“There’s no evidence of that. Well, not unless you think the candles at Wilton’s Music Hall were a timer of sorts.”
Emma stiffened.
“Sorry. Bad joke.” Nightshade held up her hands. “I would suggest, given the fact your mother knows we’re working under a self-imposed time limit, that something important has happened.”
“Do either of you know what’s up?” Emma asked Mac and Neil.
Both of them shook their heads.
“Then we should see her first,” Nightshade said with a shrug. She sat back. “And hope Maria grants us an extension.”
Emma glanced out the back window and prayed they weren’t making a huge mistake.
Neil followed the bank of the Thames and twenty minutes later parked outside Martin’s house in Wilton Crescent, Belgravia, which backed onto Buckingham Palace and its ample gardens.
The building itself was a Grade II listed grey stone terraced house spanning six floors. It had sash windows, a black door with a security camera above it, and iron railings out front.
“What are we doing here?” Emma murmured.
Parked opposite was a silver Mercedes. Carlos leaned against it, phone in hand as he watched them and the house.
Emma and Nightshade climbed out of the car. No sooner had they stepped onto the front path when the door opened and Maria greeted them.
“Thanks for helping Mac and Neil,” Emma said to her. “How’s it going with Olivia?”
“No sign of her yet.” Maria looked over at Carlos. “But my lawyer is on it.”
Surprised her mother hadn’t asked why Olivia was involved, Emma was about to explain when she noticed her expression: somewhere between grief and anger.
Emma tensed. “What’s going on?”
Maria shook herself and looked at Emma. “Sorry, I know you were busy, but I needed you here to see this. There could be clues.” She moved aside.
Emma and Nightshade walked into a narrow hallway with antique hand-painted posters lining the walls. They were advertisements showing Harry Houdini bound with chains, tied up in a crate and buried, and even conjuring ghostly spirits.
However, the red-and-yellow poster of him upside down in a tank of water stood out. There was something about the way Houdini was cuffed, chained, and trapped mere moments from drowning that raised Emma’s hackles.
Maria closed the front door and they followed her past the stairs and a sitting room, then up three steps, along a short corridor, and into a spacious office.
Emma paused at the door with Nightshade. The room was a mess: furniture was tipped over and a plant stand lay on its side, spilling dirt among scattered notepads, pens, and broken photo frames. A telephone lay in pieces in the corner, as though thrown in a fit of rage.
“They must have kidnapped Martin by force.” Maria said in a bitter tone. “They took him to that café and tortured him for his basement code.”
“The same thing happened to Ruby,” Nightshade said. “Although a different method was used, one would assume the same outcome.”
Maria’s eyes widened. “Ruby’s dead?”
Emma cringed at her memory of the tape residue, the injection site, Ruby’s waxlike skin and the glass of poison. “We got there too late.” She’d tell her mother the whole truth later.
“I can’t believe it.” Maria shook her head. “What is going on? Ruby too? Why?” Her jaw muscles flexed. “When I find out who’s doing this, I’ll kill them myself.”
“We now know how the killer entered the basement, but still not how they accessed the vault,” Nightshade said. “That’s the part that really puzzles me. It just doesn’t add up. We’re missing something.”
“It proves Sophie was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Maria said. “Which is a small consolation, but I admit I’m relieved. It gets Richard off my back. For that, at least.”
Although Emma could agree about the robbery part, there was no doubt they were dealing with a lot more than a simple theft. She wasn’t so sure about Sophie either. The killer had arranged everything, with clues and a deliberate path to follow. That didn’t sound like the plans of a thief.
Emma glanced at Nightshade, wanting to hurry back to Blackfriars to continue the hunt.
“We should ask the neighbours if they’ve seen anything suspicious,” Nightshade said.
“No need,” Emma said. “There’s a camera outside the front door.”
“Out back, too.” Maria said. “It’s hidden though. The front door camera is the only overt one. I think there must be others hidden too. That’s the reason I asked Neil to bring you here: for you to do your thing.” She waved a hand around the office. “I don’t know where Martin hid the security camera control box, computer, whatever it is. It’s got to be in this house somewhere. I’ve searched it top to bottom and it’s driving me nuts. We don’t have time to knock down walls.” She stepped out of the way.
Emma lowered her hoodie and removed her sunglasses.
The jumbled mess of the room rushed forward, and the details slammed into her, forcing her back a step, as though they had actual weight to them.
She pointed at the plant stand.
“Someone knocked that over when they burst in,” Nightshade said.
Emma turned to the desk and gestured at the chair pushed back to the wall. “Uncle Martin stood up.”
“And reached for the phone,” Nightshade said.
“But the killer beat him to it,” Emma leaned across the desk and mimicked the action. “Yanked the cable from the wall and hurled the phone across the room.” She pointed to the corner where the broken phone now lay. “Uncle Martin then went to open this.” She circled the desk and used a pen to slide open the drawer fully, where inside lay a pack of markers, a white remote control with an image of a dragon stencilled onto it, and a loaded pistol.
“Nicely spotted,” Nightshade said. “But the killer pulled Martin across the desk before he had time to grab the gun.” She gestured at the notepads, pens and photo frames scattered across the floor.
Emma frowned. “The killer must have been a big guy.”
Nightshade mimed the actions. “They struggled and knocked over this chair.”
“And the killer stuck him with this.” Emma indicated a syringe lying on the carpet, partly obscured by a cushion. She kicked the cushion over with her foot. The syringe was empty.
“Then he dragged Martin this way.” Nightshade motioned to the ruffled rug at her feet and backed away from the office. “Like this.”
Emma pointed at a set of rubber heel marks on the sandstone floor, as Nightshade edged along the hallway and down the steps, then stopped at the back door.
“Darling?”
Emma knelt and examined the lock, first inside, then outside. “No sign of forced entry.”
“The killer raked the tumblers,” Nightshade said. “It’s an old lock, it wouldn’t be difficult.”
Emma straightened up and peered outside at the courtyard and the door at the far end, which led to a garage and another street behind the house. She didn’t bother to look further. Her mother was right: they needed to find the CCTV recordings first.
Emma walked down the hallway, looking for the tiniest of clues, and into the sitting room. A display cabinet held several books on conjuring and sleight-of-hand magic, sets of antique handcuffs, decks of cards, padlocks, and a whole host of props.
Uncle Martin had been an avid collector of magical paraphernalia, and he’d acquired his modest assortment by legitimate means.
Making a mental note of the room’s dimensions and looking for any inconsistencies in the walls which might indicate a secret cupboard or door, Emma walked into the connecting dining area, repurposed into a design studio.
In the middle stood a table, covered with blueprints. There was a technical drawing of a box with a saw attached, another of a table with dragon carvings and a hidden compartment, and a third drawing of an oversized grandfather clock, large enough to conceal a willing assistant.
Back in the hall, Emma slipped on her sunglasses and looked up the stairs.
“Wait,” Nightshade said. “Let’s go to the basement and work our way up through the house.”
Emma headed down, and at the bottom of the stairs she made her way along another corridor. She stopped at the end and peered over the top of her sunglasses into a wine cellar.
Maybe one of the—
She stiffened at a bang, followed by a scraping.
30
The hairs on the back of Emma’s neck stood on end. She put a finger to her lips as Nightshade and Maria joined her, and then pointed to a door on their left.
The bang repeated, followed by more scraping.
Emma whispered, “What’s in there?”
Maria shrugged. “Laundry room.”
Emma stared at the wall, visualizing the floor’s layout and dimensions. She figured the laundry room would have a window that led to the sunken area beside the front door—a possible break-in point.
Uncle Martin’s assailants had entered through the back door, but perhaps they’d returned for some reason. Maybe they’d decided to come this way instead, by climbing over the railings and breaking open the window. But how did they get past—
Emma’s breath caught in her throat as the scraping began again. She considered running upstairs and calling Mac and Neil, but before she could move, her mother opened the laundry-room door.
Maggie—Uncle Martin’s eight-pound Yorkshire Terrier and Maltese cross—scurried through, yapping and wagging her tail at a million miles an hour, all four legs a fluffy blur as her paws slid on the tiled floor.
Emma beamed, but as she scooped the dog into her arms, her face fell at another wave of grief. Maggie will never see Uncle Martin again. She’ll never understand what happened to him.
Once Maggie had calmed, Emma set her back on the floor, but the dog stayed close.
Maria smiled. “It appears that she’s yours now.”
Emma shook her head. “I can’t have a dog.”
“Why not? If you don’t take her, Maggie could wind up anywhere, with anyone. I can’t think of a single person she’d be better off living with, and Martin would agree.”
“What do you say?” Emma knelt. “Wanna live with me?” Maggie licked her hand, which she took to mean yes. As Emma scratched the little dog’s ears, she glanced about her, and refocused on her task. “Let’s keep looking.” She straightened up and strode down the hallway, scanning all around for signs of the concealed CCTV equipment.
They entered a kitchen with a range cooker and an island with a ceramic worktop.
Emma glanced at her mother. “What made you come here, anyway? You were going to see Jacob.”
“A feeling,” Maria said. “I decided to come here first. Wanted to see if there are any clues as to what happened to Martin and who’s responsible.”
A quick scan of the kitchen yielded nothing out of the ordinary. Besides, it was unlikely that Emma’s uncle would have kept CCTV equipment in such a humid environment.
Emma scooped Maggie up, strode past Maria and Nightshade, and went upstairs. She opted to go past the master bedroom on the second level, two further bedrooms on the third, and up to the very top of the house—the most likely place for her uncle to have hidden the CCTV controls.
Two doors stood open, both led to bedrooms.
Emma stepped through the first. The room stood empty with bare floorboards. She checked out the walls and ceiling, and glanced through another door leading to a shower and toilet.
The second room had a bed pushed up against the wall to the left, and on the right stood a built-in wardrobe. Another open door opposite led to a bathroom complete with an old-fashioned porcelain toilet, a roll-top bath, and a walk-in shower.
“Hmm.” Emma faced the wardrobe. She peered at the walls flush to the wardrobe on either side, then walked onto the landing, counting her steps, and back into the first bedroom with the bare floorboards.
She smiled to herself as she examined the wall on the other side, then hurried back to the furnished bedroom. This room was definitely a few feet narrower than it should have been.
First, Emma checked either side of the wardrobe, rapping a knuckle on the walls: they sounded like plasterboard, with a cavity beyond. She opened the wardrobe. An old suit and a fur coat hung on the left. Emma felt around the back panel and tried a few of the hooks, but found nothing out of the ordinary.
Then she had an idea.
Emma set Maggie down. No sooner had her paws touched the floor than she hopped into the wardrobe and pressed her nose into the right-hand corner.
Emma laughed. “Thanks.”
Maggie looked up at her, then scratched the back panel.
“What’s in here?” Emma said. “Narnia?”
Nightshade and Maria entered the room just as Emma pushed the right-hand side of the back panel with both hands. There was a solid click and she managed to slide part of the rear section to the left.
Emma squeezed through with Maggie.
The room was six feet by four. Flat screens took up the largest wall, above a narrow shelf with a CCTV recorder box, its controls, and a chair.
Maggie jumped into a fur-lined basket, circled a few times, and lay down with a soft sigh.
Emma dropped into a chair and, using a track pad, she brought up a list of recordings, arranged by date. According to the system, there were eight cameras. A quick glance at the other screens revealed that the camera covering the front door was labelled one, and the camera on the street at the back of the house, aimed at the garage door, was three. “Any idea what time or day we should look at?”
“I would say start at yesterday morning.” Nightshade pointed at camera two.
That camera was located high on the wall in the forecourt. It was aimed at the door which led to the downstairs hallway, but also afforded a partial view of Martin’s office. At least, while the office door stood open.
Emma set the time, from 5:00 a.m. the previous day until midnight, and pressed Play.
The image changed. The office door was now closed, and all seemed quiet.
Emma sped the recording onward. Her right knee bounced up and down as her finger hovered over the button.
Six o’clock, seven, eight . . . The sun rose.
It wasn’t until twenty minutes past nine in the morning that movement made Emma react. She hit the button and the recording returned to normal speed.
Martin Hernandez strode past the glass back door and went into his office. As he sat behind his desk, a new pang of grief washed over Emma, and she wished she could jump through the screen and warn him.
Eyes glued to the display, she sped on.
At a little before one in the afternoon Martin left his office, only to return a few minutes later with a coffee. He closed the door behind him this time, cutting off their view.
“I called him about now,” Maria said.
Emma let out a breath and sped up the recording again. One o’clock turned into two, then three . . .
Emma’s hand flew to the controls. She hit the pause button and pointed. “There.”
31
Nightshade and Maria leaned in and peered at the middle CCTV screen as Emma hit play. The time in the corner read 3:05 p.m. and the image showed a view outside the back door.
A figure moved past.
Maria gripped the back of Emma’s chair. “Who’s that?”
The figure returned a few seconds later, lurking in the shadows, and wearing a balaclava. After a glance around, they squatted by the door.
“Picking the lock,” Nightshade said. “By his build, looks like a guy, and he knows what he’s doing. A professional, highly skilled, accomplishing a challenging task he must have spent many hours perfecting.”
Emma looked at her askance. “Or he’s watched a few online videos.”
Nightshade shrugged. “Or that.”
It took under thirty seconds to get the door open. Once in, he checked the coas
t was clear, then leaned back outside and beckoned someone else to join him.
Sure enough, a second figure appeared, also wearing a balaclava, and well over six feet and muscular.
“Do you think that could be Raul?” Nightshade asked Maria. “Similar height and build.”
“Several candidates fit the bill in both families. A few freelancers, too.” Maria inclined her head. “Does look like Raul, though.”
“Could be Mac.” Nightshade chuckled.
Emma shot her a look.
The men approached Martin’s office door.
Maria’s grip tightened on the back of the chair, and the leather creaked beneath her fingertips.
The shorter man signalled to the other, then grabbed the handle and on a count of three, threw the door open. As he lurched into the room, he stumbled, bumped the plant stand, and the pot smashed on the floor.
Martin’s head snapped up and he reached for the phone, but the big guy snatched it from Martin’s grasp. He ripped the cable from the socket and threw the phone against the wall.
Emma gritted her teeth. “Don’t do it.”
But Martin’s right hand dropped to the uppermost desk drawer.
The shorter intruder spotted what he was doing and waved a finger at him.
The big guy lunged across the desk, grabbed Martin’s jacket lapels, and lifted him from his chair, scattering stationery and photo frames.
Martin lashed out as the shorter guy approached with a syringe, but the larger man pulled Martin into a bear hug and spun him round, knocking over a chair. A split second later, the needle pierced Martin’s neck.
Martin kicked out again, this time he made ontact with the shorter guy’s wrist and sending the syringe flying, but it was too late. The big guy let go of Martin and he staggered a few steps before his legs gave way and he crumpled to the floor.
Maggie ran into the office. The shorter guy shooed her down the hallway and out of sight.
“That’s how she got locked in the laundry room.” Emma said.
The big guy picked her uncle up like a rag doll and threw him over his shoulder.
Death in London: A Nightshade Crime Thriller (Emma & Nightshade Mystery Series Book 1) Page 17
