"I've got proof of that–"
"Haven't you lot got anything better to do?" Inspector Wystan asked, walking past the coffee club. "Get on with whatever you were doing before or you can start choosing streets to direct traffic on."
The group broke up and the laughter stopped. Lance went back to his desk and sat down, wondering what his next step should be. He discovered to his surprise, and against all his normal early morning instincts, that he wanted to work. To get to the bottom of what was going on with these Blacks and Whites.
He wrote a report about the previous day's events, which helped him refresh his ideas. He remembered a few of Carol's comments and printed out a list of all the residents of London with the surname Black or White. Then he concentrated on William Black. Nobody was likely to lose his head like that without a motive. But William had no connection with drugs or gambling. His finances were an open book; he was just an employee, without investments or other business interests.
Delving a little deeper into the rest of the family failed to produce anything either. William Black had been abandoned as a baby. The government had found him an adoptive family, and his parents had left the country more than a decade earlier when they were in their late eighties. They might even be dead now.
Getting into the real facts meant going deeper than he'd done so far.
He'd been working since he'd arrived and was already tired, but pleased just the same that he'd put his nose to the grindstone. He decided to wait for Aidan before going any further.
Thinking about his partner made him suddenly nervous, as if some sort of internal alarm had gone off. He looked at his watch and discovered he'd been at his desk for three hours. Where was Aidan? He should have been there by now. He rang his home number. No answer. He rang his mobile. No answer. That only made him more nervous.
"Where's Aidan?" Inspector Wystan demanded to know, walking towards Lance's desk, his big gut shaking under his shirt. "It's one thing not being on time, being this late is something else."
Normally, Wystan forgave Aidan for being late, because the rest of his work was exemplary. His hours were irregular. And he followed leads around the clock. But today was beyond acceptable.
Lance thought he knew why Aidan was late and cursed himself for having forgotten. He undid his collar and rubbed the sweat off his hands.
"What's wrong with you?" Wystan asked.
"I think it's his car. You know what it's like."
"Don't be stupid," Wystan said, leaning on Lance's desk. "Where is he?"
Telling Wystan that about the car had only made things worse. But he couldn't tell the truth. If his hunch was right it was better that Wystan didn't find out. It was the anniversary of Aidan's wife's death. The year before he hadn't been a pretty sight after getting drunk, and he could be anywhere now.
"I'm waiting for your answer, Lance? Where's your partner?"
"Here," Aidan said, walking towards them. "I've just had a coffee. I didn't know you cared so much, Inspector."
Lance couldn't believe his eyes. Aidan was dressed impeccably. He looked as fresh as a daisy, his shirt ironed, which struck Lance as definitely strange.
"A coffee?" Wystan said, surprised. "It's nearly midday. I want to see you two in my office now!"
# # #
"Helen Black," the priest said, lifting his eyes to study the face of the radiant bride. "Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
At seven foot tall, Helen was the tallest bride the priest had ever had the honour of marrying. There'd been other tall women, and on one occasion even a professional basketball player, but none had been as tall as Helen Black.
And what made her equally striking was her beauty. She was in a league of her own there. It had been a pleasure to watch her enter the church, her figure, the angel face, her long dark hair, all accentuated by her height.
Watching her approach him down the aisle, the priest had felt the stirrings of the devil in his body, even felt jealous of the bridegroom, a man as tall as she was.
Right now, after a Mass that had lasted an hour and a half, the ceremony was about to end. The bride and bridegroom only had to answer a few simple questions. He'd just asked Helen hers.
"Yes–" she began to answer.
The priest stepped back surprised. The bridegroom groaned and then fell silent. There were whispers in the congregation.
Helen Black had stopped in the middle of her answer as her wedding dress vanished in front of the priest, only to be replaced by one in black. An expression of cold determination on her face replaced the special smile of a minute before.
She turned and retraced her steps out of the church. A few of the congregation thought of trying to stop her, but the long bow on her back discouraged them. The bridegroom stumbled after her, grappling with the shock of seeing her dress change colour and the sight of her from behind carrying the biggest bow he'd ever seen.
The priest, joined by some of the others, abandoned the church, chasing the still unmarried couple. But they all froze when they saw Helen Black draw three arrows from her sheath and shoot them in the crowd's direction.
No one got in her way after that, as everyone ran for cover and she disappeared down an empty street.
# # #
"I want to know the truth," Wystan said as they followed him into his office. He looked relaxed but curious, now that he had closed the door on the rest of the detectives. "Is everything OK? Tell me if it isn't."
"Perfect," Aidan Zack said, realizing that Wystan had remembered that this was the anniversary of his wife's death. "I don't expect any special attention. I think the others shouldn't see your special attitude towards me, Inspector."
"Don't be shy because of me," Lance Norwood said, smiling. "If you want to hug each other or something, go ahead. You shouldn't suppress your true feelings."
"I'm glad you're all right, Aidan," Wystan said. "I know we've had our differences, but if there's anything I can do…"
"What's going on, sir?" Aidan asked. "I'm starting to worry about all this attention."
Lance had to agree. This wasn't the Wystan he knew. He never showed interest in anything outside work. There was something going on, another reason behind the concern.
"I think you'd better sit down, Aidan," Inspector Wystan said, supporting the suggestion by pointing at the chair. Lance watched his partner sit down reluctantly, wondering what was coming next. "I've just received news that they're going to release Bradley Kenton earlier than expected."
"When?" Aidan asked coldly.
It was unpleasant news. Kenton was the man who had crashed into Aidan and his wife five years before, pushing their car into the Thames. It wasn't exactly the right day to receive this sort of news.
"Tomorrow," Wystan replied. "I don't know how his lawyer managed it, but they've brought his release forward two months."
"Very well. Anything else, sir?"
Both Wystan and Lance were surprised by Aidan's lack of emotion. It was the second time today that Lance had been worried about Aidan, and both times it had been unnecessary. He decided to pay more attention to what was going on in his partner's head.
"Sir, anything else?" Aidan repeated.
"No, nothing else," Wystan replied. He'd expected a different reaction and waited until Aidan had left the office before he grabbed Lance by the arm. "You mind explaining what's going on with him?"
"I haven't got the foggiest. Maybe he's growing up."
"Keep an eye on him, Lance. Any sign of him losing it or turning violent, bring him here. I'm making you responsible for his actions. Understand?"
"Shit," Lance grumbled. "How can I keep him under control? He's two heads taller than me."
"You heard me," Wystan said, pushing Lance through the door and closing it after him.
It wasn't going to be an easy day. Lance approached Aidan's desk slowly, like a member of the bomb squad approaching a bomb.
"You took all of that pretty well," he said nervously.
"It's
something that was coming," Aidan said dismissively. "What's all this? You've been working?"
"Cut the crap. Where've you been this morning?" Lance asked, hoping Aidan would tell him the cemetery.
"I went looking for James White," Aidan explained, blowing Lance's hope to bits. "I didn't like the way he left the hospital the other day,"
"You're kidding. What did he have to say?"
"He wasn't there," Aidan said, frowning at some papers on Lance's desk. "As far as I could find out he didn't go back there after he left the hospital. Seems like he's split and nobody knows where."
Lance wondered how Aidan had got into White's house if there was no one there. But asking that seemed like a stupid question.
"I've been working my butt off here while you went for a stroll."
"Found anything, detective?"
"Of course. I've discounted drugs as the motive in William Black's murder. After all, that's the case we're working on."
"How did you work that out? Did you have any help?"
"You've woken up strange today, Aidan."
"What's this?" Aidan asked, swiping Lance's face with a sheet of paper.
"A list of all the Blacks and Whites in London," he explained, recovering the list. "I don't know what I was thinking about. Seems you've got me believing in your theory."
"Very good. At least you've done something useful," Aidan said, pleased. Lance had no idea what had caught Aidan's attention. "Let's go to the computer. I've got an idea. Carol told me about a James Black and I just saw he's on your list. She's interviewing Dylan Blair today. I'll ring her later. Tell me what you've found out."
"Just a hunch. I went through the list carefully. Separated out those with the same first names," Lance explained, feeling the thrill of the hunt coming back, as he started punching the keyboard. "There's eighteen. I don't know if I'm on to anything but it's sure made the list smaller."
"Where's Alfred? Remember what Carol said yesterday. They found the body of Alfred White last year. He's not on the list."
"That's because there's no Alfred Black. The two names have got to coincide. I've left the rest out."
"Maybe the other Alfred's dead. Include stiffs on your list. Go back ten years."
Muttering to himself, Lance introduced the new criteria into the list but stopped protesting when the new result came up. There were two Alfreds, one Black, and one White. He waited a second for a slap on the back but none came.
"Now there are thirty," he said.
"I want to know how many are dead. We've got to find this James White before there's another one."
"I doubt anything will happen to him. He's the luckiest man in the world. He walked away from an accident that killed forty others. Don't worry about him."
Aidan's mobile rang.
"Yes. How are you, Fletcher? Now…? Ok. We're on our way," Aidan said, hanging up and looking at Lance. "We'll carry on with this later. We've got to see Fletcher straight away."
"We could show up in a few hours," Lance suggested, thinking of the work in front of them and lunch in a while. "Nothing's going to happen if we show up late."
"Let's go," Aidan said, grabbing Lance by the sleeve.
"OK, what's the rush?"
"He's got the results of the blood tests on James White and William Black. There's something odd."
"I hate seeing corpses before lunch," Lance complained, following Aidan out of the station.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 8
The man had hardly put a foot outside the courthouse door when the cameras began flashing. He covered his face with his hands instinctively, almost frightened, as if they were throwing stones at him.
"Enough!" a woman's voice screamed above the fracas. "It isn't him, you idiots."
The photographers put their cameras down, one after the other, and turned towards the woman.
Carol observed her workmates with an expression of pity. They were so anxious to get the photos that they'd forgotten who they were waiting for.
The stranger mumbled something to himself and continued on his way, sure that he'd never been harassed by so many journalists before.
Carol was calmer than everyone else, waiting for the other man to leave the court. There was no doubt that the case had no precedent, and was going to appear in every newspaper, on every TV and radio station. She'd met better people than Dylan Blair, the object of all this interest. She remembered Lance saying the night before that he had no problem with Dylan, which had surprised Carol because she'd thought the policeman had better judgement. And thinking about Lance, her thoughts were led to Aidan, but she checked them quickly. She was still angry about the way he'd left her the night before.
The photographers got it right the next time as the enormous glass doors opened and Dylan Blair appeared in his typical aura of arrogance. He stopped and opened his arms in a welcoming, almost messianic gesture, while the journalists flocked around him. Cameras flashed and reporters recited their rehearsed questions. Dylan's eyes were protected by designer sunglasses and he waited, smiling. He wasn't in any hurry. He waited until the din subsided.
"Gentlemen, please," he said, feigning irritation, as he stood there with his unruly hair and three-day growth of stubble. He seemed to always look like that. Not exactly what most would expect to see from a multimillionaire. "You know I'm willing to collaborate with you, but if you all ask questions at the same time, I won't understand anything."
The flurry of questions abated.
Dylan Blair had a history of involvement in scandals, but for one reason or another he always spoke to the press. But it wasn't only the respect that his availability engendered that tamed the crowd of journalists. His words, always carefully selected, were not those of an angry pop star, or a politician who'd rehearsed his post-judgement speech. Dylan Blair was different and whatever he chose to say was never boring.
Carol studied him with displeasure. She didn't want to be there. This wasn't the sort of journalism that she aspired to. She wondered if her fellow journalist had feigned illness to get out of it. Either way, it didn't matter. She was stuck where she was.
Dylan continued in the new silence. "Thanks for that. Now, let's have the questions. One after the other, please. If not, I'm off, gentlemen." He paused, pointing to a young-looking man in the front of the pack. "You first."
"Is it true your company has beaten all the predictions and doubled profit in the last twelve months?"
The question was off the mark and sounded as if it had come from a rookie reporter. Everyone knew that Dylan didn't like to talk about his finances. The eccentric millionaire had no qualms talking about his many affairs but he side-stepped anything to do with his business empire. That in itself was just one of Dylan's many contradictions.
He'd only been in the public eye for three and a half years. Before that, he'd been nothing more than an administrative clerk in a brick factory. He'd appeared suddenly in the media after making a fortune in less than two months, buying shares in a business on the verge of bankruptcy. That business merged with another that dominated the industry and the share values increased many times over. A short time later the new millionaire founded his own business. And by the time Dylan Blair had turned forty-two, he was one of the richest, most famous men in London.
Writing about him sold papers. The press started to hunt its new prey, curious about a success that was difficult to believe. There was no record of him having saved money, and as such, it was impossible to explain how he had established his business. The divorce from his wife had decimated what few assets he'd had at the time. Dylan had been in the same job since he'd started at the brick factory, watching others get promoted while he stayed where he was. His situation would have led many to believe that he'd spent what little money he had on anti-depressants. Yet, despite all that, Dylan got his first bundle of cash in the most unexpected way. He had a run of luck at a casino playing roulette, so much so that he'd been asked to leave, and from that moment on, luck
didn't desert him in another series of amazing wins and small business speculations, that led to the share market deal which made him his fortune.
It had all been legal without any outside help. Other than luck on his side, that is.
Since becoming a famous millionaire he'd been involved in his fair share of scandals, to the delight of social columnists. He'd been seen nude, drunk, with prostitutes, and involved in practically every form of decadence that big money can buy. The latest incident had brought him to the courts that day and it wasn't the first time it had happened.
However, the reporter had preferred to ask him about his company's profits, which had the rest holding their breath and hoping that Dylan wouldn't refuse to answer any more questions.
"What a mistake I made in choosing you," Dylan said, sarcastically. "But looking at you now I can see you're a fool. If you ask any more questions, my young friend, I'll be forced to leave you and your mates here alone."
Someone dragged the young journalist back into the crowd.
"Have you got the verdict yet?" another asked.
"Well," Dylan explained excitedly, "that's more interesting, don't you think? No, not yet. Or at least, not as far as I know."
"Do you believe you're going to win the case?"
"It seems you are the second idiot this morning," Dylan answered, smiling. "I haven't got a chance in the world of winning this case."
The answer made the crowd laugh and several journalists started firing questions at Dylan at the same time, which had him frowning and putting a hand to one ear as if he couldn't hear.
"Don't you consider yourself a repulsive, vengeful individual for doing what you've done?" a voice demanded to know, yelling above the rest.
A hush came over the crowd as they tried to locate the speaker.
Dylan continued smiling, "At last. Someone with a sense of humour. Who might he be?" he asked, studying the faces before him.
"It was me," Carol answered, pushing her way through the crowd. "I haven't heard your answer yet. Are you going to refuse to answer because you find the question boring?"
The Big Ben mystery Page 8
