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

guy who killed Amy, Cindy, Sally-Anne and Kathleen clearly has an abiding interest in Don McLean.”

She frowned. “And Pride Parade?”

“He understandably mistook the meaning of the title, which has nothing to do with being gay. Gay used to mean happy, pride used to mean pride, now they are both associated with homosexuality, something which Brad abhors. So he asked if Don McLean was gay. Somehow, I think that our killer would not have made that mistake. Either way, the first thing that came to his mind was not American Pie. He may be many things, but he is not our serial killer.”

“What do you want to do now?”

I gave it some thought. “We go and have a talk with Harry. Let’s see what he’s found out about this girl, Katie. I also need to look at the file on Hattie. I’ve never…” I faltered. “I’ve never been able to bring myself to read the file. But I think it’s time, Dehan. Maybe I have a chance here to nail the bastard and lay her to rest at last.”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. We have three crimes here, Stone, six murders and three crimes. We need to keep them clear and separate in our minds.”

“I know. Three crimes and only one suspect. That’s no accident.”

“What do you mean?” She stopped on the corner of the parking garage. “No accident how?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know yet, but I can tell you it’s no accident.”

I thumbed my address book and called Harry.

“John, where are you?”

“We just came out of the Olympia.”

“Excellent. How did it go?”

I looked at Dehan a moment. “It was interesting. We need to talk.”

“Good, come over to the embankment. I’m in my office. I’ll tell them to expect you downstairs and show you up.”

“Harry? I’m going to need a couple of things.”

“Anything. Name it.”

“I need the file on Hattie’s death.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “OK, John, but let’s not get sidetracked.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s not going to happen.”

He didn’t sound convinced. “Hang on, John, not so fast. Are you sure you’re up to reading that report?”

“Yes. Just please do it, Harry.”

He sighed, “OK, if you’re sure.”

“I am. Another thing. The note that was pinned to Katie’s eye. Have you got a copy of it?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I’m going to need that, and copies of the other four from fifteen years ago. Can you do that for me?”

I could hear him making notes. “Yes, sure,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, a big bottle of Bushmills.”

He laughed out loud. “Same old John Stone. I’ll have it all waiting for you when you get here.”

“Give me twenty minutes or half an hour.”

Dehan was standing with her hands in her pockets, shaking her head at her feet. She looked up and her face was eloquent of a curious mixture of admiration and despair. “A bottle of Bushmills? Seriously? A detective inspector of Scotland Yard asks you what you need, and John Stone, with his two king-sized cojones, says, a bottle of Bushmills. You are singular and unique, Sensei. They made you and they broke the mold.”

I gave a small laugh and started to walk again toward the entrance of the parking garage. “It’s not as outrageous as you might think, Little Grasshopper. There is, as the old cliché would have it, a method to my madness.”

“You have a reason for asking Scotland Yard to provide you with a bottle of Bushmills.”

I nodded. “I prefer it to Scotch. It is distilled three times, so it’s smoother. And did you know that the ten-year-old single malt is matured in bourbon casks as well as oloroso sherry casks?”

She took my arm in both of hers and rested her head on my shoulder. “Nope, I didn’t know that, Sensei. You are my source of useless information in shining armor.”

“You are impertinent, Dehan.”

“Will you punish me?”

“See?”

“With handcuffs?”

“See? Impertinent.”

FOUR

We parked on Richmond Terrace, on the other side of iron gates that are only ever opened to a select few. I figured Harry hadn’t been wasting his time over the last fifteen years. We were met at one of the side doors by a cop in uniform and taken up to an office on the fourth floor. It was an office with an unobstructed view of the back wall of the building next door, so I guess Harry still had a way to go.

Aside from the lack of a view, it was comfortable in an old world sort of way, with a small fireplace that now stood cold and a large, oak desk with scars and ink stains that said it had been used over the decades, and possibly a century or two. The rest of his furniture was comfortable but nondescript.

He stood and smiled as we came in and the door closed behind us. “John, Carmen, thank you so much for your help. Do sit, please. Tea? Coffee?”

We told him no and sat at his desk in comfortable, nondescript chairs. I was still trying to figure things out. I looked around. “We have a desk which we share, in a room full of a bunch of other detectives, so we can all hear each other think. Hearing yourself think is more of a challenge. We call it the Detectives Room.”

He gave a single laugh that was more of a bark. “Cubicles and partitions! That is the new way, I’m afraid. It’s the same here. I am privileged to have this little cubbyhole.”

That was Harry and the Brits all over. They don’t tell you it’s none of your goddamn business. They agree with you, have a laugh, and by the time they’ve finished talking, you realize they’ve changed the subject without answering you. One thing was clear,