The Brothers of Baker Street Read online

  Reggie sat down, and Darla said, “They thought you might want this.” She held out the umbrella Reggie had left behind earlier.

  “Good of them,” said Reggie, accepting it. Then Darla said, “Is it socially deficient of me not to know who this Laura Rankin is that they are so on about?”

  “No,” said Reggie, “but you may have seen her in Covent Garden once or twice in the past six years or so.”

  “An actress, then, is she?”

  “Of course.”

  “I didn’t get to the theater much six years ago. I was too occupied with my A-levels.”

  That meant she was no more than nineteen at the time, and she seemed to want Reggie to know it.

  Reggie almost said something defensive about how young Laura was when she first debuted at Covent Garden. But he didn’t quite. The Guinness he had just finished was pleasantly warm, so was the voice of the woman who had been concerned about her A-levels just six years ago, and there was no need to be confrontational.

  “I’m sure you aced them,” he said instead.

  “I did indeed,” she said. She smiled as she said it, leaning forward, and somehow wiggling her whole body in the same motion, as though the A-levels were just yesterday.

  Reggie put down his empty pint glass, and reached into his pocket.

  “Are you getting another Guinness?” she said.

  “I’m calling a cab,” said Reggie. “One or two of us have had enough.”

  “I think it’s you. But you’ll give a lady a ride home, I hope?”

  Moments later they were in a radio-dispatched Black Cab. The passenger seat, as in all Black Cabs, was wide and smooth, with plenty of leg room, and nothing in the middle to impede easy access between one passenger and another. It made the trip excruciating. Her knees bumped into his with just the slightest imperfections in the road, and she allowed her hips to slide across to his with every curve. When the cab took a left turn and came to a stop on a street in Mayfair, she ended up pretty much in Reggie’s lap.

  “Well,” she said, as the vehicle came to a stop. “And here we are.”

  “Yes,” said Reggie. “We very much are.”

  She paused before she got out of the cab.

  “You know, you really shouldn’t be driving all the way from Baker Street to Butlers Wharf in your condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “Your obvious condition. I can propose an alternative, if you like.”

  Reggie concluded that she wasn’t merely suggesting that he go back to Baker Street and sleep on a chair at chambers. And once again, as he considered her invitation, the image of Laura getting into the limo and riding off recycled through his mind.

  But perhaps the jury was still out on that. Or perhaps the jury was back, but there was still opportunity for an appeal.

  And perhaps it was best to act as though there were still hope, even if it seemed there was not.

  “I’ll just take the cab home,” said Reggie.

  “If you insist,” said the solicitor.

  Reggie saw two expressions cross her face now: First, a smile to suggest to Reggie all that he would be missing, and then, for an instant, a flash of annoyance just as she shut the cab door.

  Reggie returned to chambers. There were two calls from the reporter Emma Swoop. There was another fax from Nigel about the Moriarty letter. But there was no message from Laura.

  Reggie briefly considered returning Emma Swoop’s calls to let her know what he thought of the coverage she’d been giving him. But he thought better of it. He ignored everything and went home.

  10

  Well on toward three in the morning, a smallish figure in a hooded mac stood at the far end of an isolated dock in the Limehouse district. The wooden base of the dock was dark brown-gray, the Thames beneath and beyond it was slate gray, the hooded mac that cloaked the figure was medium gray, and the fog that had begun to steal in around the pilings was light gray, almost white gray, almost pleasant to look at as it swirled gently up, over the planking of the dock. Standing at the end of the dock and looking out, one could almost see shapes, like small animals, leaping up out of the dark gray river into the light gray fog, darting chaotically about, swirling in cat curves and then vanishing, out of focus, like lost thoughts.

  Then there was a sound.

  A hulking man at the land end of the dock had put one foot on the boards, but now he hesitated. The fog was bone-chillingly cold, and probably he did not want to go farther out, farther into the wet gray mist; his knee-length black leather coat would not be sufficient protection.

  But he could not turn back now; he had been seen, and he had no choice but to proceed.

  He walked forward, hesitantly in the first few steps, but then in long, rapid strides, as if to convey confidence.

  The strides were a bluff, and he stopped several yards off.

  “You exceeded your authorizations,” said the cloaked figure.

  “You said to raise the stakes,” said the man.

  “True.”

  “I … raised them.”

  “You murdered a woman.”

  The man hesitated. “If you had said specifically what you wanted me to avoid—”

  “Some things should be apparent.”

  “I presumed you saw my history.”

  “Yes. That makes it my mistake, of course. But no matter.”

  The man began to relax just a little, and ventured, “I should like very much to remain in your employ.”

  “Don’t worry. I still need you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the man, feeling just a bit reassured.

  “You may call me ‘Professor’ now.”

  “Yes,” said the man quickly. “Professor.”

  Professor Moriarty was smiling; the light on the wharf was shadowy and she was wearing a small hooded mac, but it was still possible to see her smile, and it was almost enough to counter the man’s first impulse, which had been to run from the pier as fast as possible.

  “You can go now,” said Moriarty.

  “Right then,” said the man. He took a step back, saw that Moriarty was still smiling, and then, with something that was almost like a quick smirk in response to that smile, he turned around and began to walk away.

  That smirk might have been the fatal error, or perhaps it made no difference at all.

  But the man did not walk far.

  11

  At Butlers Wharf, something woke Reggie out of a very pleasant dream, so real that he had to turn and look to be certain that there was not in fact a woman lying there with him.

  There was not. Perhaps that was just as well this morning, because although the dream had been about Laura, his memory of the night before was clearing, and if a woman were there, simple logistics said it would have been someone else.

  The heaviness in his forehead said three pints of Guinness, or perhaps four, which would have been nothing in his Cambridge days, but lately was beginning to have some after-effect.

  He took aspirin with water, walked out to the garage to get in the XJS, and realized that his car was still at Baker Street. He stood in the cold wind at the base of Butlers Wharf to get a cab, and then, as he rode across the bridge, he reviewed the events of the night before to make sure he indeed recalled them all accurately.

  There was the dinner at the pub with Laura, followed by her riding away in the limo with Buxton. The sight of that still ached.

  Then there were the pints with the young female solicitor—bloody hell, had that been at the Olde Bank as well?—and clear signals from her, and then the cab ride home. And yes, he was certain that she had indeed gotten out at her home, somewhere in Mayfair, surprisingly—must be family money—and then he at his. Thank God for that. No damage done. If there was still a relationship left with Laura to be damaged.

  By the time Reggie’s cab dropped him at Baker Street, the dull ache in his temples had dispersed into all the junctions in his body, turning what had been a nicely localized pain in the head
into a more generalized sense of not-well-being.

  He stopped at Audrey’s Coffee and Newsagent. He bought an Americano—two shots of espresso cut by a bit of boiling water. The clerk offered the Daily Sun.

  “No,” said Reggie. “I’m back to the Financial Times.”

  “You’ll want the Sun,” said the clerk. “Looks like they’re the only ones who got the story.”

  “What story?”

  The clerk just gave Reggie a look and handed him the paper.

  Reggie glanced at the front page.

  “Black Cab Killer Casts Body over Bridge.”

  Bloody hell.

  A crowd was gathering behind him. Reggie tucked the paper under his arm and made a dash into the Dorset House lobby.

  Once in the lift, he immediately opened the tabloid and turned page three inside out, so that the day’s bare-breasted nymph would confront anyone who got in with him. With luck, the distraction would prevent gawkers from asking about the sensational Black Cab headline. And it pretty much worked; three Dorset House employees, one male and two female, rode up in the lift with him, but Reggie managed to exit without any of them saying a word. He made it all the way to his secretary’s desk.

  But Lois looked up as he approached, and she reacted to the paper under his arm.

  “You’ve seen the headline?” she said, quite genuinely concerned.

  “Yes,” said Reggie. “No need to worry yourself over it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Any briefs this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that will soon change. Nothing gets the clients rolling in like the possibility that ours was guilty and we got him acquitted.”

  Then Reggie went into his chambers and closed the door behind him.

  He folded the page-three girl back to her usual position and read the story on the front page.

  Shortly after three that morning, according to the reporter’s account, a Black Cab had pulled over on Blackfriars Bridge. The driver and another individual had gotten out, opened the passenger door, and shoved a body over the railing and into the Thames, violating any number of ordinances in the process. There were witnesses and the police had already recovered the corpse. And now, wondered the reporter in print, for just how long would cunning and unscrupulous barristers like Reggie Heath be allowed to manipulate the system and turn known murderers loose upon the unsuspecting citizens of London?

  The story was short on details and long on hyperbole. It offered no reason at all to think it was Reggie’s client who had done it.

  Reggie checked the byline: It was Emma Swoop once again.

  But now the phone rang. It was Wembley.

  “Morning, Heath. Just thought I’d see if you happen to know the whereabouts of your client.”

  “Which one?”

  “Well, you’ve only got one at the moment, haven’t you?”

  “If you want to get technical about it, at the moment I’ve got none. The case was dismissed, and my work is done.”

  “He may have need of your services again. Quite soon. Be aware that we would like a chat with him. I’ve already spoken with his solicitor.”

  Reggie knew Wembley was waiting for him to ask.

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Wembley related the same account Reggie had seen in the paper.

  “This is known fact?” said Reggie.

  “It is.”

  “There are witnesses, then?”

  “Two fishermen on the near bank, and at least two passing vehicles, one in each direction. Traffic is light on the bridge at that hour, but not light enough to push a body over and go unnoticed.”

  “Has the body been recovered?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “We’re still working on it. No wallet, no watch, no rings, no ID, and the face mangled beyond recognition; apparently some river traffic ran across him before we did. But well-dressed, or had been based on what we recovered, and from general appearances, this looks like another victim robbed—and then murdered—by our Black Cab driver.”

  At least Wembley said “our,” not “your.” That meant there was room for doubt.

  “Anyone get a cab number?” said Reggie.

  “Not this time.”

  “Anyone actually see the face of the driver? Or the accomplice?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “A little soon to be suggesting it’s Walters then, isn’t it?”

  “No one’s suggested anything until you did just now. But for what it’s worth, I sent a car out to your client’s place just as soon as we got the first report.”

  “And?”

  “And he wasn’t there. His cab was, but he wasn’t.”

  “He might have been out with friends for the evening. It happens.”

  “Just thought you’d want to be aware of the situation, Heath. Given your history.”

  Reggie bridled at that.

  “You mean the situation where London does not become crime-free in the wake of my client being released?” said Reggie, with some heat.

  “You didn’t like it much last time you got a murderer free and he killed someone, Heath.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Reggie. “And it was my mistake, of course. I shouldn’t have taken his word for his innocence just because he was a Scotland Yard copper.”

  Reggie waited for Wembley’s response. The officer in question had been in Wembley’s department. In fact, Wembley, who knew from personal experience how effective Reggie was in court, had asked Reggie to take the officer’s case.

  “Yes, it’s my history too,” Wembley said, finally. “But do let us know when you hear from your client.” And then he was off the phone.

  Within two minutes it rang again.

  It was Darla. “I’m glad I caught you,” she said. “I was afraid you might still be sleeping it off. Have you heard?”

  Her voice was entirely that of the professional solicitor, with no hint of what Reggie had thought might have been seduction the night before.

  “Heard what, exactly?” said Reggie, feeling obstinate for some reason.

  “There’s been another crime,” she said. “By a Black Cab driver. Allegedly. Have you really not heard at all?”

  “Sorry. Force of habit. I was just talking with Wembley; tends to make me evasive.”

  “Oh. Well, then. So you have heard. What should we do?” asked Darla.

  The truth was, if this were the worst-case scenario—that the client they had released had been guilty and had now committed another crime—it was too bloody late to do a damn thing.

  “What did you have in mind?” he said.

  “I’m not sure, exactly. But I … I just thought you might know.”

  “I think perhaps we should get the facts before assuming our client did this.”

  “Oh, quite right, I know that, of course. But the tabloids will flog us both about this, especially you. Should we call them and point out that there might very well be more than one Black Cab driver doing bad things?”

  “You can do if you like. But I won’t be able to complain about the prosecution bowing to tabloid pressure if I start playing the media game myself.”

  “Good point. Should we just check on our client, then?”

  “To make sure he isn’t about town murdering and dumping bodies?”

  “I mean, check that the police aren’t still knocking on his door, that reporters aren’t camped on the pavement, that … that whatever.” She was sounding just a bit defensive and flustered now.

  “Sorry,” said Reggie, and he was. He was being sharp with her, and he knew it, and he knew the reason—the possibility of having released a guilty man disturbed him more than it did her. “It’s been a rough morning,” he offered.

  “Quite all right.”

  “Did you ring him?”

  “I did. No answer.”

  “So you want to take a drive to Stepney, then?”

 
“Well, I think one of us should, don’t you? I don’t know the area myself though. I’m directionally challenged, or so people have told me. I’ve always had him come to my office.”

  “So you want me to have a look?”

  “I’d be happy to ride along if you like. Unless you’re afraid I’ll attack you.”

  Now another call was coming in.

  “I’ll get back to you,” said Reggie, and he picked up the other line.

  It was Inspector Wembley. Again.

  “We’ve found something. I’ll let you see it firsthand if you can get to the generating station in forty minutes. Otherwise, you can wait for our report.

  “Can you give me a hint?”

  “No. Just get here if you’re interested.”

  Reggie got off the phone with Wembley and rang Darla back. Though she had obviously been there just moments before, now he just got her answering service. He left a message that the trip to Stepney would have to wait.

  Then he exited chambers, told Lois not to return any calls to the press, and drove to the generating station at the end of Lots Road.

  The morning was heavily overcast, the Thames running blue-gray as steel.

  It was low tide, and the river water that made up Chelsea Creek had receded, leaving mud and tidewater stink. Police cars lined the fenced perimeter of the generating station.

  Reggie parked. He found Wembley just inside the gate.

  “Thought you might want to see it as we dredge it up, Heath. The divers reported it about an hour ago.”

  “Dredge what up?”

  “Just come along. Might be fun.”

  They walked past the tidewater channel to the platform at the far side of the site, facing the Thames. Wembley pointed in a direction about ten yards offshore.

  There was something black, rounded, and metallic in the river. And just at the water line, intermittently visible in the little waves and troughs, was the glass FOR HIRE sign that sat atop the roof of the cab.

  “This morning was the second lowest tide we’ll see all year,” said Wembley. “I’m sure whoever drove it off the ramp thought it would stay hidden. But a jogger saw it this morning and called it in. We hope to have it winched out of there before the tide covers it again.”