Detective Superintendent Harry Stuart, fifty-seven years of age, and a thirty-two-year veteran of the London Metropolitan Police, felt deathly ill. His nose felt as if it had been crammed full of that stuff they insulate houses with, his eyes hurt, he had a sore throat, and a headache that could have been measured with a seismograph. Sitting at his desk in his small office at Scotland Yard, he ran his fingers through his graying hair, put his face in his hands, and wondered how soon he could expect to die.
“Don’t go to work, Harry, for heaven’s sake,” his wife, Emily, admonished him at breakfast. “You’re just being stupid and stubborn, as usual.”
“Get off with your bother,” he answered, in the rich accent of his native Glasgow. “I’ll be perfectly all right.”
“Well, think of everyone else,” Emily said, “if you won’t think of yourself. D’you really imagine they want you there, sneezing and blowing like a grampus, spreading microbes far and wide? Have at least a little consideration for them.”
Stuart was not widely known for thinking of others, so he ignored her. He shrugged into a heavy overcoat, planted a flat cap firmly on his head, and went out into the cold rain of the morning.
She’s nothing but a fuss-pot, he said to himself, as he rounded the corner, walked face-first into the full blast of an icy wind, and picked up his pace as he headed for the Tube station ten minutes’ walk away.
But now, at three o’clock that afternoon, after spending the morning interviewing a foul-mouthed young suspect banged up on a charge of grievous bodily harm and then gulping down a remarkably leathery toasted cheese sandwich in the canteen, he stared morosely at the pile of paperwork on his desk feeling it was mocking him. He pictured himself at home in his own warm sitting room nursing a hot toddy, and sincerely wished he had listened to Emily.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he muttered, “I’m going to die any moment now.” He washed down another two Aspirins with the cold remains of a cup of tea and sighed.
He looked around his office, as if to be sure no one had heard him. There was not much to see. There was his desk, a little knocked about now after so many years, two vinyl-covered wooden chairs in front of it, a coat rack in one corner, a small window in the wall opposite him offering a less than inspiring view of a plain brick wall across an alley, a whiteboard on the left-hand wall, and that was it. All very institutional and utilitarian, devoid of character. He sometimes thought it was not much to show for his years of service, but, on the whole, he was happy with his career and content with where it had taken him from his first days as a beat constable in uniform in Glasgow to his present rank on the plainclothes side of the house here at Scotland Yard.
He debated the idea of simply saying he was ill and going home early, but that would be to admit Emily had been right, which she had been, of course. However, he imagined the I told you so expression with which she would greet him as he walked in the door and he steeled himself to stay the course. He told himself he could last out the day, provided nothing came along to make a mess of it.
Which, naturally, it did.
About ten minutes later, as he was making a desultory attempt at composing a report on the morning’s GBH interview, the phone on his desk trilled its electronic summons.
“Oh God,” he groaned under his breath, sniffing, as he reached for the receiver.
“Stuart.”
“Fielding here, sir. We’ve a dead bloke in an alley near Canary Wharf.”
“That’s all I bloody need,” Stuart croaked, his sore throat and blocked nasal passages making it sound like, dat’s all I bloody deed.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Detective Sergeant David Fielding, Stuart’s right-hand man for the past three years.
“No, I’m not all right, but never mind that. Get the car, will you?”
With Fielding at the wheel, they drove towards what used to be the rather dilapidated dock and warehouse district in London’s east end. A casualty of London’s gradual post-war decline as a seaport, the area fell into disuse until its transformation into a major international financial center in the 1990s. Not for the first time, Stuart noticed Fielding’s peculiar habit of addressing the drivers of other vehicles around him on the road, telling them under his breath to get going, stay where they were, or, more usually, to get out of his way.
The relentless rain hammered on the roof of the car, and Stuart gloomily realized that if the temperature dropped a couple of degrees, it would all turn to freezing slush and snow. Other cars, slowed by the deluge crawled along the streets, making progress grindingly tedious. Stuart sat next to Fielding, his raincoat pulled around him and his hat well down on his head, feeling worse by the minute. He finally admitted to himself his condition was not a simple chill after all, but a full-on case of galloping influenza.
Emily’s going to give me hell when I get home.
“You should have stayed at home this morning, sir,” said Fielding, edging the car towards a right-hand turn.
“Don’t you start,” Stuart coughed, then sneezed explosively. “I’ll take it easy over the weekend. I’ll be fine by Monday.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Fielding. “There’s some nasty stuff going about this winter. My sister’s been off work for the last ten days.”
“Thanks very much for that welcome bit of encouragement,” said Stuart, sniffing. “How far is this place, anyway?”
“We’d have been there ten minutes ago if it weren’t for the traffic and this damn rain. It’s been like this all day. I often think the only difference between this weather and Noah’s flood is that today we have better drains.”
“I don’t suppose you brought an umbrella, did you?” asked Stuart, fearing the worst.
“Afraid not, sir.”
“Wonderful.”
After another ten minutes of stop-and-go driving and concurrent running commentary, Fielding guided the car into a side street surrounded by towering office buildings and pulled up by the entrance to a narrow alley between two shiny blocks of flats. As Fielding parked behind an ambulance and another squad car, Stuart collected his mental resources for the task ahead. He had investigated innumerable murders in his time, and seen innumerable dead bodies, but not usually when he was feeling near death himself. Yellow crime scene tape was festooned everywhere, and they ducked under it after showing their identification to an unhappy-looking uniformed constable wearing a plastic rain cape. Stuart found himself at the entrance to an alley barely wide enough to allow them to walk abreast. About twenty paces from the road they came upon a knot of people gathered under a tent-like rain shelter. The group parted for them, and Stuart studied the scene before him. The body of a young man in his mid-to-late twenties lay curled as if asleep on the granite paving squares where it had been pushed behind a couple of metal rubbish bins. The clothing was saturated, and through the open raincoat and jacket, he saw a copious bloodstain on his white shirt.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Don’t know yet, sir,” said one of the paramedics. “Dr. Crane’s still busy with him.”
“Shot?” asked Fielding.
A woman of about forty looked up from where she knelt by the corpse.
“Yes. Very close range, I’d say, and small caliber.”
Dr. Alison Crane got to her feet and removed her latex gloves.
“How long’s he been dead?” asked Stuart.
“I’ll know better once I get him on the slab,” she said, “but off-hand I’d say he’s been here at least a couple of days.”
“So probably dumped on Tuesday or Wednesday night,” said Stuart.
“Quite likely, yes.”
“Look there, sir,” said Fielding, pointing. “His left shoe is half off his foot. That could mean he was dragged down here after getting himself shot somewhere else.”
“Could well be,” said Stuart, nodding. “Anyway, get Uniform to canvas the area. See if anyone heard or saw anything the last couple of nights. Oh, and interview whoever it was that found him. Forensics should be here any minute, so we can clear off. Are you finished, Dr. Crane?”
“Pretty much,” she answered, taking up her bag. “I should be able to tell you more after I do the PM. And, by the way, Superintendent, you sound awful. You should be at home, not prancing about back alleys in this sort of weather. Next thing is I’ll be doing a PM on you if you’re not careful.”
“I know, I know,” said Stuart, sounding as miserable as he looked and trying not to remind himself how much of an idiot he was. The damp cold had seeped into every bone and joint in his body, and his sinuses ached abominably.
Leaving the group, Stuart and Fielding returned to their car, both more than happy to be out of the rain which showed no signs of abating. As Fielding edged the car back onto the main road, Stuart glanced over at him hearing him mutter something to the driver of a white Toyota. Fielding was thirty-two, a full six feet three inches tall, with well-cared-for fair hair, hazel eyes, and a strong, square jaw. His promotion to detective inspector would come soon, and Stuart would be happy to see it. Fielding was an asset to the Force, and the sooner he rose in rank, the better.
* * *
Stuart spent the weekend in bed, and was then ordered by his physician, a rotund and disgustingly cheerful little man in a tweed suit, to spend the following week there as well. He opened his mouth to protest, but on catching sight of the expression on Emily’s face he thought better of it immediately. The sentence had been handed down and it was clear any appeal would be denied. Thus, it was nine days before he returned to Scotland Yard, but thanks to the rest, a solid course of antibiotics, and Emily’s tender, loving, and rigidly strict ministrations, he felt a great deal better. Walking to the Tube station that Monday morning, therefore, he decided with relief he was not going to die after all. Sitting down behind his desk, he booted up his computer, and stared at the list of accumulated unread emails. He derived a perverse sense of satisfaction from seeing how many departmental and other meetings he had missed, but after prioritizing the emails into his customary three action categories. Now, Later, and Never, he set about getting up to speed on his caseload.
What about the bloke in the alley? he asked himself, scrolling down to find the folder.
There was a preliminary report from Fielding revealing the victim’s identity as a certain Terence Preston, aged twenty-five, London address, and a graduate student at Oxford in archeology and sinology. Fielding had begun the process of interviewing Preston’s known friends and acquaintances, but thus far had found nothing whatever to explain why anyone would want to kill him. Stuart called Fielding in.
Fielding settled himself onto one of the vinyl chairs before Stuarts desk saying, “You look a lot better, Guv.”
“What’s happening with this Preston chap?” he asked, ignoring the sergeant’s solicitudes.
“Interesting thing about him,” said Fielding. “He turns out to have been the nephew of Detective Inspector William Foy, now retired.”
“Bill Foy?” asked Stuart, in some surprise. “Good God.”
“Yes,” said Fielding. “I’ve had him on the phone several times last week trying to find out what we’re doing and how we’re doing it.”
“I’ll just bet you have,” Stuart grunted, with evident feeling. “He always did have the idea that most of us didn’t know what we were doing or how to do it. Wasn’t afraid to say so, either. Used to get him into trouble sometimes.”
The mere mention of Foy’s name called up bad memories for Stuart. He disliked the man, and he could foresee potential trouble. Why the hell did Terence Preston have to be his nephew?
What a lousy coincidence.
“So, I’ve heard,” said Fielding, grinning, “but he’s very polite when he talks to me.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Stuart. “We don’t want him breathing down our necks the whole time.” He paused a moment, then resumed. “Anyway, what about Preston? Where are we now?”
“Dead end at the moment,” said Fielding. “Excuse the pun. I’m still doing the rounds of people who knew him, but there’s nothing about him, his life, or his background, to suggest he might wind up dead in an east end alley.”
“Robbery?”
“No, indeed. He had his wallet on him with fifty-three quid in it. He had his watch on as well, and a small gold signet ring. All untouched. Whoever topped him wasn’t after money.”
“Post-mortem results?”
“Nothing much more than we heard at the time. Shot at close range with a nine-millimeter handgun. Dr. Crane retrieved the bullet and judging from the location of the wound and angle of entry, Preston wasn’t facing his killer. Most likely standing, or perhaps sitting, on his or her right. Ballistics couldn’t find a match to anything on file but did say the gun almost certainly had a silencer on it.”
“A silencer?” echoed Stuart, his eyebrows arched. “Well, that tells us something about the killer, doesn’t it? Perhaps it was a professional hit.”
“Possibly, sir,” said Fielding, looking dubious, “but what on earth for? I mean, why would a pro have anything to do with a young Oxford egghead?”
“We don’t know yet, do we, but stranger things have happened. It’s worth following up.”
“I doubt a professional would use a nine-mill peashooter, sir, nor go with a single shot.”
“Well, check the data banks anyway. See if there’s anything there.” Stuart sighed before adding, “You know the drill, Fielding. No stone unturned, and all that sort of thing.”
“Will do, Guv,” said Fielding, making a note.
“Time of death?”
“Some time on Wednesday evening.”
“Forensics?”
“He’d been killed, then dumped where he was found on Friday afternoon just as we originally speculated.”
“How’d they know that?”
“Well, there was the shoe I noticed, but also a tear in one of Preston’s trouser legs as well as a stain matching oil on the pavement in the alley. The main point, though, was that there was no blood residue. He’d done his bleeding elsewhere. They reckon he was dragged in from the street.”
“Brought there by car.”
“Presumably, yes.”
“Anything to suggest where he was actually killed?” asked Stuart, thinking the leads here were thin, at best.
“Nothing, I’m afraid.”
Stuart thought that was hardly surprising, and asked, “Did Uniform come up with anything? Strange noises? Cars stopped at odd hours? That sort of thing?”
Fielding shook his head, saying, “No one heard or saw anything on the Wednesday night, and there’s no surveillance camera coverage in that particular area, which, I suppose, may be why the killer chose it.”
“If that’s true,” mused Stuart, “it makes it sound all the more like a professional effort.”
“Yes, it does,” said Fielding, “but, to reiterate, there’s nothing to connect Preston with anything that might warrant his being killed at all, let alone in a professional, targeted hit.”
“Terrific,” snorted Stuart. “And who found him?”
“Two blokes who came to empty the rubbish bins. I talked to both of them.” Here, Fielding shrugged expressively before saying, “Routine. They came, they saw, they called nine-nine-nine. They did have the sense not to touch anything.”
“So, we’re nowhere,” said Stuart, after a short pause.
“Pretty well nowhere, yes.”
And Bill Foy circling around out there like a vulture, Stuart reflected sourly, before another thought struck him, and he asked if the victim had a mobile phone.
“There was no phone on him,” said Fielding. “Forgot to mention that, but I’m—”
“Did you check that out?” Stuart interrupted.
It was a stupid question, but Stuart was totally oblivious. Fielding, expressionless, simply said, “Yes, and he did use one. I’m—”
“But no sign of it?”
Another daft question, but once again Fielding did not react. “I’m getting the phone records,” he said.
“Good,” said Stuart, “but it’s odd, don’t you think? The killer leaves Preston’s wallet and his watch but pinches his mobile…if he had it on him, that is.”
“Well,” said Fielding, “it wasn’t in his flat.”
“Then we have to assume he had it with him, and it was taken,” said Stuart, grasping the obvious. “What does that tell us?”
Fielding paused, perhaps waiting for Stuart to answer his own question, then said, “I’d suggest there was something about the phone, and the killer knew what it was.”
“Right,” said Stuart. “But what was it, I wonder? Did anything turn up when you searched his flat?”
“Nothing at all. Just mountains of papers, articles, notes, books, and that sort of thing. All stuff on Chinese history and archeology, just as you might expect, and a good deal of it actually in Chinese, to boot. There’s a small team still going through it, so perhaps something might show up. I rather doubt it, though.”
“Let’s hope something does,” Stuart said, “but the place was clean otherwise, was it?”
It seemed to be Stuart’s morning for repetitious questions, but by this time he was suffering from a depressing feeling that the case had got away from him and there was no way to retrieve it. Without leads to follow, he was like the proverbial drowning man thrashing about in search of a straw, and he hated that feeling. Not only might there not be an arrest, but also, he felt that he had no control over the situation, and that was the worst of all.
“Clean as a whistle,” answered Fielding.
“Not even a wee bit of the wacky backy?” There was a note of desperation in his voice.
Fielding shook his head.
“So, we’ve an unblemished, unremarkable, perfectly ordinary young student who gets himself shot and dumped in an alleyway. He’s not robbed, but perhaps the killer swipes his mobile phone for a souvenir, or something.”
“We might be able to find out who he last spoke to when we get the records,” said Fielding.
“Okay, let me know.”
“Will do.”
Another thought struck Stuart, and he asked, “What about his parents, other family members?”
“Both parents are dead, no brothers or sisters.”
“Of course.” Stuart grunted. “Why aren’t I surprised?” He sat silent for a moment, ruminating. The landscape looked very bleak to him. “Well,” he said, “just tell me there’s one, tiny thing we have to go on here, can you do that much, Sergeant?”
“Well, actually, I think I can, sir,” said Fielding. “The techies had a go at Preston’s computer. There’s a load of stuff on it related to his work at Oxford with a Professor Sir Donald Willard. I talked to his office, but he’s away at some conference or other in Chicago. Left two weeks ago and won’t be back for another five days because he’s going on to Harvard. I’ll talk to him when he’s back because Preston sent him a message the night he died. It—”
“What did it say?” Stuart’s impatience showed clearly in his tone.
“It didn’t say anything,” said Fielding. “There was no message, not even a subject. There was an attachment, but it hadn’t downloaded to the computer for some reason. Hopefully, Willard can retrieve it.”
“I hope so,” said Stuart, not wanting to contemplate losing hold of a possible straw. “Anything else?”
“Could be,” said Fielding, checking his notes. “There’s quite a string of messages with someone named Mike Barrow setting up a dinner at Barrow’s flat on the night Preston was killed. I’ve spent the last two days combing through it all. I found the Barrow messages late last night.”
Relief swept over Stuart like a tsunami.
“Well,” he said, getting to his feet, “thank God there’s something we can actually do. Let’s have a word with this Mr. Barrow, shall we? Where’s he live?”
“Knightsbridge.”