The thick whir of a machine frothing milk drowned out the voice at the end of the line. James placed his hand over his right ear as he pushed his phone closer towards his left ear. He grimaced.
‘Yes, it’s still his favourite coffeehouse. That man would take it intravenously if he could,’ the voice on the other end of the line bellowed across the noise.
‘Thanks. The last thing I want to do is upset him.’
He hit the red button on the screen and sighed. Lying was part of his job. He didn’t like it, but no one liked talking to the press. Bending the truth had become a necessity. James had done his homework and discovered almost three hundred-plus scathing reviews of cafes all over Northampton by Pathologist Dr Olivier Deschamps. One rare favourable review indicated that he was a frequent patron of ‘this establishment’, as Olivier had worded it in a review on Google.
But James had been waiting for over two hours and saw no sign of the pathologist or his assistant. The man had a coffee problem, and he was nowhere in sight. Between line edits and proofs of the articles for the next day’s edition and sips of coffee strong enough to cure heartburn, James had begun to get impatient. As he perused the article on his screen one last time, the front door to the cafe slammed open, breaking his concentration. James looked up, and across the room was a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a white lab coat from the Northampton General Hospital.
Jackpot.
James sprinted across the room, darting in and out of the sea of tables and chairs.
‘Olivier,’ he called out over the noise of the peak-hour trading.
Olivier waved at him, then returned his gaze to the menu.
‘I heard you’re performing the autopsy of Pippa Baker. She worked at the NMA with one of the curators, Elizabeth James. I’m doing a piece on Elizabeth’s new exhibit for the culture section.’
Olivier raised his finger to silence James, leaned over the counter, and ordered his coffee.
He shook his head at James. ‘You’re starting with that? Here?’ Olivier looked over the top of his thin-framed glasses.
‘The other week at Queens Head, I listened to one of your exceptionally long monologues about how you despise all small talk and wish people would get straight to the point,’ James said as he pointed towards the door, which was in the general direction of the pub.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Anwar left his notes open on his desk.’
‘He’s getting sloppy in his old age.’
‘Anwar is trying to—’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘This isn’t a story for me. I’m looking into it for Elizabeth James. I believe she’s innocent.’
‘James, I don’t want to know. I must remain objective.’ Olivier clenched his right hand.
As Olivier turned around to walk out the door, James grabbed his bicep. ‘Anwar is building a case against a suspect who I believe is innocent. Do you want her to go to jail for a crime she didn’t commit?’
‘That’s not for me to decide. The evidence will speak for itself.’
‘Just give me something. I need to know if my theory is correct, that I’m not wrong and helping a murderer go free.’
‘No.’ Olivier broke free from James’s grip, marched to the door, and pulled it towards him.
‘Obviously, this is completely off the record,’ James said as Olivier paused, tapping his fingers on the doorframe.
The tall, lanky man walked towards James in complete silence. Olivier’s light-brown eyes were cold and locked straight on him. Olivier stopped a few centimetres from where James was standing, then leaned in a little closer.
‘I better not see a hint of this anywhere in your newspaper. I could get fired. The autopsy isn’t finished yet.’ Olivier’s whisper was barely audible above the buzz of an overworked coffee machine at peak hour.
‘Of course.’
‘Whoever stabbed the deceased was taller, and I mean significantly taller.’
‘Can you give me a figure?’
‘It’s just an estimate, but at least six feet, possibly taller.’ Olivier walked out of the cafe then sprinted across the road towards the Northampton General Hospital.
A thick stench of paper wafted past James’s nose as he walked through the sea of cubicles and towards Chan’s desk. The police constable whirled around on his chair and looked up at James, then focused back on the ever-growing sea of paperwork. James walked across the cubicle space as Chan stood and cleared away a pile of papers stacked up on the chair next to his desk. Chan paused for a moment. The PC’s dark-brown eyes looked around his working area. Chan sighed, turned around, dumped the papers on the edge of his desk, and gestured to James to take a seat.
‘I have the warrant. It came through an hour ago. While I was waiting for you, I got a little curious.’ Chan sat down at his desk.
‘And here I thought you were overworked and had no time.’
James walked to the desk, sat down, and leaned toward Chan. He rested his elbow on the corner of the desk.
‘I have some time.’ PC Chan shrugged.
‘Just not for paperwork.’ James smirked as his eyes lingered on the mounds of paper on Chan’s desk.
‘Your tips from the other day turned out to be quite helpful,’ Chan said in a whisper.
James nodded. ‘Out of curiosity, what was the murder weapon?’
Chan shook his head. ‘A kitchen knife from Elizabeth’s knife block. It’s missing. This is feeding Anwar’s suspicions surrounding Elizabeth’s involvement in the murder. He thinks it was tossed in the garbage because the bins were emptied in her area the same morning that she called the police.’
James nodded.
‘Off the record. Remember?’ Chan pointed his finger at James.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘It was your daily report that sparked my interest. I looked up your friend Maximilian Arthur George Nicholls.’ Chan raised his eyebrows at James. ‘It’s quite the name.’
‘Let me guess? Old money.’ James looked down at his dusty black shoes.
‘Ancient.’ Chan turned the screen towards James. ‘But that’s not as interesting as this.’ Chan pointed at the screen.
James leaned in and squinted as his eyes swept the records. ‘He’s the CFO of Alistair’s company?’ James stared at Chan. ‘Alistair is letting a man who was convicted of a felony run his company.’
‘It wasn’t a conviction. It was a slap on the wrist at best.’ Chan shook his head.
‘He was still convicted.’ James tapped the pile of folders next to him.
‘Yes. I’m going to take a stab in the dark and suggest that Alistair doesn’t look at his company accounts,’ PC Chan said as he raised his eyebrows.
‘Possibly.’
‘Trust me, he doesn’t know a thing.’ Chan reached across to the mouse and scrolled the small wheel while fixing his eyes on the screen.
James stood up, looked over Chan’s shoulder, and read the data on the screen. ‘That’s a serious loss.’ James paced.
After a few moments, he looked at Chan. ‘How does Alistair not know? You would notice losing that much money.’ James placed his hands on his hips, turned his head to the side, and stared straight ahead.
‘You might. But Alistair comes from a very wealthy aristocratic family,’ Chan said as James weighed up the new information.
‘He must be in on this as well.’ James took a deep breath and looked at his feet.
Chan rubbed the back of his neck, then closed the screen on his computer. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I found multiple texts between Pippa and Maximilian, and one where he explicitly told her to “keep out of it.”’
James raised his eyebrows at Chan. ‘Really? So, she must have interfered in something to do with the sword?’
Chan sighed.
‘When I was in Pippa’s flat, I noticed that she had a few expensive items that were probably gifts.’ James nodded. ‘And then there’s the custom-made jacket that most likely belongs to Maximilian. Do you think they were in a romantic entanglement of some kind?’
Chan winced. ‘Yes, there’s evidence to suggest something was going on between them. I found chat messages and images on her computer when I returned to her flat in the Queens Head after that night. They were keeping it a secret.’
James groaned. ‘So, why would he stab her if they’re in a relationship? Did she just get in the way?’ James nodded. ‘It fits with his icy manner, I suppose.’
Chan grabbed the mouse and opened a screen on his computer. ‘I can’t continue speculating with you. It’s unprofessional. But if there’s anything else you know, you should tell me now.’
James took a deep breath and remained silent.
Chan turned around, looked up at James, and tilted his head.
‘Nope,’ James said with a nod.
‘There’s one more thing I need to show you,’ Chan said as James looked up and focused on the screen.
‘What?’ James’s voice had a hint of curiosity.
‘Maximilian has accumulated a significant debt since his conviction and fine.’
James walked across the room towards Chan’s desk and looked at the report on the screen. His heart sank.
What have I gotten myself into?
James clutched the middle button that closed his suit jacket and paced the room again.
I’m sorry, Valentine.
James stopped in the centre of the room and sighed. Things were hopeless, but he couldn’t give in to his pessimistic nature. He had to keep going, piecing together the clues, one by one.
The note bore a set of explicit instructions. But that was all he could think about—Valentine. He needed to focus on the case and close in on Maximilian and Alistair. But he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The more he pushed the thoughts away, the more they resurfaced.
A single tear filled one eye and trickled down James’s cheek.
‘What’s wrong?’ Chan stood up from his chair, walked over to James, and placed his hand on his back.
James took a deep breath to centre himself, then turned to Chan.
‘They have Valentine,’ he whimpered as the tears streamed down his face. ‘I’m certain.’