by Ben Hopkin
But not only had her follower not seemed to exhibit any embarrassment in being in a woman’s undergarment shop, but he wasn’t the only man there. No luck.
Then it was a brisk walk down Regent Street past Piccadilly Circle on her way down toward the Thames. Well, she thought that was where she was going, anyway. There were no street signs. Occasionally there would be markings up on the sides of the buildings, but they were more confusing than anything else.
At each step, all the way to the river, her young stalker was right there behind her. Nicole could feel her irritation building. If she’d wanted cloak and dagger on her vacation, she would have stayed with Kent.
Up ahead, she saw the Eye of London, the great Ferris Wheel across the river on the South Bank. Nicole had wanted to take a ride on it, but somehow it didn’t seem like trying to shake her tail was the appropriate time to do so.
Glancing back, she saw the man-child lounging about in his over-tight jeans. The guy wasn’t even trying any longer. At least at first he’d been attempting to stay out of sight. Now he was brazen. Staring.
Had he just winked at her?
There was no chance in hell that Nicole was going to call Kent now. This bastard was going down. And she was going to be the one to do it.
No one else was going to get the satisfaction.
Now, where the hell was she headed next?
After the chase through the city, Nicole was off her marked route enough that she felt turned around backwards. No, that wasn’t descriptive enough. She was turned sideways while being spun counter-clockwise on one axis and revolved 720 degrees on the other.
Whatever.
She peered up at the buildings around her, looking for an indication of what street she was on. So far she had stuck to mostly the larger thoroughfares that she sort of remembered from planning the trip. The tourist map had gotten dropped back in the lingerie store, so seeing the markings on the sides of the buildings might not help all that much.
Pulling out her cell phone, Nicole opened her map application. She wasn’t against using data here in England. Kent wanted to come and track down the Ripper? Fine. He could pay the five hundred pounds per megabyte, or whatever extravagant amount they charged.
Glancing at the digital map of London, she saw that she wasn’t too terribly far from New Scotland Yard at the moment. Less than a ten minute walk away.
She didn’t need Kent’s help. Didn’t want him around to spoil her walking tour of London. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t get close by, just in case, right?
Swallowing down the sour taste in her mouth, Nicole strolled down closer to the river. Even with someone on her tail, she was going to see as much of London as she possibly could.
This stalker was proving to be an annoyance. One she intended to get rid of in short order.
* * *
Moving through the hallways of the New Scotland Yard, Kent caught sight of Locroft’s mustache and ridiculous ram-rod posture. That man was going to have major lower back issues if he wasn’t careful.
At the Superintendent’s side was a man that somehow managed to appear even more British than Locroft. Kent had to hand it to the man. That wasn’t a feat Kent would have thought possible.
The man was tall, close to six foot four from what Kent could tell. And he carried the extra weight of middle age well balanced in his body, with just the slightest hint of a paunch indicating a penchant for rich foods. An aristocrat, both in his figure and in his bearing.
His clothing was sharp, clearly tailored, with a pair of black leather gloves that seemed a bit out of place with the outfit. There was an ease in his finery that somehow made the overall effect one of a man who had means, but didn’t have to think about such trivialities. In other words, a total sham.
Where Locroft worked for his posture and presence, this man’s superiority oozed from his every pore. This allowed him to appear much more relaxed, although Kent suspected that his impression of easy power was as studied as Locroft’s.
This man was a royal, and Kent suspected that this seemingly chance encounter was anything but random. There was purpose in Locroft’s walk.
“Oh good, there you two are,” Locroft said, catching sight of them. “We were looking for you.”
Kent glanced to Kyra and rolled his eyes. Kyra made a face back at him that seemed to urge him to behave. Wow. She really didn’t know him at all, did she?
Locroft shuffled about, clearly preparing himself to make introductions. Somehow the Superintendent managed to look both officious and obsequious at the same time. That was a real gift.
“May I present the Baron Dynevor, Lord Rhys? My lord, these are the two who are helping with the Ripper copycat.”
“Please, Superintendent Locroft, no titles,” the Baron said with a chuckle. “No ‘my lords’ with me. We are working toward the same goal here.”
“Yes, my lord,” answered the Superintendent with a gesture that was somewhere between a nod and a bow.
So that’s how it was here. “I’m glad to hear it, Rhys,” Kent said, stepping out in front of Kyra and sticking his hand out to shake the man’s hand. Handshakes weren’t really Kent’s thing, but this seemed like a perfect opportunity to remedy that. “I could never keep those lords and dukes and sirs straight in my head.”
A look of affronted confusion appeared to cross the Baron’s face, quickly masked. He took Kent’s proffered hand with his own gloved one with what seemed to be some hesitation.
“Ah. You’re the American consultant that’s helping us out,” Lord Rhys said, with the smallest emphasis on American. “Sorry about the gloves. My hands are constantly cold, I’m afraid.”
The Baron gave Kent a brief shake before letting go. There was an aborted move toward his slacks, perhaps to wipe away the violation of Kent’s purposefully firm grip?
“How could you tell? It’s my accent, huh?” Kent asked, making as if he was about to mock-punch the man in the arm. “Just here on my honeymoon, Rhys. You know how it is. Got to get away from the ball and chain for a bit.”
From the horrified look on Locroft’s face, this was going about as well as Kent could hope for. With any luck, they’d be rid of his lordship in short order.
Kyra intruded at that point. The smoothness of her face indicated the amount of control she was exerting to keep from stabbing Kent in the kidney.
But Kent knew her. She wasn’t embarrassed. This was about dollar signs. Or pounds, rather. She knew which wheels were the ones she needed to grease.
She should be thanking him. The more his royalness hated Kent, the more he was going to love Kyra. That was just good ol’ fashioned American horse sense.
“Lord Rhys, it’s an honor,” Kyra inserted, her tone smooth. “Superintendent Locroft has mentioned your name more than once as a member of the House of Lords that’s actively engaged in this case.” Her words were directed at His Highness, but the meaning was clearly for Kent.
Silly girl. Didn’t she know that would just egg him on?
“Well, this monster’s a blight on our fair country’s good reputation,” Lord Rhys replied with a cough. The cough was as studied as his posture, a statement designed to say that boundaries had been crossed, but that he was willing to forgive the breach in etiquette for the good of the realm.
“Ms. Karela,” Locroft said, turning to Kyra. “The Baron has expressed interest in keeping up with the case. Might he stay in touch with you?”
That was troublesome. Locroft should be taking point on this. If he wasn’t, there was a reason for it, the most likely being that the Baron’s involvement would be invasive.
“Oh, I doubt you’ll be able to do that, Rhys,” Kent interrupted. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time down in basements, you know. Not much cell reception down there.”
A look of puzzlement crossed the faces of both the Superintendent and the Baron at the same time. The looks were so close to one another that Kent almost laughed, but that would have ruined his American rub
e routine.
Right now, it seemed obvious that both of the men in front of them were wondering just which basements of their fair realm this crass Yank was going to be invading. There was curiosity, but more than that, some level of fear.
Interesting.
Kyra cleared her throat. Kent could see the thought process on Kyra’s face, but he doubted anyone else could. To all outward appearances, she was the picture of accommodation. The perfect little pseudo-sociopathic chameleon. Exactly what she needed to be for each and every situation.
“It would be my pleasure,” she murmured with a smile, producing a business card and passing it over to the Baron. “But for now, I hope you’ll excuse us? We have some leads to follow up on.”
“Oh?” the Baron asked. It was obvious that he wanted to know what those leads were.
“Yes,” Kyra answered, as if she were answering his question. Oh, she was good. That wasn’t the way Kent would have handled it, but he couldn’t deny it was well handled.
“Bye, guys,” Kent said, shaking hands with each of them again, almost by force this time. “We’ll keep in touch.”
From the dour look on Locroft’s face, Kent knew the Superintendent could see through Kent’s charade, but that just made it more enjoyable. What was Locroft going to do? Call him out in front of the Baron? It would make him look like he wasn’t handling the case well. Kent gave the man a covert wink.
They moved away from the British dynamic duo, His Lethal Lordship and his trusty sidekick, the Intrepid Inspector, and Kent experienced a pang of remorse that he wouldn’t be able to continue to tweak the two. Having them together at the same time was better than a trip to the arcade.
That had been fun.
But now it was time to make a phone call. They had a killer to catch.
* * *
Walking south along the bank of the Thames, Nicole could smell the scent of the river wafting up. An olfactory sensation of brine and oil and something darker. A damp smell of moldy, unfinished basements. A strangely earthy odor.
Park benches and large shady trees and red telephone booths passed through her consciousness as she moved alongside the river. Large busses chugged along on her right side, looking like they were violating the laws of nature by crawling there on the left shoulder of the road.
And still the guy behind her tailed her every move.
Nicole was tired of this game. She was trying to sightsee and grow a baby in her belly. She did not have time for a stalker.
At a break in the wall that kept pedestrians from getting down closer to the river, Nicole darted around the structure and waited. It didn’t take long before her hipster friend rounded the corner. He had shortened the distance between them quite a bit over the span of the morning.
Grabbing him by the collar, Nicole shoved the young man up against the wall. He croaked out something unintelligible in response, but then again, Nicole wasn’t being too gentle. All of her years as a detective were coming into play, and taking down a larger attacker was not much for her to sweat over, preggers or not.
Not that this boy was much larger than she, come to think of it. And his voice sounded like it had just barely changed. Of course, that could have been the fear.
Nicole was about to start grilling her suspect when an elderly couple strolled around the bend, took one look at what was happening and whipped back around. She could only guess at what they thought was happening here.
But she had more important things to worry about.
“Who sent you?” she demanded, thrusting her forearm against the man’s throat. She gave him just enough pressure for him to know she was serious, but left him space to be able to speak.
The boy’s eyes goggled. He sputtered something that didn’t sound like anything even close to speech. Nicole backed off the pressure another two notches.
“Are you trying to get to Kent?” There were those who wanted her new husband dead. Actually, there were those who wanted him drawn and quartered. And Nicole wouldn’t put kidnapping her to get to him past any of them.
Kent seemed to attract a certain level of weird. And devious.
The man seemed to be trying to reach up to rub at his throat, but Nicole wasn’t about to give him that amount of leeway. Finally, after an aborted squirm, he croaked out a response.
“Are you mental?”
That was not what Nicole had been expecting.
Maybe he just needed some prompting. She ratcheted up the pressure for a moment, causing the youth’s eyes to bug out even further and his face to turn bright red. He gasped out another unidentifiable phrase. Nicole couldn’t tell if that was from the choking, or if the boy was just so hopelessly Cockney that she couldn’t hope to understand him at all.
“Oy! Woman!” he shouted past the restriction at his throat. “Geroff me!”
Was that Get off me? Once again, Nicole released some of the pressure. But this time she was ready with what she wanted to say to the man.
“You’ve been following me for the better part of the last hour.”
“Don’t I know it?” the lad replied, rolling his eyes. “Me plates is killin’ me.”
“Plates?” Nicole queried. It was like he was speaking another language.
Another eye roll. “Plates. Feet.” He seemed to peer at her more closely. “Oy. You’re a bright bird, ain’t yer? American, are we?”
Nicole was tempted to reapply pressure. This time to the man’s carotid. But at least now they were starting to communicate, and she didn’t really want to go backward right now.
“Why are you stalking me?” she demanded.
“Stalkin’? You mean followin’?” The youth attempted something that sounded like a chuckle. “Well, ‘at’s ‘cause yer kept starin’ at me.”
Nicole thought about that for a minute. Over the course of the last hour, she probably had been glancing back more than her fair share. But hold on…
“You’d already been trailing me for a while at that point,” she said, trying to keep her voice down. She’d already managed to scare off an old couple. Getting herself in trouble with the Bobbies wasn’t exactly on her bucket list, and right now she certainly looked like the aggressor in this scenario.
“What’re you on about?” he fired back after a moment of what appeared to be confusion. “You took me into a knickers shop.”
That might be a valid interpretation for what had happened. But Nicole wasn’t about to take it.
“I was there shopping for something for my honeymoon,” she said. “For my husband,” she added, perhaps without need.
The man blushed and looked down. Well, he more than likely would have looked down, if Nicole didn’t have her arm at his throat. Maybe it was time to let up. A bit. She pulled away, and the boy rubbed at his neck.
“Where’d yer learn to do ‘at?” he asked, his tone admiring.
“I’m a detective,” she confessed.
“Brilliant,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’ve been followin’ an American detective. And married, no less. It’s like sumfink right out of BBC One.”
Nicole found that she was wringing her hands together and thrust them back behind her. “So this isn’t about Kent?” she asked.
The man shook his head again, this time in negation. “I don’t know no Kent.”
“Then explain yourself. Now.” Nicole let her detective steel creep into her voice. It could be intimidating, and she watched as the lad’s face blanched a bit.
“I jus’ thought you were a right attractive bir... er, lady. And I like the Clash.” He pointed to her tee shirt. “Thought you might be up for bit of a laugh.”
London Calling. Right. In retrospect, maybe her choice of attire hadn’t been that well thought out.
“So… you were hitting on me?” she asked.
“What?” His face registered his confusion. Then it cleared up. “Oh, you mean was I chirpsin’?” Again he blushed. “I won’t lie. You’re a right butterface.”
Nicole could only
assume he meant yes. Well, this was awkward.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you… I mean, I…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “In my line of work…”
“Oh, it’s nuffink,” the young man said, waving off her sputtered statement. “This’ll be a good story for me mates.” Glancing up at her through his eyelashes, his look became hopeful for a moment. “Of course… if you…” He gestured toward the nearest dark corner.
It took a moment for her to register what he was suggesting, but once it landed, Nicole debated putting him back under her forearm. Instead, she settled for giving him a sour look. The young man seemed to shrivel up once more.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll just be off, then.”
Turning to leave, the youth stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze was riveted on something down toward the river.
Turning to follow his gaze, Nicole made out something pale bobbing in the water close to the concrete bank of the Thames. She moved in to get a closer look.
This was something she’d seen before. Something she had no desire to be seeing right now. Not on her vacation.
Picking up a branch that had fallen from one of the nearby trees that dotted the walkway, Nicole reached out to prod at the thing floating in the water. As the object rotated, she heard the young man behind her retching.
Nicole had to fight hard not to have the same reaction.
There, right in front of her, was a bloated, severed arm. The bright red fingernail polish announced that it was either that of a female or a cross-dresser.
She glanced up at the towering Eye of London, hovering above her, almost as if it were suspended in mid-air. That attraction, amongst all the others here in London, was going to have to wait, at least for a while. The disembodied human arm washing about in the Thames demanded it.
Dammit.
Now she really was going to have to call Kent.
* * *
Kyra stepped out into the sun pouring down from London’s bright sky. Ten-thirty in the morning. T-minus twelve and a half hours.
Blinking in the sudden light, she held up a hand to shade her eyes. Standing in the courtyard of New Scotland Yard, she felt like she had come forth from the depths of hell, or perhaps from some darkened womb of her own rebirth.
