The young man was still leaning against the wall in shock.
Miranda took his arm and he came along meekly as they pushed back through the gawkers and stepped into the street where the heavy mist had turned into fog curling in the air like smoke after a fire. As she hunted for the inspector’s car, she wondered what Toby had told Parker.
She was about to ask when a woman in a slick pale business suit stuck a microphone under her chin.
“Well, look who’s here,” she said in a jaunty, crisp accent. “It’s Miranda Steele from America. Ms. Steele, can you tell us what happened here?”
“What?” Miranda glared at the woman as the words “reporter” and “insensitive” registered in her head at the same time.
“We understand there’s been an incident here in Soho. Does it bear any resemblance, do you think, to your last case in Las Vegas?”
Miranda’s glare turned to shock. How did this person know about her last case? “No comment,” she said firmly, suppressing a growl.
The woman looked back at her camera and smiled. “Well, you certainly had a good bit to say at that press conference in America a few weeks ago.”
Yeah, it had been on the news. She didn’t realize they’d watch it all the way over here. Guess investigating the death of a celebrity gave you the status of a celebrity. Not something she wanted at all.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak to Inspector Wample about that.” She pointed down the alley and when the woman craned her neck to see the man in charge, Miranda ducked into the police car.
It seemed to take forever before Parker found her and Wample and Ives slid into the front seats, but at last they took off and left the tragic scene behind. Except for the vestiges that followed them, as always.
It took another forty minutes to wind their way through traffic to Victoria Street before they reached the New Scotland Yard building.
They parked in the lot and went in the back way. Instead of using a dank little interrogation room in the bowels of the place, like they had to do when they talked to George Eames, Wample took everyone to his office on the seventeenth floor.
It was a tidy, open space. Fairly large, with just the bare essentials. Desk, chairs, computer screen and keyboard, corkboard on the wall where schedules and data from recent cases were neatly posted.
Wample took a seat behind the big desk, the row of tall windows overlooking the neighboring building at his back, and gestured to the guest chairs.
There were only two, so Ives offered one first to Miranda, then to Parker. They both refused it, preferring to stand.
With a nod Ives sat Toby Waverly down in the other chair while Wample pulled out a recorder and switched it on.
“What do you know about the murder?” Ives said.
The boy shook his head back and forth, a look of terror in his big eyes. “Murder? I don’t know about that, sir. I’m here about what ’appened at the museum.”
“Go on then.”
They watched him fidget like he had a terminal case of hives while he told his story in an accent that betrayed his working class roots.
As she listened Miranda felt every nerve in her body tense. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
A guy, a bloke, Toby had known in high school contacted him through his sister and got Toby to give him the codes to the museum. The scum-wad douche-bag threatened his sister with physical harm.
So Parker’s hunch about the intern had been right.
“But what does this creep have to do with Lady Gabrielle Eaton?” she wondered out loud.
Wample eyed her over his cup of coffee. “The two cases may be unrelated.”
That was true. This Malcomb jerk took the real dagger and someone else killed Lady Gabrielle with a fake dagger because…She had no idea.
She scratched at her hair. “Why would someone murder Sir Neville’s daughter-in-law with a fake dagger?”
“And where did they get it?” Parker wanted to know.
“According to my research,” Ives replied, “since the story of the dagger’s discovery broke, there have been hundreds of cheap counterfeits produced for souvenir, novelty shops.”
Miranda wanted to kick something. “You mean anyone could get one?”
Ives lifted his hefty shoulders. “Afraid so.”
That really narrowed it down.
Parker wasn’t convinced. “A souvenir sharp enough to kill with? Most souvenir daggers barely work as letter openers.” Miranda recalled seeing something like that on his desk at home though it wasn’t Egyptian.
Ives shrugged. “Apparently this one was better quality than average.”
Wample set down his cup and scowled at Ives. “Go access HOLMES and see if this Malcomb arsewipe has a rap sheet.”
“Yessir.” Ives popped up out of his chair and disappeared out the door.
Miranda turned to Wample. “Holmes?”
Wample smirked at her ignorance. “Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Our computer system.”
“Nice. Hope it’s got the answers we want.” They wouldn’t be so elementary.
Antsy, Miranda paced over to the window and stared out at the droplets forming on the glass. Her gaze focused on the modern-looking building across the street, then downward. The sky had turned dark and the rain was making umbrellas go up on the street below, as it turned the pavement a deeper gray.
She began to think out loud. “Shrivel might have gotten the fake dagger and killed Lady Gabrielle to take the heat off the theft.”
Wample’s chair squeaked as he considered the thought. “Targeting the museum director’s daughter-in-law? He’d know the dagger would be ID’d as a fake.”
“Most criminals aren’t that smart.” She turned to Toby. “Was this guy bright?”
“I dunno. ’E’s not stupid. ’E’s mostly scary.”
Yeah. And why risk a murder rap?
Miranda let out a long breath. Who else would kill Lady Gabrielle? Sure, she could be annoying, but she didn’t seem to have any real enemies. On the other hand, Miranda had only known the young countess a few days. They should ask Sir Neville or Lady Davinia. Maybe after they had a chance to settle in at home.
Home. Miranda thought of Lionel and wondered if he’d been told of his wife’s death yet and how he was taking it.
Gabrielle and Lionel Eaton seemed to have a less than ideal relationship. At dinner last night, he’d flirted with Miranda then stated openly he’d married his wife for her position. That must have gone over well. If they fought, if there was a deep-seated animosity between them? Enough to make a husband kill?
She was getting ahead of herself.
Before she could make another comment Ives was back.
He shoved a photo printout under Toby’s nose. “Is this the bloke?”
Toby looked down at it and winced. “Yessir. That’s Malcomb.”
Miranda stepped over and peered over the young man’s shoulder.
Malcomb Shrivel. Twenty-one. Five-nine. Dropped out of school at Level Ten.
Narrow face. Long, knobby nose. Pale face. Sported a punk look. Black spiky hair. Tight black shirt. Silver spike through one earlobe. A sullen look in a pair of dark, sunken eyes.
The kind of guy that would turn someone like Toby into an even bigger quivering lump of jelly than he was at the moment.
“And the rap sheet?” Wample asked.
“He’s got one all right. Been arrested a number of times on theft and drug charges. Did time on only one.”
Miranda squinted down at the paper. “Says he’s purported to be a member of a street gang known as the Stingers.”
Toby’s eyes went round as he sucked in a gasp. “Blimey. I’ve heard of those guys. They’re terrifying.”
“We know them, too.” Wample said.
“Their ringleader’s a bloke who goes by the name Scorpion. Ever hear of him?”
Toby shook his head.
Ives handed him another picture. “Have you seen this guy?”
Once more Miranda peered over the boy’s shoulder.
No wonder Toby was squirming.
This guy was older. Early thirties. He’d been around. Stocky, closely cropped dark hair, thick black brows. Almost good-looking. Head tilted in a cocky, what-are-you-lookin’-at-me-for? attitude that said he was as arrogant as he was sure of his power.
“Arrested on suspicion of drug dealing,” Ives said. “The hard stuff. ’Eroin and crack-cocaine. We think ’e’s an importer. No proof, though. Charges were dropped. Trenton Jewell defended ’im.”
Really? Was this Scorpion the mastermind behind the museum theft and Lady Gabrielle’s murder? The thought sent an icy chill down Miranda’s spine.
Wample got to his feet and gestured to Ives. “Let’s go pick up this Shrivel character and bring him in for questioning.”
Toby jumped up, both hands stretched, pleading. “Oh, you can’t do that. Please, sir. Please.”
“Why not?”
“’E’ll know I shopped him. ’E’ll hurt my sister.”
Wample and Ives looked at each other. The police usually didn’t have the means for taking care of assaults before they happened.
With a casual gait Parker strolled across the room to Ives from where he’d been standing observing the scene. He took the papers from him, studied them a long moment then turned to Wample. “Why don’t you let us look into this?”
Wample’s face went dark. “It’s an official police matter, Mr. Parker.”
“I realize that. But we have methods the police aren’t at liberty to use.”
Wample smirked. “I imagine you do. And evidence from those methods usually isn’t admissible in court.”
Parker’s slow grin was as casual as his shrug. “Inspector, I haven’t stayed in business for over fifteen years by delivering inadmissible evidence.”
Touché, Miranda thought.
The Inspector’s mouth went back and forth as he considered it. He tapped his fingers on his desk, turned to stare out his window and sighed. “Very well, Mr. Parker. You have twenty-four hours.”
Parker put a hand on Miranda’s elbow to lead her out of the office. “Then my partner and I had better get busy.” At the door, he stopped and turned back. “And I assume, Inspector, you’ll be releasing George Eames now?”
Narrowing his eyes, Wample gave him a curt nod.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They caught a cab to the hotel. In terms of fancy, the suite turned out to be a step down from their rooms at Eaton House, with deep purple brocade curtains on the windows, standard classic furniture and an even more standard-looking bed.
It had a shower, thank God, which pushed it up in the competition in her opinion. But Miranda barely noticed the décor.
She tried out the shower while Parker ordered room service and a rental car. She changed while he took his turn.
“How are we going to find this guy?”
“I’ve got his address from the rap sheet,” Parker called through the open bathroom door. He’d memorized it. “We’ll start there.”
“What about that pub where Toby met Shrivel?”
“The Winking Owl? If he’s not at home, we’ll try there.” He stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. His salt-and-pepper hair was tussled and sexy, his muscled body tempting and delicious. If only they could stop a moment and indulge themselves a little.
But there was no time.
“He might have skipped town.”
“Perhaps. But I’ll wager he feels safe under Scorpion’s protection.”
She thought about the evidence. “When the police finish processing Gabrielle’s phone, I’ll bet the last call she got will be from that creep.”
“If he was sloppy.”
“Right.” They could hope, anyway. But if the guy was smart, if the murder was planned, the only evidence to convict would be what they could get out of him.
She pulled on a pair of black jeans and her toughest-looking top and wished for her spiked belt and leather boots. Her dark running shoes would have to do.
Her mind was going a mile a minute. “How did Shrivel know there was a code to the storeroom? How did he know he’d need a keycard to get in?”
“And that there wouldn’t be a security camera at that door?” Parker echoed.
She looked over at him.
He’d chosen dark jeans and a tight black top that showed off his muscles almost as clearly as when he’d stood before her half naked a moment ago. He looked tough and mouthwatering at the same time.
“What are the police doing with Toby Waverly?” she wondered as she stepped into her shoes.
“Charging him with accessory to the theft, I would think.”
“Too bad. He seemed like a good kid. He was just trying to protect his sister.”
“Let’s hope a lawyer can get the charges dropped once the real thief is behind bars.”
“Yeah.” She sank down on the end of the bed, the impact of the last few hours sinking in.
It had been a rotten day all around. If they could do just a little tonight to help find the thief, especially if he was also Gabrielle’s killer, it would make things a tad better. But it wouldn’t bring the young woman back to life.
Parker strolled over to the dresser and slipped his keys into his pocket. As he reached for his cell phone, it went off. He picked it up. “Yes?”
He listened a moment, his face grave. “I’m so sorry. Let me put you on speaker, Neville. I’m in the hotel with Miranda.” He hit a button and sat down next to her on the bed.
“How’s Lady Davinia holding up?” she asked.
His deep sigh came over the speaker. “As well as can be expected. She took a sedative. She’s sleeping now.”
Best thing for her, Miranda supposed.
“The thing I wanted to tell you both—” He paused, as if ashamed. “Oh, Russell. What a fool I’ve been.”
Parker frowned with concern. “What do you mean?”
“I’d forgotten about it. It must have been a fortnight ago. Not more than two weeks before the dagger was scheduled to arrive…”
“What?”
“Gabby showed a sudden interest in the dagger. She asked me where it had been found, what it looked like, how it would be delivered. I thought she was maturing. I told her everything. If only I’d thought to ask her why she wanted to know.”
Miranda looked at Parker. “Everything?”
“I told her about the inscription, and…” He sounded as if he were about to weep.
“Go on,” Parker said gently.
At last the words came tumbling out. “She asked about where the dagger would be stored. How it would be kept safe. She said she was worried about it. And so I explained how our security system works to her. To reassure her. And…after that she didn’t ask any more questions. I thought she had gone on to something new that had attracted her attention. She was like that, you know.”
“Yes.” Parker’s face mirrored the pain in Sir Neville’s voice. “Is there anything else?”
There was a long pause as the poor man collected himself. “No. I just wish…I had thought of this earlier.”
“It’s all right. We know it now. Thank you. Why don’t you get some rest?”
“Yes. Yes, I should. Thank you for your help, Russell. And you, too, Miranda.”
“You’re very welcome,” she told him, meaning it with all her heart.
“Good night.” He clicked off.
They both were silent a long while. Then Miranda turned to Parker. “Surely Lady Gabrielle Eaton didn’t hang out with the likes of a gang member from a bad part of town.”
“I’d say that’s unlikely.”
“So how did that information get from her to Malcomb Shrivel?”
“Perhaps we’ll discover that at The Winking Owl tonight.”
Would they find S
hrivel there? Maybe. Probably Toby’s sister would be there, Miranda hoped. Could they find out what they needed to know and keep the sister from harm, too? Miranda wasn’t sure. Guys like that didn’t have to wait around for a reason to use their girl’s face for a punching bag. She knew that firsthand.
Room service arrived and Miranda’s mouth watered at the delicious odors. Coffee, a couple of thick burgers and a pile of fries. “Universal comfort food.” Relieved she’d finally have something normal to eat, she sat down and dug in.
After letting her get halfway through the meal, Parker set down his cup and regarded her steadily.
She swallowed the bite she had in her mouth. “What?”
“Before I put him on speaker Sir Neville said he’d told Lionel about what happened. He arrived home shortly after they did and hadn’t heard anything.”
“How’d he take it?” She snagged a fry and put it in her mouth.
“Not well. Blames himself. Says he treated her badly.”
She picked up her coffee cup. Couldn’t contradict that, but it didn’t make him the cause of her death. Unless…She put the cup back down. “Do you think he had anything to do with it?”
“There isn’t anything to indicate that at this point.”
“Or not indicate it.” They knew so little about these secretive people.
Parker let out a deep sigh. “Sir Neville told me when Lionel went to pieces tonight, Davinia began screaming at him about the dagger. She said if it wasn’t for the dagger none of this would have happened.”
“She’s hysterical.”
“Yes.”
“Poor Sir Neville. Poor lady.” She picked up the burger and chewed thoughtfully, imagining what it was like at Eaton House now with the endless halls echoing with grief and tears. After her afternoon with Davinia, she was beginning to like the woman. “I don’t think she and Sir Neville have a very good marriage.”
“No. It doesn’t seem so.”
“I overheard them arguing last night before dinner. And at the restaurant today Davinia told me she feels neglected.”
Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) Page 14
