After a hundred metres he’d had enough. He ducked into a shopping precinct for cover whilst he waited for some abatement. He stood looking out, hands thrust deep into his pockets, his face a picture of pure misery. The weather seemed set for the night and he knew he would have to brave it sooner or later.
Behind him, in the shopping centre, came the sound of chatter, laughter and cutlery and the great whiff of garlic. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a restaurant with a paved area, many people chomping merrily away. His brow furrowed as he turned slowly, his eyes taking in what he was seeing. He walked into the centre and saw it was a Spanish restaurant. He stood and inspected it, a strange, unworldly sensation overcoming him. To his right was an Italian restaurant across the concourse, again with outdoor seating, albeit protected by the fact it was inside the shopping centre.
His head flicked back to the Spanish restaurant.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said out loud, and, ‘Una Cerveza por favor,’ the only Spanish phrase he knew by heart.
Eleven
Henry woke at 6 a.m., feeling refreshed after six hours’ uninterrupted sleep, batteries recharged. He had a long, medium-hot shower, then dressed in the suit that Kate had packed for him. He wandered down for an early, leisurely breakfast, which he scoffed with the delight of a man not picking up the tab.
He spent the next hour sitting in the huge reception area, his ear affixed to his mobile phone, talking tactics with Angela Cranlow, who remained curiously professionally detached, which puzzled him but at the same time pleased him; maybe she was backing off. He also spoke to some members of the SPMS.
Graeme Walling, the ex-NCIS detective now floundering in the wasteland of Special Projects, had thoroughly enjoyed himself dealing with two grisly post-mortems. He thanked Henry profusely for the opportunity and reported that the PMs didn’t tell them anything they hadn’t already surmised, but did confirm that Jackie Kippax had an advanced form of cancer of the stomach which would have given her only a few months to live. That would answer the question as to why she turned the shotgun on herself, but they would never know what was said between her and Darren Langmead, a dialogue that had died with the both of them. Walling would be spending the day doing follow-up inquiries for an inquest scheduled early next week, just for the purpose of identification. The full inquest would take place way in the future.
‘The pathologist sends you her regards, by the way,’ Walling said.
‘Professor O’Connell?’
‘That’s the one. She also said to tell you she’s sorry you missed your chance, whatever that means, but there could be an opportunity to try again due to a vacancy if you wanted. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Yep — perfect,’ Henry said.
He next spoke to one of the people he’d sent to Blackburn to do some digging into Darren Langmead to see if there was any truth in Kippax’s assertion that he had threatened Eddie Daley over Daley’s investigation into the alleged embezzlement from the Class Act. Nothing had come to light; neither had Eddie Daley’s computer turned up. Henry gave instructions to trace Johnny Strongitharm, the club’s owner, to find out if he had contracted Eddie to investigate Langmead.
Lots of things were going on. His team were buzzing in a way they had never done before.
It was amazing what a sense of purpose and a pat on the back could do.
After the phone calls, Henry spoke to Kate, who sounded bubbly and full of life and plans. He felt dreadful as he ended the call.
‘So bleedin’ weak,’ he chided himself.
He’d brought a soft leather business case with him into which he’d packed printouts of the digital photographs from Jackie Kippax’s computer, all blown up to A4 size. He fished them out and had a good long look at them. They had lost none of their sharpness on enlargement, not even the one that had zoomed in on the necklace around the woman’s neck.
It was a very unusual pendant on the chain, he had to admit, though he didn’t know too much about this sort of thing. It had an oriental look about it, two serpents wrapped around an orchid, quite understated and expensive.
He examined the photographs closely.
She was definitely a beautiful woman. He had compared them to the photos of the facial reconstruction and there was a very strong likeness.
So was she the burned corpse?
Was she called Sabera Ismat?
Or was this woman still alive and was he barking up the wrong tree?
But more importantly, was there a chance of him getting one over on Dave Anger? Whilst he did not really want this woman to be dead, part of him hoped she was.
His mobile rang.
‘Henry, it’s Jenny Fisher at the office.’
Jenny with the attitude. ‘Hi, Jen, what can I do for you?’
‘Just an update for you … you asked me to make some inquiries about the medical qualifications of this Ismat woman?’ Henry told her to go on, which she did, telling Henry where and when Sabera got her degree, did her medical training. ‘But, guess what? She’s a Blackburn lass according to university records.’
‘Which fits in with the geological profile of the dead woman,’ Henry said.
‘Certainly does.’
‘Jenny, you’re a star.’
He almost heard her purr down the line.
The photographs were spread across the coffee table in front of him. He pulled them together with the best one on top, one just of the woman with the pretty young Asian lady in the background.
‘Hello, Sabera,’ he said, now feeling very confident that this trip south was worthwhile. ‘What’s your story?’ He knew there and then that she was dead. Just for good measure Henry gave a one finger salute to his mental picture of Dave Anger. ‘Swivel, you git,’ he said, picked everything up and went across to the doorman to arrange for his luggage to be stored and to get him to wave down a taxi.
As slow as it was in the monumental traffic, travelling by cab across London was definitely great fun. Henry did not often get to London, so he looked upon it as a treat and loved seeing the sights, travelling down roads and streets he’d only ever heard of in films, TV or whilst playing Monopoly.
As the cab turned out of Caxton Street, he caught sight of New Scotland Yard and the spinning, triangular sign which always looked bigger and far more impressive on TV. In real life it was a disappointment, as was Scotland Yard itself. Just a dull office building, squeezed in tight amongst others, with no atmosphere about it at all. Very uninspiring.
He was driven firstly around Buckingham Palace, then generally in a south-westerly direction across the city. The next sign he recognized was Sloane Square, was amazed to see a Lamborghini dealership, then on to King’s Road and right up Sloane Avenue, cutting across Fulham Road, then across on to Old Brompton Road and he knew he wasn’t far away from Earl’s Court then. The taxi passed Brompton Cemetery, then on his right he caught sight of the towering Empress Building which he knew the Metropolitan police now leased, a far more impressive building than Scotland Yard.
‘Here we go,’ the cabbie said, pulling into the side of the road. ‘Empress Medical Centre.’ Henry peered through the window and saw the centre looking, as expected, exactly the same as on the website.
He paid and took a receipt before stepping out of the cab, and watched a low-flying jumbo jet passing overhead on its descent into Heathrow to the west.
He breathed in the London air, then looked at his target. He loved going unannounced into places, to take his chances with jobs like these, just to gauge the reactions of people not prepared for the cop-knock on their door. It was like being a cat amongst pigeons, sometimes, watching them scatter in fear.
Or, as he said out loud to no one in particular, ‘Pig in the city.’