Chapter 1
Mike Mason stirs the simmering pot with a wooden spoon in one hand, while reaching over and grabbing his wine glass with the other. Taking a sip from the glass, he relishes the heavy taste of the Merlot across his tongue, and licks his lips in anticipation. Anticipation of the meal he will be serving with it, and anticipation of the night to come. He checks the clock on the kitchen wall and sees he still has a half hour before his guest arrives. Just enough time to finish the glass of wine and set the table. He smiles as he thinks of his guest. They only met last week at a lovely little bistro. It was a blind date, set up by mutual friends, but they both overcame their initial embarrassment and hit it off straight away. He takes another sip from the glass and realises he is as nervous as a teenager on a first date. It has been a long time since he has let anyone into his life. He recalls the ugly scenes at the end of his last relationship and shudders involuntarily. He does not want to go through that again. He was in pieces for weeks.
The doorbell breaks his thoughts and he looks back up to the clock with a chill running down his spine.
‘Twenty-five minutes early,’ he thinks to himself, ‘I haven’t set the table yet…shit.’
Placing the wine glass on the heavy wooden table in the center of the kitchen, he pulls on the edges of his shirt at his waist to stretch it across his chest, and walks out into the long tiled hallway. His shoes clatter across the small mosaic tiles as he makes his way to the front door. He can see the silhouette of somebody framed in the patterned glass from the street light outside. He checks his hair in the hallway mirror quickly, takes a deep breath, puts a smile on his face, and opens the front door.
‘Hi. You’re early…’ his voice tapers off as he sees a person he was not expecting standing on his doorstep.
‘Michael Mason?’ An enquiry.
‘Yes, umm, can I help you?’
‘Michael Mason of Typhoon Scientific Industries?’
‘Yes, but do you mind…’
The question is cut off as a gloved hand appears as if out of nowhere and propels him backwards, sending Michael sprawling onto the tiled hallway floor. He looks up, more in astonishment than in fear, as the stranger steps into his house and closes the door behind them.
‘I’ll take that bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape, the 2006, please.’
Andrew Thackery hands over a fifty pound note to the wine merchant, ‘Keep the change.’
He waits whilst the bottle is wrapped in thin, plain, white paper and then passed over the counter to him.
‘Thank you sir. Have a good evening.’
Andrew smiles at the older man in front of him, ‘I intend to, thank you.’
He walks out of the small shop and strides over to the waiting black cab. As he gets into the rear of the car, he speaks to the driver,
‘Thank you for that. Now, on to our destination please.’
He sits back and enjoys the next ten minutes in silence, looking forward to spending a night out with some good company.
He barely notices when they pull in to an affluent street and stop outside a marvellous Victorian townhouse.
‘Here we are, sir.’
The voice of the taxi driver breaks his chain of thought.
‘Oh, wow, here already.’
Andrew digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet. Glancing at the meter he fishes out another fifty pound note and hands it through the gap in the dividing screen.
‘Keep the change,’ he says.
‘Thank you sir, thank you very much,’ the cab driver replies with a huge grin, ‘have a merry Christmas.’
‘You too,’ Andrew says with a smile, and exits the cab.
His breath is white smoke in the chill of the evening as he surveys the house in front of him. He checks his watch and mutters under his breath, ‘Here I come, ready or not.’
He pushes open the small, wrought iron gate and walks up the terracotta tiled path that separates a small, but immaculately kept front garden. He is about to push the doorbell, when he sees the door is ajar.
‘Expecting me, obviously,’ he thinks, and pushes it fully open, calling out as he does so, ‘Hello, Michael…it’s me, Andrew. Something smells good, I hope you haven’t…’
As he steps inside the hallway his foot slips in a wet patch on the floor and he struggles to remain upright, only managing to do so by grabbing the doorframe with his free hand. It is then he notices the bloody bundle on the floor in front of him.
The bottle of wine slips from his grasp and shatters on the tiles, mixing it’s dark, red contents with the darker fluid already pooling from the body in front of him. Andrew’s hand flies to his mouth to try and stop the gorge from rising. He turns away from the terrible sight in front of him and fumbles for his mobile phone stabbing in 999 quickly.
‘Police, I need help. Something terrible has happened. I think there’s been a murder…’
Chapter 2
London in December is spectacular. One of my joys since a child, has been walking the streets, taking in the sights of the shops and all of their Christmas trimmings and lights. I am standing with Julia, my fiancée, this cold December evening, on Brompton Road in Knightsbridge, and staring at the brightly lit façade of Harrods opposite. The lovely old building is festooned with lights, giving off a soft orange glow that bathes us, even across the street. Julia squeezes my hand and looks up at me,
‘Shall we go in Peter? We can do the touristy thing and buy a carrier bag. I know mama would like that, she has a collection already. She likes to use them when she shops at Asda, she thinks it make her look more affluent.’
Julia chuckles softly and I join in with her laughter.
‘How about we get a mug for your father? He can sit in the restaurant with his Greek coffee in it and your mother can unpack her shopping next to him. Make them look like Harrods regulars, eh?’
Julia’s smile is brighter than the lights of Harrods and the whole of London combined as she pulls me across the road, dodging the slow moving traffic, and into the most famous department store in the world.
‘Julia,’ I say, ‘go on up to the home-ware department, I just have to make a quick phone call to the office. I won’t be long.’
I give her a quick peck on the cheek as I pull out my mobile phone. As a Detective Chief Inspector in the Metropolitan Police Forces Homicide and Serious Crime Unit, I have to keep in regular contact with my office, and it is lucky for me that Julia understands that.
‘OK babe. See you in a minute.’ And she is off in a whirl of Dolce & Gabbana, Velvet Desert perfume. I love that fragrance on her skin, that is why I bought her a bottle for her birthday.
I watch as she disappears in the throng of Christmas shoppers and slip the phone back in my pocket. I move off in a different direction, ensuring she cannot see me.
‘That one please, may I see it?’
The woman behind the small counter looks me up and down before nodding. I don’t notice any other movement or signal from her, but I suddenly find a large man in a discreet security guards uniform standing near me. I look at him and smile, ‘Afternoon,’ I say with a nod.
He just stands there impassively, watching, but not looking.
‘This is a lovely piece, I am sure your…’ she pauses to let me finish her sentence.
‘Fiancée,’ I confirm.
She smiles, ‘ I am sure your fiancée would love it. The emerald is set in gold and inspired by a bud in blossom. It is understated yet elegant, and the extremely intricate workings of the diamonds in the 18 karat gold are magnificent. The artist is a delightful chap called Theo Fennel, one of the finest workers of jewellery in the world.’
Her description of the necklace I now hold before me doesn’t sway my decision. All I can see in my mind is that drop of colour against Julia’s neck and I know I must have it.
‘I’ll take it, it is truly a beautiful piece of jewellery.’
The sales woman smile grows broader, ‘We also have a set of ear-rings in the same design,’ she brings out another small display case, upon which lie a set of matching ear-rings that catch the light and glisten softly, ‘they compliment the necklace perfectly, don’t you think?’
I see the price tag and try not to grimace, but she is right, together the jewellery will look stunning on Julia. I can imagine her wearing the pieces on our wedding day and how it will look against her olive skin.
‘OK,’ I say, knowing when I am beaten, ’it will have to be MasterCard.’
‘No problem, sir. I will just have them gift wrapped for you whilst your payment goes through.’
She punches a string of numbers into a small hand held terminal, a few numbers more than I wanted to see before I came in, and hands it over to me. With a small sigh I input my security number and hand it back to her. An assistant has quickly and expertly covered the two boxes in expensive looking, sparkling paper and popped them in a discreet green bag. Handing my card back with the receipt, the sales woman smiles sweetly,
‘Perhaps you would also be interested in a bracelet?’
I smile as I put away my card.
‘Maybe next year, thank you.’
The small bag fits nicely into the inside pocket of my jacket and I rush off to find Julia, leaving the smiling woman behind me.
I find Julia looking at a vast array of mugs in all manner of shapes and colours. She is holding a Union Flag covered cup with the Harrods logo emblazoned across it in her hand, and is slowly turning it around as she inspects it. She see’s me coming and smiles broadly,
‘What do you think of this one? Is it my dad?’
I think of Nektarios, Julia’s father and cast an appraising eye across the selection. I pick up a simple coloured travel mug, in black with gold writing.
‘This might be easier for him to hold and I think the colours are more his style,’ I say.
Julia’s smile slips slightly as she considers the practicality of my statement. Nine months ago, her father was beaten and left for dead in a vicious attack. He lost three fingers off his left hand in the assault, amongst more severe injuries, and he only now is managing to move around without assistance. The attack was a result of a long ago feud between Nektarios and an old friend of his, brought about by their love of the same woman. Julia’s mother.
‘Yes, that would be more suitable for him.’
She blinks back a tear and I put an arm around her and hold her close.
‘Let’s get him this mug and put it in a carrier bag for your mum. Two birds with one stone then, yeah?’
She nods and places the ceramic mug back on the shelf in front of her. Pulling herself away from me slightly, she prods me in the side, exactly where the jewellery boxes are hidden beneath my jacket.
‘What have you got there, Peter?’
Luckily the ringing of my phone stops any explanation I have to give. I smile apologetically, pull the phone from my pocket, and answer it.
‘DCI Carter.’
Julia watches my brow furrow at the words I am hearing.
‘OK. I will be there as soon as I can…yes ma’am…I will notify Dr Young and his forensics team.’
The phone call terminates, and Julia can see by the look on my face that our day trip has come to an end.
‘Work?’ she enquires, knowing full well what that means for some unfortunate soul.
I nod, ‘Come on, let’s pay for this and then I will get you a taxi. Please give your parents my love but I may be late for our dinner this evening.’
She grabs my hand to give it a reassuring squeeze, ‘No problem Peter. We all know what you do can’t always be done in normal hours.’ She looks me in the eyes, ‘Stay safe though yeah. Always stay safe.’
After hailing a cab to take Julia back to her parents restaurant, I call Graham Young, the forensic head, and my good friend. I start walking as I talk on the phone. ‘Graham, hi, it’s Peter. Sorry to disturb your Saturday afternoon but…’
‘Peter, no problem. I’m on my way. JD just called and gave me the details. You know, he really is on the ball. Maybe he’s after your job?’
I smile at the thought of my partner JD, Detective Inspector Johnathon Dawkins, doing anything to try and usurp me. We have been through a lot of things together and I class him as one of my best friends, hell, he is my best friend.
‘He can have it Graham. Listen, I am only around the corner from the scene, so I will be there in about ten minutes. I’ll meet you there and I presume JD is already on-scene?’
‘He said he was on his way when he rang. So much for Saturdays off, eh?’
‘That’s why we get paid the mega-bucks Graham.’
‘Hmm, not sure about that. Maybe I can swing some overtime for this one?’ he says half-jokingly.
Shaking my head, even though he cannot see it, ‘Not with my budget Graham, but I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow.’
‘Deal. See you soon to confirm the details.’
I hang up and continue on my way through the expensive streets of Knightsbridge.
Chapter 3
Angela Wilson is watching the commotion across the street from a house almost identical to the one she is standing in. This area of London is not renowned for the flurry of police activity that is currently taking place, and she watches intently as more uniformed and plain clothed officers arrive. She observes that to have money in this neighbourhood, means that more police arrive on scene than she is used to in her area of the capital. Looking behind her, to the man stretched out on the bed, she shakes her head slowly, before turning back to the unfolding drama on the street. It is much more fun to watch this, than have to return to the almost silent form on the large, double bed behind her.
‘What the hell is going on over there?’ she questions under her breath.
Not caring as to what her client may think, she lights up a cigarette, and stares out of the window with curiosity. Taking a deep pull on the filter she realises a problem she may face.
‘Shit,’ she says out loud, ‘coppers all over the place and I am meant to get back before eleven.’
Without turning around, she speaks towards the window, but her words are directed to the figure on the bed.
‘This is going to cost you mister…and that’s even before you get what I came here for. If I don’t leave before 10:30 then it’s another grand. No excuses, just payment without any hassles.’
She takes another deep drag on the cigarette and watches with a bored look as the tip glows red. She moves away from the window and takes a few steps towards the bed. The man looks up with a frightened look on his fat, sweaty face. The gag stops the scream from exiting the room as the tip of the cigarette is placed against his inner thigh.
‘You won’t have a problem with the overtime, will you, love?’ Angela asks.
The shudder of pleasure and the rapid shake of the head from her client tell her all she needs to know.
‘Good boy…that’s all I need to know.’
She moves away from the bed, towards the small bag she brought with her. Pulling out a few objects from within its confines, she looks shyly over her shoulder, ‘Now how about we have some fun?’
As I make my way down the street, I look up the houses around me. This is definitely what they would call ‘Millionaires Row’, without any shred of sarcasm in the words. My eyes linger on a first floor window opposite as I see a tall, blonde haired woman watching the goings on of the Metropolitan Police in the house opposite hers. She is only there a moment before disappearing from view. I understand then, that in this area of London we will get no witnesses or any viable sightings of whomever may have perpetrated the crime. Indeed, it was luck on my part to actually see someone at a window. Every other house has the blinds or curtains firmly closed against the night, shutting out humanity in case it disturbs their viewing of ‘Strictly’. I grab the shoulder of the nearest uniformed constable whilst flashing my ID with my spare hand.
‘Constable, has anyone canvassed the local area for information yet?’
He looks at my identification and straightens immediately.
‘Sir…no sir. We are awaiting instructions from the HSCU…umm..I mean, we are awaiting your instructions, sir.’
‘OK. Calm down son. Where is the SOCO?’
The SOCO, or Scene Of Crime Officer, is the person in charge until a ranking officer of the Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit arrives to relieve him or her. The constable points to a squat looking figure talking to a group of people dressed in white paper overalls. I smile as I recognise JD.
‘Thanks son. Keep up the good work,’ I say as I walk over to my partner.
By some sixth sense, JD turns before I reach him.
‘What took you so long?’ he says grim faced but with a glint in his eye, ‘I’ve been here twenty minutes already.’
I clasp him on the shoulder, feeling the muscles beneath his bulky jacket react in the way that a piece of granite would…that is, with no reaction at all.
‘What have we got here, JD?’ I enquire.
‘Single homicide. No witnesses, and I have to warn you, it’s a bit messy.’
‘Aren’t they all?’ I say.
He shrugs his impressive shoulders, ‘Suppose so Peter, but this is a bit more than our average homicide.’
My mind flips back to our last case, a serial killer of women that almost took the life of my sister, and I stay quiet.
‘The victim is a Mr Michael Mason of Typhoon Scientific Industries…’
‘Shit,’ I say, ‘he was only on the news last night talking about their merger with…’
‘DCI Carter.’
The acting Commissioner’s voice breaks into my conversation with JD.
‘Yes ma’am,’ I say turning towards Superintendent Patricia Wilks, now acting Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force, since the unfortunate death of Commissioner Derek Temple nine months ago. A full time successor was still to be appointed, but due to recent changes within the forces structure, and the subsequent power base given to the Mayoral office, not one of the logical successors was willing to take the plunge and assume the role. It was seen as too much of a career suicide with very little control over how the force should be run in its daily workings. The new Commissioner would take all the criticism for operations that went awry, while the Mayor’s office would take all the credit for solving crimes that ‘looked good’ for the papers. In my eyes, Patricia Wilks was managing to keep her head above the parapets and keep the force functioning with very strict rules in place. Her predecessor, with his fast and loose workings, had forced these rules to be put in place by the politicians who had no idea of what it took to be a police officer on the streets of the capital. The problem with staying above the parapet is that it becomes an easy target.
‘Peter,’ she says, ‘what is the situation here? I’ve heard it’s Mason of TSI. Is that correct?’
‘Ma’am, I arrived on scene just a few minutes before you. JD was just briefing me on the situation.’
She turns to JD, ‘Carry on detective, sorry to intrude.’
He nods in her direction and continues his conversation with me,
‘He was found by his dinner guest of the evening,’ a pause as he checks his notebook, ‘Mr Andrew Thackery. He says they only met last week, through mutual friends and this was to be their first real meeting. The story checks out, I have already spoken on the telephone to the woman who set them up, she was very helpful.’
‘OK,’ I nod, ‘what happened? How was he killed?’
JD looks at me like a petulant teenager.
‘Without a full forensics yet, it’s unsure. Jesus Peter, it’s not even been an hour yet.’
‘What’s your best assumption?’ I ask.
The smile returns, slightly,
‘Single stab wound to the chest, severing the aorta. Mason bled out in seconds. Even with a paramedic on the scene at the time of injury it would be impossible to have saved him.’
‘Blind luck, or, purposeful intent?’ Wilks asks JD.
‘Again, ma’am, without forensics to determine the weapon used and angle of entry, it’s too soon to say.’
She turns to me,
‘I want a full report on my desk, first thing in the morning. Get Graham on this as a priority and I want his report next to yours, tomorrow. I know it’s Saturday evening and I know we all had plans…forget them. I want answers on this and I want them yesterday. There will be questions asked at the highest level over Mason’s murder and I want to be able to have some answers when I am asked on Monday morning.’
She pulls me to one side,
‘Peter, this man was a personal friend to many people way above my pay grade, and that includes the PM. I want this case to be prioritised above anything else you may have going in the pipeline. I don’t care what you may think,’ she says this before I even have a chance to raise an eyebrow in a question, ‘this is yours and JD’s priority now. Do you understand?’
I can only nod my head. Anything else is not an option at this moment in time. She turns away and leaves as silently as she appeared. She does not even acknowledge Dr Graham Young as he makes his way to the scene, even though he says her name and holds out his hand. He is left, standing there, looking rather foolish as he holds his hand outstretched to thin air. He turns and looks at me, grins and says,
‘Guess she’s not worried about being on my Christmas card list.’
Mike Mason stirs the simmering pot with a wooden spoon in one hand, while reaching over and grabbing his wine glass with the other. Taking a sip from the glass, he relishes the heavy taste of the Merlot across his tongue, and licks his lips in anticipation. Anticipation of the meal he will be serving with it, and anticipation of the night to come. He checks the clock on the kitchen wall and sees he still has a half hour before his guest arrives. Just enough time to finish the glass of wine and set the table. He smiles as he thinks of his guest. They only met last week at a lovely little bistro. It was a blind date, set up by mutual friends, but they both overcame their initial embarrassment and hit it off straight away. He takes another sip from the glass and realises he is as nervous as a teenager on a first date. It has been a long time since he has let anyone into his life. He recalls the ugly scenes at the end of his last relationship and shudders involuntarily. He does not want to go through that again. He was in pieces for weeks.
The doorbell breaks his thoughts and he looks back up to the clock with a chill running down his spine.
‘Twenty-five minutes early,’ he thinks to himself, ‘I haven’t set the table yet…shit.’
Placing the wine glass on the heavy wooden table in the center of the kitchen, he pulls on the edges of his shirt at his waist to stretch it across his chest, and walks out into the long tiled hallway. His shoes clatter across the small mosaic tiles as he makes his way to the front door. He can see the silhouette of somebody framed in the patterned glass from the street light outside. He checks his hair in the hallway mirror quickly, takes a deep breath, puts a smile on his face, and opens the front door.
‘Hi. You’re early…’ his voice tapers off as he sees a person he was not expecting standing on his doorstep.
‘Michael Mason?’ An enquiry.
‘Yes, umm, can I help you?’
‘Michael Mason of Typhoon Scientific Industries?’
‘Yes, but do you mind…’
The question is cut off as a gloved hand appears as if out of nowhere and propels him backwards, sending Michael sprawling onto the tiled hallway floor. He looks up, more in astonishment than in fear, as the stranger steps into his house and closes the door behind them.
‘I’ll take that bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape, the 2006, please.’
Andrew Thackery hands over a fifty pound note to the wine merchant, ‘Keep the change.’
He waits whilst the bottle is wrapped in thin, plain, white paper and then passed over the counter to him.
‘Thank you sir. Have a good evening.’
Andrew smiles at the older man in front of him, ‘I intend to, thank you.’
He walks out of the small shop and strides over to the waiting black cab. As he gets into the rear of the car, he speaks to the driver,
‘Thank you for that. Now, on to our destination please.’
He sits back and enjoys the next ten minutes in silence, looking forward to spending a night out with some good company.
He barely notices when they pull in to an affluent street and stop outside a marvellous Victorian townhouse.
‘Here we are, sir.’
The voice of the taxi driver breaks his chain of thought.
‘Oh, wow, here already.’
Andrew digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet. Glancing at the meter he fishes out another fifty pound note and hands it through the gap in the dividing screen.
‘Keep the change,’ he says.
‘Thank you sir, thank you very much,’ the cab driver replies with a huge grin, ‘have a merry Christmas.’
‘You too,’ Andrew says with a smile, and exits the cab.
His breath is white smoke in the chill of the evening as he surveys the house in front of him. He checks his watch and mutters under his breath, ‘Here I come, ready or not.’
He pushes open the small, wrought iron gate and walks up the terracotta tiled path that separates a small, but immaculately kept front garden. He is about to push the doorbell, when he sees the door is ajar.
‘Expecting me, obviously,’ he thinks, and pushes it fully open, calling out as he does so, ‘Hello, Michael…it’s me, Andrew. Something smells good, I hope you haven’t…’
As he steps inside the hallway his foot slips in a wet patch on the floor and he struggles to remain upright, only managing to do so by grabbing the doorframe with his free hand. It is then he notices the bloody bundle on the floor in front of him.
The bottle of wine slips from his grasp and shatters on the tiles, mixing it’s dark, red contents with the darker fluid already pooling from the body in front of him. Andrew’s hand flies to his mouth to try and stop the gorge from rising. He turns away from the terrible sight in front of him and fumbles for his mobile phone stabbing in 999 quickly.
‘Police, I need help. Something terrible has happened. I think there’s been a murder…’
Chapter 2
London in December is spectacular. One of my joys since a child, has been walking the streets, taking in the sights of the shops and all of their Christmas trimmings and lights. I am standing with Julia, my fiancée, this cold December evening, on Brompton Road in Knightsbridge, and staring at the brightly lit façade of Harrods opposite. The lovely old building is festooned with lights, giving off a soft orange glow that bathes us, even across the street. Julia squeezes my hand and looks up at me,
‘Shall we go in Peter? We can do the touristy thing and buy a carrier bag. I know mama would like that, she has a collection already. She likes to use them when she shops at Asda, she thinks it make her look more affluent.’
Julia chuckles softly and I join in with her laughter.
‘How about we get a mug for your father? He can sit in the restaurant with his Greek coffee in it and your mother can unpack her shopping next to him. Make them look like Harrods regulars, eh?’
Julia’s smile is brighter than the lights of Harrods and the whole of London combined as she pulls me across the road, dodging the slow moving traffic, and into the most famous department store in the world.
‘Julia,’ I say, ‘go on up to the home-ware department, I just have to make a quick phone call to the office. I won’t be long.’
I give her a quick peck on the cheek as I pull out my mobile phone. As a Detective Chief Inspector in the Metropolitan Police Forces Homicide and Serious Crime Unit, I have to keep in regular contact with my office, and it is lucky for me that Julia understands that.
‘OK babe. See you in a minute.’ And she is off in a whirl of Dolce & Gabbana, Velvet Desert perfume. I love that fragrance on her skin, that is why I bought her a bottle for her birthday.
I watch as she disappears in the throng of Christmas shoppers and slip the phone back in my pocket. I move off in a different direction, ensuring she cannot see me.
‘That one please, may I see it?’
The woman behind the small counter looks me up and down before nodding. I don’t notice any other movement or signal from her, but I suddenly find a large man in a discreet security guards uniform standing near me. I look at him and smile, ‘Afternoon,’ I say with a nod.
He just stands there impassively, watching, but not looking.
‘This is a lovely piece, I am sure your…’ she pauses to let me finish her sentence.
‘Fiancée,’ I confirm.
She smiles, ‘ I am sure your fiancée would love it. The emerald is set in gold and inspired by a bud in blossom. It is understated yet elegant, and the extremely intricate workings of the diamonds in the 18 karat gold are magnificent. The artist is a delightful chap called Theo Fennel, one of the finest workers of jewellery in the world.’
Her description of the necklace I now hold before me doesn’t sway my decision. All I can see in my mind is that drop of colour against Julia’s neck and I know I must have it.
‘I’ll take it, it is truly a beautiful piece of jewellery.’
The sales woman smile grows broader, ‘We also have a set of ear-rings in the same design,’ she brings out another small display case, upon which lie a set of matching ear-rings that catch the light and glisten softly, ‘they compliment the necklace perfectly, don’t you think?’
I see the price tag and try not to grimace, but she is right, together the jewellery will look stunning on Julia. I can imagine her wearing the pieces on our wedding day and how it will look against her olive skin.
‘OK,’ I say, knowing when I am beaten, ’it will have to be MasterCard.’
‘No problem, sir. I will just have them gift wrapped for you whilst your payment goes through.’
She punches a string of numbers into a small hand held terminal, a few numbers more than I wanted to see before I came in, and hands it over to me. With a small sigh I input my security number and hand it back to her. An assistant has quickly and expertly covered the two boxes in expensive looking, sparkling paper and popped them in a discreet green bag. Handing my card back with the receipt, the sales woman smiles sweetly,
‘Perhaps you would also be interested in a bracelet?’
I smile as I put away my card.
‘Maybe next year, thank you.’
The small bag fits nicely into the inside pocket of my jacket and I rush off to find Julia, leaving the smiling woman behind me.
I find Julia looking at a vast array of mugs in all manner of shapes and colours. She is holding a Union Flag covered cup with the Harrods logo emblazoned across it in her hand, and is slowly turning it around as she inspects it. She see’s me coming and smiles broadly,
‘What do you think of this one? Is it my dad?’
I think of Nektarios, Julia’s father and cast an appraising eye across the selection. I pick up a simple coloured travel mug, in black with gold writing.
‘This might be easier for him to hold and I think the colours are more his style,’ I say.
Julia’s smile slips slightly as she considers the practicality of my statement. Nine months ago, her father was beaten and left for dead in a vicious attack. He lost three fingers off his left hand in the assault, amongst more severe injuries, and he only now is managing to move around without assistance. The attack was a result of a long ago feud between Nektarios and an old friend of his, brought about by their love of the same woman. Julia’s mother.
‘Yes, that would be more suitable for him.’
She blinks back a tear and I put an arm around her and hold her close.
‘Let’s get him this mug and put it in a carrier bag for your mum. Two birds with one stone then, yeah?’
She nods and places the ceramic mug back on the shelf in front of her. Pulling herself away from me slightly, she prods me in the side, exactly where the jewellery boxes are hidden beneath my jacket.
‘What have you got there, Peter?’
Luckily the ringing of my phone stops any explanation I have to give. I smile apologetically, pull the phone from my pocket, and answer it.
‘DCI Carter.’
Julia watches my brow furrow at the words I am hearing.
‘OK. I will be there as soon as I can…yes ma’am…I will notify Dr Young and his forensics team.’
The phone call terminates, and Julia can see by the look on my face that our day trip has come to an end.
‘Work?’ she enquires, knowing full well what that means for some unfortunate soul.
I nod, ‘Come on, let’s pay for this and then I will get you a taxi. Please give your parents my love but I may be late for our dinner this evening.’
She grabs my hand to give it a reassuring squeeze, ‘No problem Peter. We all know what you do can’t always be done in normal hours.’ She looks me in the eyes, ‘Stay safe though yeah. Always stay safe.’
After hailing a cab to take Julia back to her parents restaurant, I call Graham Young, the forensic head, and my good friend. I start walking as I talk on the phone. ‘Graham, hi, it’s Peter. Sorry to disturb your Saturday afternoon but…’
‘Peter, no problem. I’m on my way. JD just called and gave me the details. You know, he really is on the ball. Maybe he’s after your job?’
I smile at the thought of my partner JD, Detective Inspector Johnathon Dawkins, doing anything to try and usurp me. We have been through a lot of things together and I class him as one of my best friends, hell, he is my best friend.
‘He can have it Graham. Listen, I am only around the corner from the scene, so I will be there in about ten minutes. I’ll meet you there and I presume JD is already on-scene?’
‘He said he was on his way when he rang. So much for Saturdays off, eh?’
‘That’s why we get paid the mega-bucks Graham.’
‘Hmm, not sure about that. Maybe I can swing some overtime for this one?’ he says half-jokingly.
Shaking my head, even though he cannot see it, ‘Not with my budget Graham, but I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow.’
‘Deal. See you soon to confirm the details.’
I hang up and continue on my way through the expensive streets of Knightsbridge.
Chapter 3
Angela Wilson is watching the commotion across the street from a house almost identical to the one she is standing in. This area of London is not renowned for the flurry of police activity that is currently taking place, and she watches intently as more uniformed and plain clothed officers arrive. She observes that to have money in this neighbourhood, means that more police arrive on scene than she is used to in her area of the capital. Looking behind her, to the man stretched out on the bed, she shakes her head slowly, before turning back to the unfolding drama on the street. It is much more fun to watch this, than have to return to the almost silent form on the large, double bed behind her.
‘What the hell is going on over there?’ she questions under her breath.
Not caring as to what her client may think, she lights up a cigarette, and stares out of the window with curiosity. Taking a deep pull on the filter she realises a problem she may face.
‘Shit,’ she says out loud, ‘coppers all over the place and I am meant to get back before eleven.’
Without turning around, she speaks towards the window, but her words are directed to the figure on the bed.
‘This is going to cost you mister…and that’s even before you get what I came here for. If I don’t leave before 10:30 then it’s another grand. No excuses, just payment without any hassles.’
She takes another deep drag on the cigarette and watches with a bored look as the tip glows red. She moves away from the window and takes a few steps towards the bed. The man looks up with a frightened look on his fat, sweaty face. The gag stops the scream from exiting the room as the tip of the cigarette is placed against his inner thigh.
‘You won’t have a problem with the overtime, will you, love?’ Angela asks.
The shudder of pleasure and the rapid shake of the head from her client tell her all she needs to know.
‘Good boy…that’s all I need to know.’
She moves away from the bed, towards the small bag she brought with her. Pulling out a few objects from within its confines, she looks shyly over her shoulder, ‘Now how about we have some fun?’
As I make my way down the street, I look up the houses around me. This is definitely what they would call ‘Millionaires Row’, without any shred of sarcasm in the words. My eyes linger on a first floor window opposite as I see a tall, blonde haired woman watching the goings on of the Metropolitan Police in the house opposite hers. She is only there a moment before disappearing from view. I understand then, that in this area of London we will get no witnesses or any viable sightings of whomever may have perpetrated the crime. Indeed, it was luck on my part to actually see someone at a window. Every other house has the blinds or curtains firmly closed against the night, shutting out humanity in case it disturbs their viewing of ‘Strictly’. I grab the shoulder of the nearest uniformed constable whilst flashing my ID with my spare hand.
‘Constable, has anyone canvassed the local area for information yet?’
He looks at my identification and straightens immediately.
‘Sir…no sir. We are awaiting instructions from the HSCU…umm..I mean, we are awaiting your instructions, sir.’
‘OK. Calm down son. Where is the SOCO?’
The SOCO, or Scene Of Crime Officer, is the person in charge until a ranking officer of the Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit arrives to relieve him or her. The constable points to a squat looking figure talking to a group of people dressed in white paper overalls. I smile as I recognise JD.
‘Thanks son. Keep up the good work,’ I say as I walk over to my partner.
By some sixth sense, JD turns before I reach him.
‘What took you so long?’ he says grim faced but with a glint in his eye, ‘I’ve been here twenty minutes already.’
I clasp him on the shoulder, feeling the muscles beneath his bulky jacket react in the way that a piece of granite would…that is, with no reaction at all.
‘What have we got here, JD?’ I enquire.
‘Single homicide. No witnesses, and I have to warn you, it’s a bit messy.’
‘Aren’t they all?’ I say.
He shrugs his impressive shoulders, ‘Suppose so Peter, but this is a bit more than our average homicide.’
My mind flips back to our last case, a serial killer of women that almost took the life of my sister, and I stay quiet.
‘The victim is a Mr Michael Mason of Typhoon Scientific Industries…’
‘Shit,’ I say, ‘he was only on the news last night talking about their merger with…’
‘DCI Carter.’
The acting Commissioner’s voice breaks into my conversation with JD.
‘Yes ma’am,’ I say turning towards Superintendent Patricia Wilks, now acting Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force, since the unfortunate death of Commissioner Derek Temple nine months ago. A full time successor was still to be appointed, but due to recent changes within the forces structure, and the subsequent power base given to the Mayoral office, not one of the logical successors was willing to take the plunge and assume the role. It was seen as too much of a career suicide with very little control over how the force should be run in its daily workings. The new Commissioner would take all the criticism for operations that went awry, while the Mayor’s office would take all the credit for solving crimes that ‘looked good’ for the papers. In my eyes, Patricia Wilks was managing to keep her head above the parapets and keep the force functioning with very strict rules in place. Her predecessor, with his fast and loose workings, had forced these rules to be put in place by the politicians who had no idea of what it took to be a police officer on the streets of the capital. The problem with staying above the parapet is that it becomes an easy target.
‘Peter,’ she says, ‘what is the situation here? I’ve heard it’s Mason of TSI. Is that correct?’
‘Ma’am, I arrived on scene just a few minutes before you. JD was just briefing me on the situation.’
She turns to JD, ‘Carry on detective, sorry to intrude.’
He nods in her direction and continues his conversation with me,
‘He was found by his dinner guest of the evening,’ a pause as he checks his notebook, ‘Mr Andrew Thackery. He says they only met last week, through mutual friends and this was to be their first real meeting. The story checks out, I have already spoken on the telephone to the woman who set them up, she was very helpful.’
‘OK,’ I nod, ‘what happened? How was he killed?’
JD looks at me like a petulant teenager.
‘Without a full forensics yet, it’s unsure. Jesus Peter, it’s not even been an hour yet.’
‘What’s your best assumption?’ I ask.
The smile returns, slightly,
‘Single stab wound to the chest, severing the aorta. Mason bled out in seconds. Even with a paramedic on the scene at the time of injury it would be impossible to have saved him.’
‘Blind luck, or, purposeful intent?’ Wilks asks JD.
‘Again, ma’am, without forensics to determine the weapon used and angle of entry, it’s too soon to say.’
She turns to me,
‘I want a full report on my desk, first thing in the morning. Get Graham on this as a priority and I want his report next to yours, tomorrow. I know it’s Saturday evening and I know we all had plans…forget them. I want answers on this and I want them yesterday. There will be questions asked at the highest level over Mason’s murder and I want to be able to have some answers when I am asked on Monday morning.’
She pulls me to one side,
‘Peter, this man was a personal friend to many people way above my pay grade, and that includes the PM. I want this case to be prioritised above anything else you may have going in the pipeline. I don’t care what you may think,’ she says this before I even have a chance to raise an eyebrow in a question, ‘this is yours and JD’s priority now. Do you understand?’
I can only nod my head. Anything else is not an option at this moment in time. She turns away and leaves as silently as she appeared. She does not even acknowledge Dr Graham Young as he makes his way to the scene, even though he says her name and holds out his hand. He is left, standing there, looking rather foolish as he holds his hand outstretched to thin air. He turns and looks at me, grins and says,
‘Guess she’s not worried about being on my Christmas card list.’