There was a staccato burst of footsteps behind her. Click click click click click. Then silence except for the hissing of the rain. For an instant, as the adrenaline surged through her body, she was unable to move, not daring to look around. Then she whirled, brandishing her umbrella, staring wildly into the darkness. She blinked helplessly, her eyes dazzled by the light. She felt like a deer caught in a lorry’s headlamps, which was hardly the impression she was trying to create. She thought about calling out, but incongruously, though she was frightened half to death, she didn’t wish to appear foolish. Perhaps it had been someone in the next street or someone out for an innocent stroll.
She took a deep breath and was about to continue on her way when she heard it again. It was unmistakable this time—the measured sound of footsteps on pavement, louder now and getting steadily closer. She stared, mesmerized, as a figure emerged from the darkness, casting a long shadow on the rain-slicked street. She heard her own voice. “Who’s there?”
The figure kept coming. Without thinking, she threw her umbrella at her pursuer and watched it clatter harmlessly on the pavement a few feet in front of her. She turned and ran up the side street then veered left into Colville Place, which led back to Charlotte Street. Her heart was pounding in her ears and her lungs felt as if they were going to burst. The narrow street was lined on both sides with tall Georgian houses, some with glowing curtained windows that seemed to her now as remote as distant galaxies. She debated for an instant whether to try pounding on one of the doors to raise help or to make a dash for it. The sight of her pursuer turning the corner behind her settled the matter, but at that instant her right foot caught the raised edge of a flagstone and she fell sprawling to the pavement.
The wet stone was cold on her face. She felt a sharp pain in her left side, and she couldn’t breathe. She could see a couple passing by on Charlotte Street just ahead. She tried to cry out but could only gasp for air. She managed to struggled to her feet and began to jog stiffly, clutching her side, not daring to look back. She could hear a man’s excited voice behind her now.
With a final burst of energy, she turned the corner and ran across Windmill Street, nearly colliding with a man carrying a cane who was standing outside the Fitzrovia.
“Sorry,” she mumbled breathlessly as she dashed into the pub.
CHAPTER 4
Powell sat in his office Monday morning reviewing the Brighton file. As Detective-Sergeant Black had suggested in the pub, the case did have its points of interest. On the evening of March 11, at approximately nine-thirty in the evening, one Edith Smith of Number 134 Jamaica Road SE16 was searching for her dog at Butler’s Wharf, Bermondsey. Upon hearing a commotion, she observed a man attempting to climb out of the Thames. She was unable to provide assistance, and the man fell back into the river where he is presumed to have drowned. She reported the matter to the local police at Southwark Police Station. At ten-forty-three the same evening, a man’s body was recovered from the Thames along the Bermondsey Wall. There was no identification found on the body. The constable attending the scene recognized the deceased and identified him as Richard Brighton, a Labour councillor on Southwark Council, who resided nearby at Number 42 Cardamom Court. When Brighton’s spouse, Helen Brighton, returned home just before midnight, she was met by police and taken to the mortuary to view the body, where she confirmed the ID. The results of the postmortem, conducted on the morning of March 12 at ten o’clock, indicated a blunt force trauma to the head inflicted by an unknown object. The actual cause of death was drowning. The coroner concluded that Brighton’s death was a homicide perpetrated by a person or persons unknown, possibly during the course of a robbery. Reading between the lines, Powell got the impression that the investigating officer, an Inspector Boles, was not entirely satisfied with this finding. Brighton was thirty-five years old, married, without children, and a schoolteacher by profession, Boles had added as if by way of an afterthought.
Powell was trying to find the pathologist’s report amidst the chaos of paper on his desk when Detective-Sergeant Black walked into his office.
“A Miss Burroughs on the phone for you, sir.”
Powell frowned. He was still feeling a bit sheepish about Friday night. “I’m up to my neck in it right now. Take her number and tell her I’ll ring her back. And come back when you’re done, would you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Black soon reappeared.
“Sit down, Bill. I was about to have a look at the pathologist’s report. Have you seen it?”
The burly sergeant nodded. “Er, I think it’s that one beside the ashtray—the stapled one there, sir.”
Powell grunted and retrieved it. He skimmed through the report, his face expressionless. When he had finished, he lit a cigarette. He looked speculatively at Detective-Sergeant Black. “It seems straightforward enough.”
“Yes, sir,” Black replied dutifully.
“I’d like you to review all of the statements and let me know if anything needs following up. And dig up what you can on that property development scheme in Rotherhithe that Brighton was so keen on. I remember seeing him on television a few months ago, attempting to rationalize the number of council tenants that would have to be evicted. Not exactly the way to win a popularity contest, as you so perceptively pointed out. And while you’re at it, I’d like a list of the names and phone numbers of the other members of Southwark Council.”
Black nodded. “Right.”
Powell spent the remainder of the day attempting, without success, to get on top of his backlog of paperwork. When he could take it no longer, around four o’clock, he rang Jill Burroughs. There was no answer.
Two hours later, Powell was in Shad Thames, a narrow cobbled lane that ran behind the refurbished warehouses of Butler’s Wharf. Enclosed on both sides by high brick walls crisscrossed with iron walkways, which were used at one time by porters for carrying all manner of goods back and forth, the street was now lined with estate agencies, trendy shops, and a Pizza Express. It was hard to imagine the sinister setting where Bill Sykes had met his end.
Walking out onto the quay, Powell retraced the steps that Edith Smith took on the night of March 11. It was a fine spring morning and a number of people were strolling along the front. He continued east past the Design Museum until he stood in front of the derelict warehouse. He walked over to the railing and looked down into the Thames as the elderly woman had done. Today, however, there was just the usual flotsam to speculate about. He crossed St. Saviour’s Dock into Mill Street and soon located Cardamom Court, a converted warehouse with shops and offices on the ground level and flats above.
He rang the bell of Number 42. “Mrs. Brighton? Chief Superintendent Powell.”
The lock clicked open, and Powell took the lift to the fourth floor. He was met at the door by an attractive woman in her thirties with short dark hair and sad eyes.
A fleeting smile passed her lips. “Please come in.”
“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Mrs. Brighton. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“I don’t suppose a drink would be appropriate under the circumstances. How about a cup of tea?”
Powell smiled. “Lovely.”
While Mrs. Brighton was in the kitchen, Powell took in his surroundings. The flat was airy and spacious, with a fine view through the French windows of the north bank of the Thames and the City beyond. The overall impressions created by the pastel decor and modern furnishings were understatement and good taste.
Mrs. Brighton soon returned carrying a tray with the tea things and a plate of biscuits. She placed them on the coffee table and sat down beside him on the settee. Powell helped himself to a chocolate digestive while she poured. “Lovely view,” he commented.
“It is, isn’t it? Sugar? We bought in the early Nineties when prices were still affordable. I don’t know how young couples just starting out manage these days. I—” Her voice trembled. “I’m sorry, Chief Superintendent.”<
br />
Powell replaced his cup on its saucer. “Please don’t be. I know this is difficult for you, Mrs. Brighton. I’ll come directly to the point. As I mentioned to you on the telephone, I’ve been asked to look into your husband’s case, and I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to get to the bottom of it.”
She looked at him with an odd expression on her face. “You’re still treating it as a robbery, I assume.”
“That’s the working hypothesis.”
“Yes—yes, of course. I thought that you might have meant something else, that’s all.”
“Something else?”
“Not a robbery, I mean.”
He looked at her sharply. “What did you have in mind, Mrs. Brighton?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know what I’m thinking half the time, Chief Superintendent.” That seemed to be that.
“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions? I’ll try to be brief.”
“No, of course not.”
“Did your husband give an indication of any plans he may have had on the night he died?”
“I can’t remember him mentioning anything. We had dinner together here at the flat, then I went out around seven.”
“Do you mind me asking where you spent the evening?”
“Not at all. It was Thursday, my girls’ night out. I get together with some friends once a week for a glass of wine.”
“I see. So it wasn’t until you got home that you learned of your husband’s death?”
“Yes.”
“What time was that?”
“Sometime after eleven-thirty.”
“Mrs. Brighton, I’d like you to think carefully about my next question before you answer …” He paused for a moment to give her time to consider.
She nodded.
“How would you describe your husband’s state of mind that night? You mentioned you had dinner together. Did he act normally? Did he seem to have something on his mind? Was he upset about anything?”
“That’s more than one question, Chief Superintendent.”
He smiled thinly. “I should have been a barrister.”
She seemed to relax slightly. “Let me try and think … No, I can’t say I remember anything out of the ordinary. I mean, Richard always had a lot on his mind, with council business and so on. But I don’t recall him mentioning anything in particular that night.”
“He didn’t seem despondent or depressed?”
She gave him a penetrating look. “What exactly are you driving at, Chief Superintendent? Are you suggesting that Richard jumped off a bridge or something?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Mrs. Brighton.”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “My husband was a fighter—he would never have taken his own life. No matter how difficult things got.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brighton. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She sighed. “I understand, of course. You’re just doing your job.”
Better to get the worst over with, he thought. “Mrs. Brighton, your husband’s body was discovered not far from here. Do you know why he might have gone out that night, where he might have been going?”
She looked at him, eyes moist. “We often went for walks together beside the river. Sometimes he’d go alone.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brighton. I won’t take up any more of your time. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything to report.”
“Yes, well, thank you, Chief Superintendent.” She looked slightly disappointed.
As he walked back to London Bridge Station, Powell puzzled over Mrs. Brighton’s reaction to his question about her husband’s state of mind. She seemed to have jumped to the conclusion that he was alluding to the possibility of suicide, which was rather curious under the circumstances. He thought about what she had said. My husband was a fighter—he would never have taken his own life. No matter how difficult things got. He couldn’t help wondering what exactly she had meant by “difficult.”
CHAPTER 5
When Powell arrived at New Scotland Yard the next morning after a marathon evening spent potting chrysanthemum cuttings, the office was buzzing with the news. Clive Morton, the well-known restaurant critic, had been found with his throat cut in a Soho alleyway earlier that morning. Motivated by an irresistible sense of curiosity, Powell rang his old friend Tony Osborne, Superintendent of Operations at the West End Central Police Station.
“Erskine, old son, to what do I owe this honor?”
“I hear you’re having a busy morning.”
“Word spreads fast. I can only assume that’s a veiled reference to the late Clive Morton, Esquire. What’s your interest in the matter, might I ask?”
“I read his column once.”
Osborne sighed heavily. “Well, it’s a fruity one, I can tell you that much. Morton’s body was discovered at approximately six A.M. by a fruit-and-veg lorry driver delivering in Cranbourn Street. The bloke ducked into the alley for a smoke and found him. He’d been beaten about the head, then had his throat cut. According to the constable who attended the scene, the manner of preparation left something to be desired, but the presentation was quite superb.”
“I don’t follow—”
“He had an apple shoved in his mouth.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Whoever did him obviously had a sense of humor.”
“Hysterical. Any suspects?”
“Half the restaurateurs in London, I should imagine.”
“Was there any sign of robbery?”
“He had his wallet and a considerable quantity of cash on him.”
“Did the scene-of-crime lads come up with anything interesting?”
“Negative … Erskine, you don’t know anything about this business, do you? I’m beginning to get suspicious.”
“Just curious. Thanks, Tony. I’d better let you get back to it.”
“Right, cheers, mate.” Osborne sounded unconvinced.
At least the corpse wasn’t marinated in tandoori spices, Powell thought after he had rung off. His macabre musings were interrupted by the arrival of Detective-Sergeant Black, who dumped a thick sheaf of newspaper clippings on his desk. He had obviously been doing his homework.
“What have you got?” Powell asked.
“Well, sir, you’ve probably read or heard most of this before, so I’ll run through it fairly quickly. About a year ago, a development company put forward a proposal to Southwark Council to convert a derelict warehouse on the Thames in Rotherhithe into a block of luxury flats. The proposal also included the development of a commercial complex—shops, restaurants, a recreation center, and so on—across the road on property owned by the borough. The problem is the scheme would require the demolition of a block of council flats. About one hundred tenants would have to be evicted. The developer has argued that the commercial area is essential to the economic viability of the project and has offered to purchase the council-owned land. Based on the current market value of the property, the borough stands to make about ten million quid from the deal.”
“I’m sure they’ll divide it up amongst the evicted tenants,” Powell observed acidly.
“There has been quite a debate about the project,” Black continued, “and the council seems to be split about fifty-fifty, which is a bit surprising when you think about it.”
“How so?”
“Well, sir, Southwark Council is dominated by Labour—thirty-five Labour councillors, twenty-four Lib Dems, three Conservatives, and two others,” he added with customary efficiency and without referring to his notes. “You would have thought—”
“That New Labour has a monopoly on virtue?” Powell interjected. “About the only difference between them and the others is they’re better bloody salesmen. The average person’s inclination when they got screwed by Mrs. Thatcher was to take to the streets—when you get done by this lot you want to thank them for making you a better person.”
Black flushed. “Exc
use me, sir, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t mind me. Perhaps I’ll start my own party, take up the torch from Screaming Lord Such. Anyway, carry on. I’m finding this most interesting.”
Black cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. Moving on to Richard Brighton’s role in the matter: He was a supporter from the start, arguing that economic development of this kind was good for the borough in the long term. He took a fair bit of heat over it, but he was generally popular with his constituents and was influential on council. He was also odds-on favorite to be elected the next mayor by his peers.”
“What’s the present status of the Rotherhithe development?”
“It hasn’t come up for a vote yet.”
Powell sighed. “I think we’re grasping at straws, Bill.”
Black got to his feet. “I’m going to keep poking around, if it’s all right with you, sir.”
Powell nodded absently. When he was alone, he sat smoking for several minutes. Then he picked up the telephone and placed a call to Sir Reginald Quick. He left a message on the pathologist’s answerphone.
That evening as Powell walked down Charlotte Street on his way to the Fitzrovia, he found to his considerable irritation that he was unable to keep his mind off the Brighton case. Detective-Sergeant Black had no doubt planted the seed, but a tendril of doubt had begun to grow and take hold. At one level it seemed entirely straightforward. A man out walking alone at night is accosted by a mugger. A struggle ensues and the victim is struck on the head. It was the next step in the sequence of events that didn’t sit right. From all appearances, the assailant then chucked his victim into the Thames to drown. Rather vicious behavior for your garden-variety thief. Such things happened of course, but they usually involved drug deals gone wrong or crimes of passion in which the individuals involved were known to each other. The more he thought about it, the more muddled he became.
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