time because he had other things on his mind. Such as the encounter with me.
I wasn’t entirely sure why I was bothering to poke around. The police would sort out what had happened to Paul. Or not. Anything that happened in Paul’s life over the previous seven years had absolutely nothing to do with me.
Except we’d spoken last night. He’d deliberately sought me out, waited outside my sister’s wedding for me. He wanted to talk to me about some book. We’d arranged for me to come here this afternoon.
Did this book, whatever it might be, have anything to do with Paul’s death?
I slipped into the office. Maybe I was interested because I’m the curious sort, but I couldn’t forget that Paul had once meant a great deal to me. And me to him. He’d betrayed me, and that was all on him. But if I could help him now, I would.
The police were delayed, but they wouldn’t be long. Grant had told the 999 operator the victim appeared to have been murdered.
I didn’t have time to do a thorough search, but I had a quick look for something that might be a rare book or perhaps an old manuscript. I found nothing. The zipper was open on the backpack. Keeping my fingers covered by the edges of my sleeves, I peered inside the pack. A couple of rumpled T-shirts, a clean tie, a pair of briefs, an electric razor, an open bag containing men’s toiletries. No book, no papers. I didn’t see the Raymond Chandler he’d been reading at the hotel. I peeked into the topmost box and opened the drawers of the desk and filing cabinet. I dropped to my knees and peered under the cot, with the help of the flashlight on my phone. I saw nothing but dust bunnies and spiderwebs.
I lifted Paul’s phone off the desk. To my considerable shock, the picture that appeared when I tapped it was of none other than me. My wedding photograph. How young I looked. How naive and, dare I say, innocent. How ridiculous in that awful dress. I can’t imagine what I must have been thinking to have done my hair that way. I shoved the thoughts aside, and I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. I held the screen in front of Paul’s face. My image disappeared and the phone opened. All I had time for was a quick glance at his messages. A friend suggesting a meet at the pub. His mum telling him she was home from the doctor’s office and it had gone well. A question from Faye asking about a customer’s request. I didn’t have time to keep looking, and I couldn’t take the phone with me. I put it back precisely where I found it and went into the staff room.
I might have stepped back seven years. This room was exactly as I remembered. It was even clean, although the paintwork needed to be refreshed. Two chairs were pulled up to a round table. An electric kettle was on the counter, next to a scattering of mugs, a microwave oven, a sink, and a small fridge. The interior of the fridge was spotless, with a few bottles of water, along with milk and a couple of apples. The trash can contained nothing more than a handful of scrunched up paper towels.
I opened the drawer next to the sink. Two bags were tucked inside. One was a bulging backpack, the other a faux-leather purse. I’m not averse to interfering in people’s privacy in situations such as this, so I had no compulsion in opening the women’s bags. The purse, presumably Faye’s, held the usual collection of things women can’t do without. The backpack, to my surprise, was stuffed full of books, none of which were rare or valuable. They were all comparatively new, meaning published in this or late in the previous century. A couple were stamped as property of the library of UCL, for University College London. One of the books I stock in my own store: Villains, Victims, and Violets, edited by Resa Haile and Tamara R. Bower. An iPad was tucked behind the books. I didn’t bother to take it out. It would almost certainly be password protected, and I didn’t have the time to hack into it.
I finally heard the whoop whoop of a siren, struggling to make its way through the traffic. I put everything back into the bags and put the bags where I found them and went out front to present myself to the officers of the Metropolitan Police like the good and loyal subject of the king I am.