James Patterson - Private London

‘Sisyphus, the old geezer punished by the gods for killing travellers and visitors. He had to roll this huge rock up a big hill and, before he could reach the top, it would roll all the way back down and he had to start all over again.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘And you know what the ironic thing is?’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s not the travellers or the visitors who die out there on those cold streets…’

I looked out of the window at the heat shimmering off the pavement. Today might have been a preternaturally hot day. But the streets of London could certainly get cold.

Cold enough to kill.

Mark Smith knew that better than most. He was part of the Westminster Police’s Safer Streets’ Homeless Unit, the SSHU. They dealt with about sixteen thousand or so homeless people who slept rough on the streets each year. No matter what the weather. Up to two hundred a night sometimes.

I passed the photo across the small ridged aluminium-topped table and he picked it up and looked at it. Mark fumbled in his pocket and produced a slim spectacle case, sliding out a pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of his nose.

He nodded almost immediately. ‘That’ll be the Major,’ he said.

‘Major?’

‘He’s certainly been in the service sometime. That’s how he got the name, plus the fact that he’s from an educated background.’

‘Which is rare on the streets.’

‘More common than you might think.’

Mark was right, of course.

People ended up on the streets for all kinds of reasons. Mental-health issues. Children running away from abusive homes, adults fleeing from the demons they could no longer confront. Many of the homeless people on the streets of London were like the Major – ex-servicemen and women battling with alcohol and depression. A vicious circle of self-medication that spiralled out of control.

I finished my coffee and stood up. ‘You know where he is?’

Constable Smith looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a good idea.’

I tossed a five-pound note on the table which just about covered the tip and two coffees, and headed out into the bustle of the metropolis.

I slipped on my pair of Ray-Bans and slung my jacket over my shoulder, following the tall policeman as he led me along Charing Cross Road towards Tottenham Court Road.

There are A number of soup kitchens, plus day and night drop-in centres, for the homeless in London. If you know where to go.

Part of PC Mark Smith’s job was to let people know. Some people were made homeless through a change of circumstances – the breakdown of a relationship or the loss of a job, for example. Their homelessness could often be a temporary state, but for others it was a way of life. For these people there was a pattern to their lives on the street and Mark Smith got to know them pretty well.

Not all the centres were open on a Sunday, but St Joseph’s off Tottenham Court Road ran a soup kitchen on Sunday afternoons, between services.

Sure enough, the Major was where PC Smith expected him to be. A number of people, young and old, were gathered around the van which was parked outside the church.

The man was instantly recognisable. Had a dark brown tartan picnic blanket from Aquascutum draped over his shoulders, despite the heat. He was sitting on the church step, sipping on a large styrofoam cup of soup.

He looked up at us as we approached. His eyes seemed sharp, focused – he could have been forty or he could have been sixty. He had long grey curly hair and an unruly beard and, although he was ill-kempt, he looked clean. He took care of himself as best he could, that much was evident.

He nodded to PC Smith, gave me an appraising look and then saluted me. I smiled. It was a good sign. I saluted him back.

He nodded, pleased. ‘I thought you were military.’

‘Ex.’

‘RMP?’

‘You’re pretty good at this.’

‘You’re with him.’ He nodded at PC Smith. ‘You walk like military. Hold yourself like military. Reckon you could handle yourself if push came to shove.’

‘It has been known.’

‘So what do you want with me?’

‘We’ve got a couple of questions for you, major.’

‘I wasn’t there,’ he said. Then his body convulsed in a hacking cough, soup spilling onto the step. He shuffled sideways, away from it.

‘We’ll get you some more,’ I said.

‘I still wasn’t there,’ he mumbled, looking at the floor. His eyes were slightly out of focus now.

‘Weren’t where?’

He looked up at me, his eyes brightening again.

‘See, it’s courts. Wallahs in wigs…’ he said. ‘I see nothing, I don’t have to report, see?’

I did see. ‘It’s okay, major, you talk to us and you don’t have to talk to anybody else. No courts, no police.’

‘Your word? Officer and gentleman?’

‘My word.’

‘The van was there. The two girls walked up to it. They heard that other girl calling them. Then it all went mad.’

‘They didn’t see you?’

‘No one sees the major. Not if he doesn’t want to be seen.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Special training, you know.’

‘So what did you see?’

‘The first two, they were chatting with the men in hoods, then they pretended to be attacked. Screaming as the other girl came round the corner and started fighting.’

I felt as though someone had punched me in the gut. I’d been played for a fool. We all had. All along.

Hannah Shapiro had set the whole thing up. I’d taken her spiel and swallowed it – hook, line and sinker.

Harlan Shapiro had been the real catch all along and she had been the perfect bait. Perfect for Jack, perfect for me and perfect for Harlan.

Guilt. It’s a powerful motivator.

And a deadly one.

Kirsty Webb and DI Natalie James stood in front of the exposed safe.

Looking for a series of numbers that would open it, they had been through Chappel’s diary and every bit of paperwork.

Nothing.

DI Webb was convinced that they would be written down somewhere. They always were. When it came to passwords or codes, the public were pretty bad like that.

It was like leaving a key under the doormat, or in a wellington boot on the back porch, or under a flowerpot as millions of people throughout the country did. Might as well just leave the door wide open and a welcome mat for burglars to wipe their feet on.

Kirsty nibbled on a thumbnail, then pulled out her mobile and tapped in some numbers.

‘Dan,’ she said when it was answered, ‘I need your mate Gary’s number.’ She listened for a moment. ‘I’ve got a safe that needs opening, that’s why! It’s a combination dial. And I can’t find the code anywhere… okay, I’ll try that and call you back if I need you.’

‘Who was that?’ asked DI James after she hung up.

‘My ex-husband.’

‘That wise?’

‘I certainly wasn’t wise marrying him.’

‘I meant telling him what you’re up to.’

‘He runs a private detective agency. He’s been helping me.’

DI James threw her a pointed look. ‘Like fast-tracking DNA identification.’

Kirsty nodded. ‘So forth and suchlike.’

‘And this Gary – he’s a security consultant for him?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Must be some agency to run a DNA check that fast, and with the Romanian police.’

‘He’s with Private International.’

‘Yeah. They have resources,’ DI James said dryly. She nodded at the safe. ‘So what’s he suggest?’

‘That we try his date of birth. Most common numeric aide-memoire, apparently.’

‘Aide-memoire, you say?’

‘Dan’s been to college. Thinks he’s smart.’