The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  She had told them to. She had made them. And she was right.

  And they had obeyed for they feared her more than being caught.

  They had been scrupulous in their approach. When they left, they took every possible trace of hair and fibre and sweat. There were no marks anywhere. She had not fought them off, in fact she hadn’t even touched them so her body contained only the hallmarks of her own existence.

  They had no need to rinse the room with bleach or even set fire to it. They didn’t care about the blood loss; their job was to remove the diamonds and the number.

  The only person who might have left any evidence behind was the man she called Kwame. He had undressed in her bathroom and that was enough, a forensic paradise for any investigator. If they even looked.

  The problem for Kwame was that he was expendable too.

  The sixth member of each team was – it was always that way, like salmon striving to reach their birthplace each member always battled to stay one step ahead of his peer, one leap up the waterfall away from success, but at the same time trying to trust his fellow man. As double-edged swords went it was up there with the very sharpest.

  If the police came looking for Kwame, they could have him. In a few bags at the bottom of the Thames. The salmon that reached the top of the waterfall and got eaten by a bear.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The desk phone rang at the Op Orion HQ. One of those familiar tunes that you can’t quite place but which stays in your subconscious for the rest of the day.

  “Del Murphy. How can I help?”

  He listened, stuck the handset under his ear and started to write.

  “Yep. Yep. Aha. Nasty. Will do. Cheers. Bye.”

  He pressed one on the virtual keypad.

  Roberts was heading home. He’d had enough for one day. As he headed north west, he turned the radio on. Baker Street was playing. Just as he drove by the street with the same name.

  He pressed the phone icon on the steering wheel and said, “Wife”.

  His wife of many years answered quickly.

  “Hello DCI Roberts. This is early? Everything OK? Don’t tell me the Queen has been shot and you are en route to Buck House with the dashing Mr. Cade and the team to solve it all before being unavoidably detained at the Sanctuary where you will once again buy the first round and eventually remember where you live?”

  “I swear I am part of some fucked-up reality programme love,” he said into the hands-free system.

  “Seriously. I have just driven by Baker Street and Gerry Rafferty started singing. Anyway, no, the Queen, as far as I know is alive and well and watching Coronation Street. Loves it! Can’t get enough, got a real thing for Ken Barlow. Actually, brace yourself, I’m on my way home. Fancy a nice little vegetarian surprise?”

  “You mean you standing in the doorway naked but for a large parsnip again?”

  “Ooh you saucy thing. To be fair love in this cold, I’d only need an acorn. I’ll be about forty minutes, get the kettle on and your clothes off!”

  He pressed the red button before she had time to answer. Theirs was a strong marriage that had withstood the tests of a police career and modern life.

  He drove onto the A40; he was half way home and started to forget about work. The first call of the night usually came about now. This time it was diverted.

  By the time Cade had cleaned his teeth and flushed the toilet O’Shea was dressed and ready.

  “Well hello. You had a change of plans Miss O?”

  “I figured we are sort of on a busman’s holiday so we may as well go out together. Perhaps grab a meal on the way back here after whatever it is you’ve got to deal with has been dealt with. Agreed?”

  “Agree. In principle. Del has asked me to attend a job in Brixton. He’s on the way. Seems the CAD room rang him and have done a great job putting two together with itself and coming up with four.”

  “How so?” she asked as they walked towards the lift. “Brixton is not even on us, that’s way off the beaten track.”

  “Local unit south of the river has attended a call to a flat. Red-coloured water was entering the flat below. Literally seeping through the ceiling, apparently. The occupant thought it unusual so rang the landlord who ignored her so she rang local police and an ambulance. Seems the latter wasn’t needed.”

  They got to the rental car and soon headed across the bridge south. The traffic was still relatively heavy and with no blues or sirens it seemed to take an eternity.

  “You need to speak to Jason. Get a job car if this is what’s going to happen. We are not even Old Bill anymore Jack. A fine line here.”

  “Not according to the PM herself. She is the keeper of the Order of the Fine Line. And besides, do you ever actually stop being a copper?”

  He had a point. They arrived thirty minutes later.

  The usual organised chaos met them in the street.

  A young cop who looked far too young met them at the front door.

  “Sorry…can’t let you in. There’s been a serious incident.”

  Cade realised he had a problem.

  “Yes, I know, that’s why we are here. Been sent by the team at Scotland Yard. The problem is I don’t have an ID. It’s a long story.”

  She just smiled.

  O’Shea went next fishing around in her purse.

  “Carrie O’Shea. I’m the lead analyst on the Operation Orion team. You won’t have heard of us but we have been asked to attend this by the CAD Inspector. Mr. Cade here works for the team and is here at the behest of the PM herself.” She waited whilst the constable examined the ID, flashing her issued torch across it, looking for a few of the known security features.

  “The actual PM?”

  “Is there a virtual one? Seriously, we need to get in there pronto. And to be fair to you my love, you’re just doing your job. We’ve all been in your shoes. But ask yourself, why would two well-dressed people turn out on an evening like this to willingly stand and look at a woman who has been disembowelled?” She let the sentence hang in the cooling night air.

  “I’d much rather be back on the sun-kissed beaches of New Zealand than standing on a freezing street corner in Brixton. No offence and all that…”

  “You could be media?”

  “We could. But do you see a camera? No, you don’t. And I did show you my ID.”

  “OK. I trust you. You’d better go in. A CSI is up there already along with the local DS and his staff and the paramedics. Bit crowded, you might need to take it in turns.”

  “Thanks. A grumpy detective from the Orion team will be here all guns blazing. If you fancy a laugh, don’t let him in.”

  “Oh, and can I borrow your pen a second?” Cade smiled at the woman who was probably twenty.

  “Of course.”

  He signed the Incident Log and handed back the standard-issue Bic.

  “Hang on. Did you say paramedics?”

  “Yes, guv.”

  “I was told the lady had died.”

  “Well, you were told wrong. As far as I know she’s still just about alive.”

  They ran up the steps and into the hallway, then knocked on the door without entering the flat. A middle-aged detective stopped them.

  “And you are?”

  “Bloody freezing actually.” Cade held out his hand.

  “Jack Cade – Operation Orion team leader from the Ivory Tower across the river. We were called by your CAD Inspector. Mind if we take a little look around? I promise not to get in your way.” He found the direct approach worked best.

  “I suppose so yes. Be my guest. It’s a bit…”

  “Crowded? Yes, the lovely WPC on the door told us.”

  “Can’t call them that anymore boss.”

  “Bloody hell. Times have changed. What next? They pay the same pension contributions as men? Work nights? Drive patrol cars? Where will this all end, I ask myself?” He winked at the battle-weary detective who’d probably got as much time in as Cade.

  Th
ey stepped into the lounge. Cade waited and watched. It was how he had always approached crime scenes.

  One model was Stop. Think. Plan. The other Look. Listen. Smell.

  Look. Look around, look up, down and sideways and then just watch for a while. From experience, the team that were there to do a job would practically ignore him, anyway.

  Listen for the dead or dying to come calling. They often announced themselves in subtle ways.

  Smell the air, anything different?

  The lounge seemed unremarkable. A small two-seat vinyl-covered sofa was somehow prevailing next to a hand-painted white bookcase that leant perilously to one side, creating a row of paperbacks that leant to the left and gave the impression that any moment a well-thumbed thriller by Peter James was going to be the one book that caused the whole damned thing to collapse.

  There was also a large glass tank with a black plastic lid that had a heavy gilt-edged bible perched on the top which Cade assumed was to prevent the escape of the impressively green snake that laid inside and silently watched the world go by.

  State normal then. He decided not to mention the snake as he recalled O’Shea had a passionate loathing of them.

  The kitchenette was clean. No dishes to wash. The trace of a meal about to be prepared, the oven on and gradually getting hotter. A small tabletop lamp with a low-wattage bulb did its best to light the room via a tattered yellow shade.

  There was that smell, the one that often came with multi-occupancy buildings. A sort of musty, old, slightly uncared for smell that you could never quite identify. The carpets were sticky too.

  It was the sort of building that ensured that you wiped your feet on the way out.

  “Can we help you?” A friendly enough regional accent greeted them. Its owner was a red-haired Scotsman called Dev. No one knew why he was called Dev. He just was.

  “Jack Cade, and this is Carrie O’Shea. We are from the Orion team at the Yard. We’ve signed the incident log. We were asked to attend because one of your team picked up on some keywords that we are monitoring and I was told you had a body here.”

  “Oh yes. Big Brother is alive and well I see! A bit like our Jane Doe in the shower. The staff that attended initially didn’t think she’d survived the attack but the first cop through the door got a very slight heartbeat. Used to be a nurse, apparently. She may be lucky. That said, the paramedic was not giving me a thumbs up when I last looked. She’s in the lap of the gods.”

  “Can we take a look?”

  “Be my guest. We’ll be a while. Usual rules if you can, please. And you might want to suit up. A wee bit overpowering in there…” He pointed to a large black bag containing all the forensic kit they both needed.

  Suitably dressed they entered the lounge. Cade took a closer look around, a more detailed appraisal of a few things that had caught his eye earlier. O’Shea too. Cade found a few unopened letters on the kitchen table. Not one had the same name on it. The by-product of a short-term tenancy.

  “I’m guessing this is our lady.” He showed an utilities bill to O’Shea who took a photo of it with her phone and emailed it straight through to Dave Francis, her colleague who hardly ever went home since being given a new life as an intelligence officer by Cade.

  The attached message said simply, ‘Find out anything you can on this girl please Dave. She’s likely to end up deceased. No idea of date of birth but likely to be West African. According to our local sources it’s an attempt murder or burglary gone wrong. I don’t think Jack is convinced. Get back to me ASAP.’

  Francis opened the message, clicked his fingers, stretched his back and entered his password. In seconds he was running all the programmes he could access and whilst they ticked over, he made a call to Heathrow Airport.

  ‘Another favour cashed in Jack. Good job I owe you a fistful.’

  Cade checked the kitchenette. Opened the cupboards. Food. She was living a fairly normal life. Fridge too and a small freezer compartment. On the wall was a calendar showing colourful scenes from Africa. He carefully flicked through it. Bright colours. Topless men and women. Animals. More beautiful and bright colours.

  All the pages were blank except one.

  “A week from today.”

  It was subtle. Just a small blue biro mark. A dot that had been enlarged as the pen has rested on it. No other note. Just the blue dot. It could easily have been missed.

  “Seen this?” He showed O’Shea the page. “Thoughts?”

  “No idea. It’s not a public holiday either here or in Africa. It won’t be pay as she’d have it marked more often. An appointment then. Perhaps we can find a letter that might support that idea?”

  Dev walked over to them.

  “You’re wasting your time, miss. We’ve had a really good shifty.”

  It was a great word. It meant looking around and was used by military folk and had its origins in the Middle East.

  “You content there’s nothing, Dev? Nothing unusual?” Cade was in the zone now, back where he operated best.

  “She’s got some really unusual self-harm scars on her chest, if that’s of any interest?”

  “Now that is interesting, Dev. Hold that thought.”

  “Other than that, you are happy?” asked Cade, still scanning the rooms.

  “As happy as a DS with a mutilated lassie in a shower can be.”

  “Yes. Horrible. We’ll get there next. I don’t want to get in the way of medical science. Nothing in that bedside cabinet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Under the mattress?”

  “Do I look like an amateur?”

  “Nope. What about the cistern?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Underneath the snake?”

  O’Shea froze, then in her pure London accent blurted out “Snake! You had better be ‘aving a laugh, Jack. I mean it…”

  “I know. But you need to accept that there is one in the lounge, in a case, and if I was a lady living on her own with a potential enemy that might be looking for something very specific, I’d think about hiding that something in there. But hey, that’s just me.”

  “You volunteering to get the wee fella oot his hoose there, big man?” Dev was becoming more Scottish by the second.

  “It’s Inspector, actually,” said O’Shea hoping that rank might have its privileges. There was no way on earth she was putting any part of her body anywhere near the thing.

  “Aye that may be, then respectfully sir yer aff yer heid if ya think I’m putting ma hand in with that beastie! Dae I look like an eejit?”

  Cade smiled his textbook smile. “I think I got the gist of that sergeant. It’s fine, I’ll do it.”

  “Not with me around you bloody well won’t,” said O’Shea making for the main door.

  “It’ll be fine, Carrie. Trust me.”

  “Oh, I trust you, boss. It’s that thing I don’t trust.”

  Cade walked towards the tank and moved the bible.

  “Is this a good idea?” Dev was also edging away.

  “It’s fine.” He looked at the snake, which was changing colour, from green to blue, around its neck.

  “See, he likes me, he’s even changing colour.”

  “Jack, please. Just come away. We’ll get the RSPCA or London Zoo to come down. What if he bites you?”

  “What the zookeeper?”

  “No! The…look just stop. Please.”

  “Then I’ll bite him back, Carrie. And frankly, I’m more worried that it’s a girl – science has proven they can be far more deadly.”

  He lifted the lid and watched the snake for a moment. It had lifted its head up slightly. So far, so good.

  O’Shea was busy flicking through pages on her phone until she found a number of the zoo, then a call-out number, which she rang.

  “Oh, yes, hello. My name’s Carrie O’Shea. I work for the police. I’ve got an urgent conundrum.” She outlined the issue as quickly as she could, whilst still making sense, explaining that her boss had, in her words, los
t the plot.

  “Yes, that’s right, he’s going to lift it out and search under the floor…”

  “Can you take a picture of it first, miss? Then email it to me?” The agreeable sounding man with a warm African accent gave her his email address.

  “Right, describe the snake to me.”

  “It’s bright green.”

  “Good – but possibly not so good. There are about three thousand types of snake in the world and many are green. How big is it?”

  “About the size of…” She tried to think of a comparison. “Half a snooker cue.”

  “OK. Now I need you to go a little closer.”

  “Mate, you can fuck right off. The only way I’m going closer to that thing is with a spade.”

  “Miss. Describe its head to me. Stay calm. There is every chance this is a harmless creature. No need to bury it.”

  “I’m not intending to bury it, I’m intending to beat it to death.” She peered from as close as she dared go. “OK, it’s head is the size of an egg.”

  “Chicken, goose or ostrich?” It was a fair question. It was apparent he’d done this before.

  “Chicken. Size six. Free range…” She started giggling and so did her new zookeeper friend.

  “And do tell him not to touch it, or put his hand anywhere near it until I’ve…”

  “Jack, no!”

  “Miss?”

  “Fuck me. It’s bitten him as he was pulling his hand out. It’s bleeding. A lot. His hand is bleeding, and he’s been bitten by a snake, in Brixton, in the winter, by a snake, in a flat…but there’s a paramedic in the flat but she’s busy and…”

  “Miss. Shut up!” It worked. She stopped.

  “I need that photograph now more than ever.”

  She pressed send.

  Cade was strutting around the bedsit with his right hand pouring with blood. The paramedic looked up and shook her head.

  “You’re on your own for a minute, pal. Let it bleed. Don’t touch the wound and above all don’t suck the bloody thing.” She shook her head. This wasn’t what she needed.