Malice in London (2 page)

Powell glanced at the ceiling. “Personal matter, sir.”

“You report to
me
, Powell. Don’t ever forget that!” Merriman hissed.

“No, sir.” Powell was beginning to enjoy himself. “Will that be all, sir?”

“No, that will not be all. I have a little job for you. I want you to look into the Brighton matter.”

Richard Brighton, a former councillor on Southwark Council, had turned up dead in the Thames last month. How he got there wasn’t entirely clear, but a random act of violence was the prevailing theory. Powell, guarded now, asked, “What exactly do you want me to look into?”

Merriman smiled smoothly, knowing that he had regained the advantage. “The local lads have taken the case about as far as they can, and it needs a clear-up,
that’s all. Given the profile of the case, it wouldn’t be politic to leave any loose ends dangling.”

Better to knot them around my bloody neck, Powell thought. By lumbering him with the Brighton case—the trail had already grown cold, by all accounts—Merriman was, in effect, squandering a precious Murder Squad assignment. Powell’s name would now go the bottom of the list and it might be six months before he was called out again. The Area Major Investigations Pool (still colloquially referred to as the Murder Squad) was made up of senior detectives from the various Met Areas as well as New Scotland Yard. The Pool operated on the basis of a rotating list, with each team, consisting of a Chief Superintendent and a Detective-Sergeant, taking their turn. The AMIP was the only thing that kept him sane, the only opportunity amidst the bureaucratic inanity to do what he’d actually joined up for.

Merriman smirked. “Cat got your tongue, old man? I knew you’d be pleased; I know how much you enjoy getting out into the field.”

Powell could barely contain his fury, but he said nothing.

“Good. You’d better get started then.” Merriman turned on his heel and flounced off.

As Powell headed back to his office, he could not have known that both he and Merriman were dead wrong about the Brighton case.

That evening, Powell sat commiserating with Bill Black in the Fitzrovia Tavern in Charlotte Street.

The stocky sergeant raised his glass. “TGIF, eh, sir?”

“Cheers,” Powell replied gloomily.

“Cheer up, Mr. Powell. There could be more to this one than meets the eye. I’ve had a look at the file, and there are one or two points of interest.”

“Such as, Sherlock?”

Black leaned forward with an earnest expression. “Well, sir, you may recall that Brighton was involved in that controversy over the eviction of the council tenants in Rotherhithe. He must have made a few enemies along the way.”

“Name a politician who hasn’t.” Powell eyed Black with interest. He had learned over the years that it was a mistake to ignore his assistant’s instincts. Slow and methodical, some might even say plodding, Detective-Sergeant Black usually got there in the end.

Black persisted. “His wallet was missing, so the locals reckon it was a blagger who done it, but he could just as easily have lost it in the river.”

“Idle speculation at this point,” Powell observed antiseptically.

Black frowned. “You’re right, sir. It just seems a bit extreme, that’s all. To mug somebody is one thing, but coldblooded murder?”

Powell emptied his pint. “Your round, I think.”

“Er, just a half for me, I think, sir. The missus will be expecting me. Fuller’s, wasn’t it, sir?”

Powell watched his assistant jostle for position at the bar. He lit a cigarette. The pub was doing a modest business that night. Just north of Oxford Street and Soho in the shadow of the British Telecom tower, it was a little off the beaten path for tourists and was frequented by an
eclectic mix of students, broadcasting types, writers, and assorted poseurs, along with a few locals, mostly elderly, who actually lived in the neighborhood. Powell often came here for a pint or two after work, followed by a curry next door at the K2 Tandoori. The pub had a long literary history, having been a favorite haunt of writers and poets in the Forties. Poetry readings were still held in the dingy Writer’s Bar downstairs. A poster in the window offered poetic entertainment on Thursday nights by the Cunning Linguist:
AN EVENING OF ORAL PER-
VERSE
-ITY
! Hardly Bohemia, but still more diverting, in Powell’s estimation, than the majority of central London pubs.

“Getting back to the matter at hand,” Powell said after Detective-Sergeant Black had resettled himself at their table, “I hope you’re right about the Brighton case. I’d like nothing better than to rub Merriman’s nose in something nasty.”

“
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him
, eh, sir?”

Powell smiled. Ever since Black had taken an evening class in English literature appreciation, he was forever spouting quotations, throwing down the literary gauntlet, as it were, to his superior. The unassuming sergeant was blessed with a near-photographic memory, which kept Powell on his toes. Taking his cue, Powell rose to the occasion. “Enough shop talk, Bill.
I prithee go and get me some repast.
Are you sure I can’t interest you in a cheeky little
vindaloo
next door? Good for what ails you.”

Opens up the sluices at both ends, you mean, Black mentally translated, based on hard experience living with his superior’s culinary addiction. “Er, no, thank you, sir. The missus will have something on the go by
now …” he trailed off awkwardly. He felt slightly guilty about abandoning his superior to his own devices, what with his family away in Canada and nothing but a lonely house to come home to each night. “Er, look, Mr. Powell, why don’t you come along and have a bit of supper with us? Nothing special, but we’d love to have you. If it gets a bit late, we can make up the spare room for you. I’ll call Muriel and—”

Powell smiled warmly. “Thanks, Bill, I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn’t feel right imposing on your good lady on such short notice. Perhaps another time.”

Black looked genuinely disappointed.

“Or I could have you both out to Surbiton some weekend. Do you know anything about gardening, by any chance?”

Black grinned. “Well, if you’re sure, sir.”

“Drink up. You don’t want to be late.”

“Right. Cheers.” Black finished his beer with a prodigious swallow. “I’d best be off then. See you Monday.”

After Black had gone, Powell sat for a few minutes lost in thought, blissfully unaware of the consequences of his failure to take up the Detective-Sergeant’s offer of hospitality. Eventually, he stirred and wandered over to the bar to fetch another pint.

Powell’s favorite barmaid was in attendance that night, a young Canadian named Jill Burroughs, with whom he had struck up a professional relationship of sorts over the past few months: She dispensed the beer, and he drank it. She was pretty and personable and had a direct, guileless manner that Powell found refreshing. She had been working her way across Europe when she met a young man, a student at London University. She’d been living with him for about six months now. Powell and Jill had hit it off the moment they realized they had something in common, when she mentioned she was Canadian, and he’d told her about Marion and the boys. He supposed if he had a daughter, he would want her to be like Jill.

“I’ll have another, please.”

“Drowning our sorrows, are we, Chief Superintendent?”

“Just lubricating the little gray cells.”

“I see.” She slowly pulled the tap handle, filling a pint glass with foaming bitter. She placed it on the bar and looked at him. “Heard from the family recently?”

“Got a letter last week. I’ll probably ring on the weekend.”

“That’s nice. That’ll be one-sixty-five, please.”

He fumbled for the coins. “Have your pound of flesh,” he muttered jokingly.

He left the pub about nine-thirty and crossed Windmill Street to the K2 Tandoori. The proprietor, Rashid Jamal, was in a state of obvious agitation. The restaurant was packed, but Rashid seemed oblivious.

He accosted Powell at the door and whispered mysteriously, “I am needing your advice, my friend. I’ll join you at your table in a moment.”

Rashid returned a few minutes later with a large bottle of Cobra lager for Powell and an orange squash for himself. He sat down, his dark eyes blazing with a feverish intensity. “Have you seen this—this outrage?” He thrust over a crumpled clipping taken from one of the less uplifting Sunday tabloids. He sat fuming silently as Powell unfolded it and began to read.

It was a particularly scathing review of the K2 by a pompous and universally despised restaurant critic named Clive Morton:

Powell handed the clipping back without a word.

“Slander, lies, untruths—it is an unspeakable abomination!” Rashid erupted. “If he ever comes here again, I will slice off his tiny bits and roast them in the tandoor. Ha! Let him review that!”

Several of the neighboring tables erupted in spontaneous applause.

Rashid bowed his head in a dramatic gesture of acknowledgment.

Powell smiled. “You see. Nobody really pays any attention to Clive Morton—the only reason they keep him on is to sell newspapers. I hear he’s persona non grata in most of the decent restaurants in town.”

Rashid appeared unconvinced. “Nonetheless, my friend, I am deeply wounded. I have devoted myself to my art, my restaurant. It is for me a point of honor. It is … my life.”

Rashid was something of a prima donna in his own right and was arguably as opinionated as the restaurant critic, which only made things worse. Powell decided
that a tangential approach would be best under the circumstances. He looked at his friend. “You can’t imagine how much I look forward to these evenings, when I can forget my cares for a few hours, get together with an old friend, and indulge myself in the best Indian food in all of London.”

His words had the desired effect. Rashid’s eyes glistened and he was unable to speak for a few seconds. “Thank you, Erskine,” he said eventually in a solemn voice. “I had forgotten for a moment my loyal customers. And my dear friends.” He got to his feet with a flourish, once again the charming host. “Now, then. I shall bring you some
pappadams
while you consider the menu.” He clapped his hands. “Ali! Another Cobra for Mr. Powell.”

It was nearly eleven-thirty when Powell, fully replete, emerged from the K2 faced with the rather complicated problem of how to get home. The pubs were out, and there were still a few people in the street. He stared at his watch, trying to think coherently. The last train for Surbiton left Waterloo Station at 23:47. Or was it 23:54? He considered his options: try to find a cab or take the tube. He decided that the walk to Goodge Street Station would do him good. He should just be able to make—

“All dressed up and no place to go?”

It was Jill Burroughs just off work.

“On my way home, Jill. How ’bout you?”

“Same.” She eyed him suspiciously. “What time does your train leave?”

“Oh, I’ve got about twenty minutes,” Powell replied
cheerily, or as near to it as he could manage under the circumstances.

“You’ll never make it!”

Powell considered this possibility for a moment. “I’ll take a hotel room then.”

“Nonsense. Come home with me. Stephen is away for the weekend. I can put you up on the sofa. You can catch a train first thing in the morning.”

Powell recalled vaguely that Jill and her boyfriend shared a flat somewhere in Bloomsbury. He hesitated. He felt a bit silly.

Jill smiled. “I don’t bite, Chief Superintendent.”

Powell laughed. “All right, thanks.” He took her arm. “Lead the way, Miss Burroughs. And, by the way, you can call me Powell.”

The next morning, Powell awoke in Jill Burroughs’s Bloomsbury flat with a head several sizes too large. Morning sunlight filtered through lacy curtains and the aroma of bacon and coffee stirred his senses. It took him a few moments to get his bearings. He was lying on a lumpy sofa under a duvet. He could see his clothes heaped on a chair across the room. He reached under the duvet and felt his shorts. Thank heavens for small mercies, he thought. He had little recollection of how exactly he’d got where he now found himself. He vaguely recalled walking down Windmill Street with Jill singing “Mellow Yellow,” but that was about it. He winced at a sudden clanging of kitchen utensils.

A moment later, Jill popped her head into the sitting
room. “Back in the land of the living, are we?” she chirped.

Powell groaned.

“Up you get—you can’t lie in bed all day. Breakfast will be ready in a jiff.”

When the coast was clear, Powell dragged himself to his feet and, moving stiffly, managed to dress in twenty seconds flat. He located the loo down a short hallway, and when he emerged five minutes later, looking half-civilized, Jill was laying their breakfast on a tiny table in the kitchen, complete with a vase of cut flowers. She looked fresh and vibrant as she bustled purposefully about, contrasting markedly with Powell’s present state of being. Her long brown hair was tied back and she wore a loose blue jumper.

“You’ll make someone a good wife,” Powell remarked dangerously.

She smiled sweetly. “You’ll be doing the washing up, don’t you worry.”

Powell pulled a face and gulped down his coffee. “Bloody marvelous,” he sighed as Jill refilled his cup. “You don’t know how hard it is to get a decent cup of coffee in London.”