She nodded, tucking the package beneath the counter. “Of course, Philo.”
And as he stepped from the restaurant, the smell of Chinese food in his nostrils, he shook his head. Used to be that people like Madame Wu wouldn’t dare contradict him, but that was before Master Edwards had fallen ill. The rumor that the old man was on the verge of death was spreading fast, and already his criminal empire was crumbling and his influence waning.
He crossed the busy street, bright neon lights announcing all manner of Asian food from every corner, and mounted the motorcycle he used to get around London in a hurry. And then he was off, narrowly missing the entry into the Chinese restaurant of a slender woman, all dressed in black.
It didn’t take him long to race across town to his employer’s house, in the heart of the East End. Master Edwards’s house was located in a gated community, his own people providing protection, and Philo nodded to the guard as he passed. He’d hired him personally. A short drive up the hill led him to the house at the end of the street, which towered over all others. It used to belong to a famous actor in the sixties and was a sprawling mansion with fifty rooms, an underground pool, and cinema where Edwards and his cronies enjoyed watching gangster movies. Or rather, that’s how it used to be.
He parked his bike in the garage and mounted the stairs, deftly making his way upstairs until he reached the landing and heard the telltale sounds of Master Edwards’s snoring. Entering the bedroom, where the bedridden gang leader was laid up, he wasn’t surprised to find him sound asleep. The moment he flicked on the light, the old man awoke with a start.
“Philo!” he muttered, blinking against the light. “Is that you?”
“It is, Master.”
A look of annoyance crept into the man’s eyes. “Why did you wake me?”
“Just to tell you that the package is being delivered as we speak.”
The man’s irritability dwindled. “Good,” he said, settling back against the pillow. “Very good. Let’s just hope the book works as advertised.”
“I’m sure it will.”
The old man licked his dry lips. “A lot depends on this, Philo. But then I probably don’t need to remind you.”
No, he didn’t. He’d reminded him plenty of times since the chain of events had been set in motion a fortnight ago.
“There’s only one small matter left to attend to,” he said.
Master Edwards, whose eyes had drooped shut, opened them again. “Mh? What’s that?”
“There’s a witness,” he said. “A young woman by the name of Henrietta McCabre. She’s seen my face and might possibly become a nuisance.”
“So?” snapped Master Edwards. “Just get it done, Philo. You don’t need my permission to handle such a minor detail.”
“No, Master,” he said deferentially, though of course he did need the other’s permission. In Master Edwards’s world nothing ever happened without his approval, and most definitely not something of this importance.
“See to it that she’s silenced, Philo. And make sure nobody sees you this time,” the old man snapped, before closing his eyes once again. Soft snores soon sounded from the bed, and Philo bowed his head and retreated from the bedroom of his employer of twenty-five years. In this, the man’s final days, he wasn’t about to disappoint him. Not if he valued his own life. Henrietta McCabre, whoever she was, would not see her next birthday, he would make sure of that. And as he stalked over to his own room in the mansion, he sat down at the computer to begin an intense study of the life of Henrietta ‘Harry’ McCabre. This time, there would be no mistakes. And no witnesses.
Chapter Four
Bright and early the next morning, Inspector Darian Watley frowned as he went over the evidence he’d gathered so far in the murder of Sir Geoffrey Buckley. He didn’t have all that much to go on, he admitted ruefully. The crime scene had been squeaky clean, the safe revealing only Sir Buckley’s prints and not even this McCabre woman’s. The blow to the head he’d received had been the cause of death, all right, but of course there was no sign of the murder weapon. According to the coroner what they were looking for was a club of some kind. A heavy blunt object. Either that or someone possessing extraordinary strength.
Which was one of the reasons it was doubtful Henrietta McCabre was the culprit. She was of slight build and didn’t possess the physical strength to kill a man with a single blow. No, whoever was responsible was probably a powerfully built male. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be an accomplice. His initial theory was that she’d somehow smuggled an associate into the shop, who’d done the dirty work and who’d absconded with the money and whatever other valuables Buckley kept locked up in his safe. At which point she’d called the police herself, so as not to draw suspicion to herself.
But then why had she left a million pounds in the store till?
He leaned forward in his chair and went over the CCTV footage his constable had collected. Going backward, it started with McCabre arriving at the store, then traced her movements back along the path she’d traveled until she disappeared from sight for half an hour. Coincidentally or not, she’d traveled to a part of London where no cameras could follow her. The theory was that she’d met someone there, for the cameras had picked her up again half an hour prior to her arrival at the underpass, coming from the store.
He quickly tracked other footage of cameras around the auspicious area, and to his surprise saw that a motorcycle arrived around the same time McCabre did and left again when she did. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
She’d gone there to meet this mysterious motorcycle man.
He peered at the screen and started. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
He quickly tapped a key and printed the image of Motorcycle Man. It wouldn’t surprise him if he were implicated in the Buckley murder as well.
Of course, this presented him with a dilemma. Both McCabre and Motorcycle Man had an obvious alibi for the murder. And the most baffling thing of alclass="underline" even though Buckley Antiques was covered by a camera from across the street, no one had entered or left the building around the time of the murder. He’d scrolled through the footage up until the time the police arrived, and the murderer was never seen leaving the premises.
Furthermore, there was no back entrance, nor a window through which the killer could have escaped. They’d checked with the inhabitants of the house sharing the back walclass="underline" there was no way to go from one to the other. They’d also checked the apartment above the store, but even there they hadn’t found any manner of egress, not even along the roof of the building. It was, in other words, a real mystery how the killer had left.
He went over the footage captured around the time of the murder again. The only customer who’d been in the store was a young doctor, but she’d left at three forty-five. They’d interviewed her, and she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. And as Watley scrolled through the footage, he saw Buckley appearing at the door, bidding his final customer goodbye and even helping her carry her packages to her car, which was parked out in front. Then Buckley had retreated into the store, closed the door, and that had been the last time anyone had seen him alive. So whoever the murderer was, he or she had to have been inside, perhaps hiding? But they’d gone over the footage of the past twenty-four hours and everyone who’d entered the store had been seen leaving it at some point. No exception.
The only lead he had was the suspicious behavior of Henrietta McCabre and her meeting with Motorcycle Man. Those two could perhaps shed some light on the murder, as he was willing to bet they were both involved, as well as a third person, the one who’d actually perpetrated the murder.