The Brothers of Baker Street (13 page)

“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.”

Divers were already attaching the cable as Wembley spoke. Now the police crew started the winch. There was a high-pitched squeal from the cable, and then a deep mechanical groan from the undercarriage of the vehicle, and then a series of rhythmic clanks as the cab began to be pulled slowly toward the shore.

The black rear bumper became visible first. Then the boot, and then the white placard that showed the ID number for the taxi. And then the yellow-and-black number plate for the vehicle itself:

WHAMU1.

Reggie stared at the numbers as they surfaced ever more clearly.

He knew that Wembley, who obviously had advance knowledge from the divers, was looking at him for a reaction. He didn’t want to give him one. Truth was, he was urgently trying to think of an explanation himself.

“I believe that is the same number as your client’s cab, is it not?” said Wembley, sounding just a little exasperated with Reggie’s silence.

“It is the same number,” said Reggie, putting no inflexion on it at all.

“Any idea how that can be?”

“Of course I don’t know how that can be,” said Reggie. Then he added, “Unless someone used my client’s number to frame him after the fact. Do we know when this vehicle was deposited in the river?”

“Not yet,” said Wembley. “But we’ve now got two cabs with the same number, so we know something’s wrong somewhere. And forensics has gotten quite good at these things, especially given the windows were still up when it went in. River water or no, I think we may soon know which of the two cabs was used in the crime, and we’ll also know which one really belongs to your client.”

Reggie said, “I hope we do.”

“I know you’ve been picky about who you represent, Heath. More so than most. But this could put your client’s alibi in a different light. And you could have some explaining to do about that CCTV tape. I mean, just how did you know it would show what you needed? Nine times out of ten the CCTV camera doesn’t catch what you want it to, just the back of someone’s arse.”

“It was a guess.”

“Damn lucky guess,” said Wembley. “What kind of luck, we’ll see.”

Reggie could only nod. He watched as the cab was winched slowly from the river, dirty water pouring out from the undercarriage.

The crew was moving at a painstaking pace. Wembley had been embarrassed at how little information they had gotten from the cab found at Walters’s home, and clearly he intended to make sure this one was done right. It would take hours.

Reggie thanked Wembley for the heads-up and turned to go back to his car.

In mid step, he almost fell over someone standing directly behind him. There was a blinding flash, and Reggie instinctively thrust his arm out, grabbing the source of the flash by the collar.

There was no struggle. Reggie realized almost immediately what the flash had been; it had just been so close to his face that there wasn’t time to think.

“Probably you should let him loose,” Reggie heard Wembley say.

Eyes blinking, Reggie relaxed his grip and let go of a photographer from the
Daily Sun
.

And standing right next to the photographer was a
Daily Sun
reporter. It was Emma Swoop—her press badge said so. And he recognized the face as well. It was her, with this photographer close on her heels, who had been in the lead of the press attack outside the courthouse.

The photographer didn’t want a confrontation, he just wanted photos, and he took a step back from Reggie now. But Reggie could see that Emma—early twenties and no doubt ambitiously at the beginning of her career—felt obliged to say something.

“Very nice,” she said to Reggie. “Would you now like to take a free swing at me, too, like you did our boss?”

She spoke in a clipped, perfectly enunciated, rapid-fire speech pattern that gave the listener no time to think. You couldn’t pretend you didn’t hear all that was said, because it was said so perfectly; but it was said so quickly that you had no time to formulate a response as you were hearing it.

A useful skill, for journalists as well as lawyers. It was the sort of style that one acquired only from the best public schools. She had family money, no doubt, and certainly that family money must regard this sort of grubby journalism as beneath her station. Reggie guessed she must have a chip on her shoulder.

He knew better than to respond to her question. Anything he said would end up misquoted in the next day’s paper. But he took a free swing anyway.

“Your parents don’t approve, do they?” he said.

She recoiled a bit in surprise, looking almost hurt—and in that moment Reggie turned again to leave.

But first he looked back at Wembley. “Did you invite them?”

“It wasn’t me,” said Wembley. “But as long as they don’t impede the investigation, I’ve no legal right to keep them out. Or so my superiors have said.”

Reggie continued on to his car, with the photographer and the reporter running close behind, flashing photos and tossing questions at him along the way. And the young reporter wouldn’t let up. She had the defiantly head-on attitude of a spoiled adolescent freight train.

“How do you explain a second cab with your client’s license number? Do you regret getting your client released? Do you feel any sense of responsibility for this new murder?”

Emma Swoop had assessed Reggie’s sore points every bit as well as he had assessed hers. So much so that he actually considered responding to her questions.

He looked back at her. Her eyes lit up with journalistic anticipation. And Reggie caught himself just in time and said nothing.

He got in his Jag, shut the door quickly, put it in reverse to avoid running the
Daily Sun
duo over, and then, fishtailing just a little in the mud, he fled the scene.

He knew the headlines in the morning would be flaming, more so than anything he had yet seen. The
Daily Sun
would not wait for the forensics; it would start whipping up the firestorm now.

Reggie rang his client’s number as he drove from Lots Road. No response. He rang Darla’s number as well. No answer there either, which was a little annoying—she should be making herself more available. He left another message on her machine.