Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

ONE

Our American Airlines flight was due to depart from London Heathrow at five in the afternoon. We had decided to be there two hours earlier so that we could have time for a martini in the bar before boarding. That meant we had booked our taxi to the airport for two. So at one forty-five, we were in the lobby of our hotel on Picadilly, settling our bill, while our luggage was taken out to await the cab, when my phone rang. The screen told me it was Inspector John Newman, the chief at our precinct in the Bronx.

I thumbed green and he spoke before I did.

“John, it’s John. I hope you’ve had a great honeymoon.”

“Thanks, we have. Not what we expected, but interesting[3]. We’re just…”

“I imagine you’re just about heading for the airport, are you…?”

“Yup. That’s what we’re doing. Planning to have a…”

“Here’s the thing, John. How would you feel about staying on a few days?”

I blinked at Dehan, who was watching me without expression, then I held up a hand to the concierge and said into the phone, “Um…”

“I realize it’s short notice…”

“I just settled the bill, sir.”

“I think you’ll find the reservation has been extended, as a courtesy…”

I stared a moment at Dehan, then at the concierge, who was frowning at his screen. “Our reservation has been extended…?” I said, not quite sure whom I was asking.

Dehan screwed up her face and mouthed, ‘what?’ and the concierge looked at me with raised eyebrows and nodded.

“What’s this about, sir?”

“Your friend, Detective Inspector Harry Green, he’s asked Scotland Yard to request you as a special consultant.”

“A consultant? On what, sir?”

“Well, I’d better let him explain that. I think you’ll find he’s sent a car for you. Keep me posted, John. Enjoy your extended, um, honeymoon…”

The line went dead. Dehan gave me a ‘what the hell’ shrug and the concierge said, “Shall I have your luggage taken back up, sir? It seems you are in the honeymoon suite for another week…” He raised an eyebrow. “Courtesy of Scotland Yard!”

“Yes, please. It seems we are.”

Dehan smiled and raised both her eyebrows dangerously high toward her hairline. “Do I get a say in this?”

“Apparently not. That was the Inspector. Harry has a car on the way. He will explain more fully when we see him, but it seems we are consulting for Scotland Yard, my dear Watson.”

“Super.”

We didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later, a guy in his mid-twenties with short, fair hair and dark glasses came in, scanning the foyer as he walked. His eyes fell on us where we were sitting and he approached, removing his glasses and smiling without his eyes. “Mr. and Mrs. Stone?”

We stood. “Are you the man from Scotland Yard?”

We shook. “Detective Inspector Green asked me to come over and fetch you. My car is outside.” He glanced around. “Nice. We don’t usually put people up at the Ritz.”

Dehan grunted, “Yeah, it’s a long story. Any idea what this is about?”

“I think DI Green had better explain that, ma’am.”

New York, like all American cities, was designed on purpose by men imbued with the ideals of the Age of Reason and empirical logic, who thought, for better or worse, that it made sense to lay out the roads in a grid.

London was not designed on purpose. It grew organically over more than two thousand years, and the roads, lanes and streets—or at least most of them—follow paths laid down first by nomadic hunter-gatherers, then by cattle herders and farmers bringing their goods to market, and after that, by the increasing ebb and flow of people, drawn to the docks that send out ships and adventurers to the world’s greatest empire, and received its bounty in return; and to the narrow, cobbled streets and dark taverns of Westminster, where men plotted on how to relieve the Spanish of their ill-gotten gold, and how to squash upstart French emperors. The streets of London reflect all of that to this day.

We wound and wove and wended our way among an extraordinary mismatch of buildings that comprised the ultra modern in glass and steel and the ultra ancient in crooked timber and plaster and all kinds of stuff in between, including ’30s functional and post-Blitz hideous. We eventually came out onto Whitechapel Road, which is long and dreary and ugly and seems to go on forever, until finally, we turned right at a large intersection into New Road. From there we made a left into Newark Street and right into Halcrow Street and stopped outside a dark blue door with a brass knob and a brass number 1 on it.

The street was just seven houses long, and most of it was taken up with the police presence: There were a couple of uniforms outside the door in reflective yellow jackets, white police tape had been deployed across the length of the house, and there were two patrol cars, an unmarked VW, a crime scene van and an ambulance, all blocking the road.

The driver smiled at us in the mirror, without making it look like a smile, and said, “DI Green will be inside. Have a good one.”

We thanked him and climbed out. A uniformed sergeant approached with curious eyes that didn’t quite conceal a mixture of hostility and amusement. “Help you, sir, madam?”

I didn’t hold it against him. I could imagine how the boys and girls at the 43rd would feel if a guy from Scotland Yard was shipped in to ‘consult’ for us on one of our cases. I smiled. “I don’t know. We were boarding a plane and DI Green sent for us. I have no idea what this is about.” I nodded at the door. “I believe he’s inside.”

He nodded. “Your names, sir, madam?”

“John Stone, this is my wife,