James Patterson - Private London

‘I told you, it’s Dan. And you can thank me when I get your dad back home.’

Hannah nodded and, although her face had been scrubbed clean and glowed once more with the innocence of youth, there was still a deep sadness in her eyes.

‘So, what brings you here, Mister Carter?’ asked the professor.

‘I think we have a lead.’

‘Really?’

‘A witness.’

‘A witness?’

The professor looked surprised. ‘I thought there was no one there. Why hasn’t he come forward before?’

‘Who is it?’ asked Hannah.

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the professor.

‘We found something on one of the crime scene photos, Annabelle.’

‘What was it?’

‘A scrap of material. Well, not a scrap really, just the part of it that was visible in the photograph.’

‘What kind of material?’

‘A blanket. Belonging, we think, to someone who was sleeping rough.’

‘You think he was there when I was attacked?’

‘It’s possible. He may have seen something. May have a number plate.’ I shrugged.

The professor rubbed Hannah’s back and smiled hopefully.

‘Well, that’s good, then, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘It’s a long shot. But if someone was there when the girls were attacked, when Hannah was taken, it’s something at least.’

‘I just want my dad back,’ said Hannah. Tears starting again in her eyes.

‘And we’re going to get him back. Get dressed, Hannah. We’ve got somewhere safe to take you.’

‘Where?’ asked the professor.

‘Not far.’

‘Give me two minutes,’ said Hannah.

The professor held out her arms and gave her another hug, then stroked her cheek. ‘I’ll only be at the end of the phone if you need me. And if you want, I’ll come straight back.’

‘Are you going somewhere… Annabelle?’ Hannah was clearly not happy.

‘A symposium. Up in Harrogate. Maybe I should just cancel…’

Hannah shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘We’ll take good care of her, I promise,’ I added.

Seems I had made that promise before but the professor fixed me with a considering look and then nodded. ‘I guess you will,’ she said. She took a step towards me and held out her hand.

It was as firm a grasp as I remembered, and as warm. I realised I was holding on a tad long. Annabelle looked at me appraisingly. I held her gaze. Not easy with a psychiatrist. You always think they can see right through you. What am I saying? She’s a woman. Most women can see right through me. I’m like the guy from Chicago. And I don’t mean Walt Disney.

‘You’ll keep me posted, Mister Carter?’

‘Of course.’

Di James jiggled some keys in her hands.

They were the spare keys to the optician’s, a scant hundred yards from where the shop’s owner had been blown into pieces.

‘I’m not sure I should be doing this,’ she said.

Kirsty Webb bit on her lower lip. It was a big ask and she knew that. Going outside the official channels in an investigation was not looked on kindly. The police force was like the army. You had to work together as a team. That was drummed into you every bit as hard at Hendon as it was in any army boot camp.

‘Far as anyone knows, there is no connection between the body in Stoke Mandeville morgue and the recently deceased optician,’ Kirsty said finally.

‘Except we know there is.’

‘You phone it in… and it’s out of our hands.’

‘I know that, too.’

‘There could be some serious kudos going round with this collar if we make it.’

‘And some serious shit either way.’

Kirsty nodded. ‘Risk and reward.’

The Buckinghamshire-based detective tossed the keys in the air and clutched them in her fist.

‘The sisterhood doing it for themselves?’ she said.

Kirsty shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

DI James stepped over to the shop’s door. ‘Come on, then, Alice,’ she said. ‘Let’s go down the rabbit hole.’

She slotted the Chubb key in the lock and turned it. She depressed the door handle and opened the door.

‘Just the one lock?’ Kirsty asked, surprised.

‘This is Chesham,’ said DI James. ‘We don’t have crime in Chesham.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Kirsty Webb.

It didn’t take long to process the shop. A couple of desks, a couple of cupboards, a big filing cabinet with patients’ records, duplicated no doubt in electronic form on the computer.

They had split up. DI James took the front office and reception area and Kirsty Webb checked the back office and examination room.

Half an hour later Kirsty came out to the front, still wearing latex gloves, and looked at her new colleague who was sitting behind the reception desk reading an office diary. ‘Anything?’ she asked.

DI James looked up from the A4-sized book. ‘Chappel kept an office diary. He used it for personal stuff too.’

‘Don’t tell me. He’s made a confession. Death by gas barbecue. It was an elaborate suicide.’

DI James flashed a brief smile and shook her head. ‘If only. It would make our jobs a lot easier if people did the decent thing like that.’

‘People did the decent thing, we’d be out of a job, Natalie.’

‘And that’s the truth. But what we have got here is a list of his guests for the barbecuing he was planning.’

‘And?’

‘Among others we have one of the doctors who signed off on the brain-death certification for Colin Harris, a Dr Sarah Wilde, and the surgeon who performed the subsequent heart transplant, Mister Alistair Lloyd.’

‘One of the people on that list knew that Chappel was planning a barbecue, could have tampered with the gas regulator. Set a leak so that when he switched it on it would explode? Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘Could be. Forensics are working on what’s left of the barbecue. It may show that the regulator was tampered with.’ She shrugged. ‘It may not.’

‘I guess those two from the hospital are worth checking out. See where they were prior to the arranged meeting time. See if they had opportunity.’

‘It’s not the opportunity that I am puzzled by,’ said Natalie James.

Kirsty waited for her to finish the thought.

‘It’s the motive.’

Police Constable Mark Smith was a tall man.

Somewhat over six foot. He wasn’t sure by how much any more. At one time he was six three but the years on the beat and the ageing process generally meant he rode a little lower in the saddle nowadays. And he didn’t have the heart to measure by how much.

He was in his early fifties and looking forward to retiring sometime in the near future. He had it all planned. Out of the city, off to the coast. He’d leave his uniform behind happily, and swap his baton for a fly-fishing rod. His wife was a history teacher in a state school in Ealing, and she was looking forward to retiring too.

Between them they had a nice pension organised and enough money to buy a small B amp;B on the South Coast. Community meant something there, and if a man was found lying on the street he wasn’t just stepped over. Mark Smith was happy to be a plain old-fashioned beat copper, and, truth to tell, he was proud of it too. Just because he was looking forward to retirement didn’t mean he thought any less of his job.

‘It’s like that old guy from Greek legend, you know?’ he asked me as we sat by the window in a Middle Eastern cafe on Old Compton Street, drinking cups of coffee you could have stood up a spoon in and watching half the world throng past.

I nodded. I knew exactly who he meant – we had had this conversation many times before. He continued anyway.