The black London cab turned into the leafy Hampstead street, pulling up outside an impressively ornate large red brick Victorian-era house. The taxi driver looked curiously at the house; its gothic towers loomed over a tall matching redbrick wall and a towering and immaculately trimmed evergreen hedge. The house spoke of wealth, restrained wealth, old wealth, reclusive wealth, for only a millionaire could afford such a residence, yet the new millionaires were usually the ones keen to flaunt it, and this owner hid his or her wealth behind tall leafy green walls, and a cast iron security gate.
He glanced behind him at his uncommunicative passenger who, bundled up to his ears in a heavy black overcoat, grey wool suit and matching grey silk scarf had turned his head, gazing dispassionately at the house. The taxi driver did not think the passenger was the owner, for the owner would surely drive, or rather chauffeured in a Bentley or Rolls Royce. No, this silent passenger with the disturbing steely black eyes and ash-pale skin would have to be a visitor.
“We’re ‘ere Guv,” he said, “That’s eighty pounds.”
The passenger nodded and handed over a wad of notes, the taxi driver counted them, a sizeable tip was included.
“Thanks Guv,” he replied cheerily, whilst getting out and opening the door for his passenger, and then popping the boot and removing the expensive Italian leather suitcase.
The passenger took the suitcase and walked to the gate, not even glancing back at the driver, who used to uppity passengers, blithely ignored him and returned to the warmth of the taxi. A moment later and in a haze of exhaust fumes, the vehicle drove away.
Artificer Dalca stood shivering, his breath visible in the cold still air. The late afternoon sky was grey leaden, and the trees in the park opposite were scarce skeletons devoid of any foliage. The scene was a grim and slaty difference to the startlingly exuberant and vivid colours of the hot and humid sub-tropical land he had just left.
Pulling his overcoat even closer about his ears, he looked up at the house of the Benefactor. Dalca still did not understand why the Benefactor, rich beyond imagining, would confine himself to such a dwelling. Better to choose a grand country mansion, surrounded by acres of pristine forests and land, remote, secluded and secure - not this bizarre gothic pile hemmed in by ugly post-war concrete eyesores and modern neo-Victorian monstrosities. Still, he thought, endless wealth could not buy taste, and taste was as individual as opinion, yet it rankled that the Benefactor, so insistent upon perfection in others, chose to live in such a way.
Walking up to the heavy iron gate, he pressed a button and spoke briefly into a microphone. A second or two later the gate swung inwards upon on silent, well-oiled hinges. Quickly, he walked up the paved drive to the front door, he waited only a moment, and it too swung silently open. Inside the central heating of the building enveloped him in heavy almost suffocating warmth, and silent immaculately dressed figures relieved him of his now stifling overcoat and scarf. He handed them his suitcase and then stood for a moment, composing himself for this meeting. All that he could hear in the house was the quiet ticking of the nearby grandfather clock, and behind him, the almost silent click as the heavy oak door closed firmly upon the wintry London day. He checked the clock, two minutes to go. The Benefactor abhorred tardiness, and almost equally hated guests arriving early.
As the clock struck four, Dalca walked up to the finely carved internal door leading to the formal reception room and knocked quietly upon the wood. The door opened at his knock and he stepped inside.
*
With the sun warm on her back, Fiona was busily weeding her vegetable and herb bed when she heard the telephone ring. Pulling off her gardening gloves and tossing them to the ground, she hurried inside.
“Hello?” she said, speaking into the receiver.
“Miss Delany? Senior Sergeant Maxwell here, I’ve some information for you, but you might like to sit down first.”
“Oh!” Fiona did not know quite what to make of that enigmatic statement, but with her foot, hooked a chair over to her, and sat down.
“Okay, Sergeant Maxwell, I’m sitting. What is it that you wanted to tell me?”
She heard the police officer clear his throat uncomfortably, “We have received identification on the bodies involved in that car crash on Saturday.”
“That was quick!” she said surprised, “Doesn’t that usually take days or weeks?”
“Normally. yes, however we were able to trace the registration, and were able to locate personal items on the two bodies. I regret to inform you that the deceased persons are Dale Evans and the young woman Helena Wilson.”
Fiona caught her breath and felt blood drain from her face in shock. Her body trembled and she was glad that the police officer instructed her to sit, and not stand. For a moment, she could not speak, and then finally, and with a dry mouth, she asked, “Are you sure? Have you told Dale’s parents?”
“Yes, they’ve already positively identified the body,” he replied, “I’ve called you as a courtesy, not only because of what we discussed yesterday, but also because those two were our main suspects in the break and entry of your house.”
“What about Olivia?” she asked finally, dully, whilst still trying to comprehend that her ex-boyfriend was dead.
“Still no word on Miss Price,” he replied, “It is evident she cleared out and went to ground. Only two bodies were in that car, no other human remains have been found.”
Then Fiona was suddenly and inexplicably angry, “Dale didn’t deserve that kind of fate. I know he was immature, I know he made some bad choices, but cripes, he was only twenty-two. He had his whole life ahead of him.”
“Many young men end up like him with their lives cut short,” the police officer said quietly, “It’s clear that both Mr Evans and Miss Wilson were both involved in that Artificer cult. The investigating coroner has informed me that both bodies, although burned badly from the explosion, were marked with that distinctive tattoo on the backs of their hands, I’ve also asked him to check for that new drug that’s around; he said he’d have a result by week’s end.”
“Have you rung Bill?” she asked, anger still seething inside her.
“Officially he doesn’t need to know,” Maxwell said, “Off the record, I will be calling him. I assume Trent is at work today?”
“Yeah, he left around eight this morning,” Fiona replied shortly.
“Good, I’ll call him and Bill now,” Senior Sergeant Maxwell paused, and then added, “Will you be okay, Miss Delany?”
Still furious, and oddly surprised at herself for not feeling sorrow at Dale’s death, Fiona nodded, irritated, “Yeah I’ll be fine. I’m just angry at the waste of life.”
“We all are, Miss Delany,” the Senior Sergeant said wistfully, “We all are.”
*