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  Everyone had drifted out by six o’clock and she decided to head for home, but not before promising to have lunch the next day with two of her closest friends from British Transport Police, which was headquartered just across the road, also in St James’ Park. On a whim, she suggested they gather at the nearby Feathers Inn on Broadway at one pm. Leaving her fourth-floor office and ducking down a brick lane behind the St. James’ tube station, she rounded the corner and began unchaining her motorbike from the iron security post. Her phone pinged. Groaning, she dug it out from underneath her heavy, leather riding jacket. She read the message,

  Congratulations Allie

  -Michael

  Michael? No Michaels sprang to mind. Stuffing the phone in her zip pocket, she sorted the bike chain, fired up the six-year-old Yamaha Cruiser and decided that rather than cook tonight, she’d treat herself to a meal in one of the restaurants in Putney High Street near her home by the Thames. Maybe try the new Spanish restaurant, The Matador, or was it the Toreador?

  Traffic was lighter than normal, so she decided to head out through Kensington and down Fulham Road via Chelsea, just as an alternative to her usual King’s Road route. She was enjoying the ride in the warm air until she noticed the distinctive arched steel verandah of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital coming-up on her left. Her conscience gnawed at her. Billy McBride was in there. She was still debating whether she’d see Billy tonight when the bike almost turned itself into Limerston Street, which bordered the hospital. Decision made.

  The narrow street offered the only real chance of a parking spot. She didn’t fancy the hospital’s underground car park—she’d experienced that horror once before when a friend of hers had a badly broken leg, from a motorcycle accident, ironically enough. She’d been stuck in the cavernous car park for an hour along with two hundred other motorists waiting for a broken-down Daimler—probably a surgeon’s car—to be towed out of the way.

  She quickly navigated through the Porsches and Jaguars parked on the Kensington Street, finally squeezing her bike into a half-spot in a car park adjacent to the hospital grounds. A fabulous, shiny, black Triumph Rocket Three motorcycle occupied an adjoining parking space. The bike made Allie’s Yamaha look like a child’s plaything. She’d really fancied one of the Triumphs until she checked its weight; she was strong, but her slight frame would never have allowed her to manage the bulk of the bike if she dropped it at the traffic lights—or worse. The price at this stage of her career was also a huge obstacle.

  Looking again at the big bike, she made a promise to herself to hit the gym during the coming summer. Her promotion might add enough into her budget to put it within reach. She was not one to give up easily. Motorbikes made sense in this part of London, avoiding peak-time congestion charges being a major advantage, although it was after six p.m. now anyway, she reminded herself.

  Cramming her jacket and helmet into the leather panniers, she made her way back around to Fulham Road and to hospital reception. She was directed to the nurses’ station on level three where an ancient nurse ushered her to room twelve. She raised her hand to knock on the pale door, but a sudden feeling of dread froze her. She felt its pressure like a heavy black cloak. Opening the door now seemed like a very bad idea. A nurse shuffled down the corridor towards her. Embarrassed, she forced herself to knock and went in. Billy was alone and trying to figure out how to work the remote control for the wall-mounted television.

  “I’ll fix it for you, Billy.”

  “Ah, I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said without looking at her.

  “Are you?” Her voice was too shrill.

  He twisted to face her. She was shocked to see he had turned into an old man. There was almost no trace left of the corpulent, outgoing Billy she had tolerated for so long. His alarmingly sunken face matched the grey of the bedding and she was sure he had less hair than when she’d last seen him—hardly more than a week ago. His eyes were jaundiced orbs protruding from a seemingly shriveled skull. . He drew his lips far enough back in an attempted smile, displaying the smashed-off front tooth she had noticed so often. She could never fathom why he had not had that fixed years ago.

  “You’re a good looking girl, Allie.”

  What was this, she wondered as she put up her hand in protest. What drugs were they giving him?

  “Hang-on,” he said. “Don’t worry. I haven’t gone strange on you.”

  She relaxed a little, managing a smile for him despite the clinging cold of the room. Didn’t they ever turn the heaters on?

  “Allie, I wanted you to come see me for a reason. Let me say first that I don’t feel sorry for myself, and I am not looking for pity. You should know that anyway. But I do know that I have disappointed you.”

  “Billy-”

  “Shut-up for a second, girl. Let me finish!”

  She sighed. This was more like the old Billy. He composed himself and motioned to her to come around to the other side of the bed.

  “Grab yourself a chair. And close those bloody blinds. That fucking neon sign over the road blinks at me all night.” He waited until she was seated. He hesitated again for a moment, seemingly lost for words. “I’ve been waiting for days to talk to you—you’d think I’d be organized by now, wouldn’t you?”

  Allie smiled and nodded.

  “Ok, here we go. You’ve been successful, Allie.” He waved his hand to forestall any comment she might make. “You’re good looking, educated, but above all, you are genuinely smart. No doubt about that.”

  She said nothing. This speech from him was a real surprise given their differences of opinion on most things.

  “And it seems to me you have the two things you think I lost a long time ago—integrity and compassion.”

  He twitched and looked at the blinds as though something was about to burst through them. “Allie, there is something very wrong out there. Not just morons and drug heads—I mean very wrong. Something beyond us. Something untouchable and… new.” He coughed violently, his face momentarily reddening before draining to the color of putty. He worked his rheumy gaze back to her. “I know this sounds strange, but I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. Things are… changing.”

  Allie still said nothing, but her brain fizzed. What was he saying here? Billy is genuinely affected, she realized. This is not his usual bullshit. On the other hand, perhaps his treatment is…

  “I know what you’re thinking, girl. Let me tell you this—I have not taken any medication for four days. I wanted to be clear headed for you.” He stared at her unblinkingly as if willing her to understand—to grasp the significance of what he was saying. He finally looked away and scanned the room-the frightened rabbit, expecting the fox to pounce from the shadows.

  Allie reached for his hand but he jerked and retched, making a sound like a buzz saw. She jumped up to help him. He was heaving and sobbing. She felt tears in her own eyes. Billy was clearly in trouble, perhaps mentally as well as physically. She put her arms around him.

  “Billy, you must take whatever medication they give you. You absolutely cannot risk your health! Your wife and family need you. You must do everything they tell you to do to get well.”

  He laughed and coughed at the same time. “Oh, Allie,” he rasped, staring at her through crazed eyes. “There’s no getting well for me!”

  “Please stop this, Billy!” Her tears were obvious now. She cared about him more than she had realized.

  He sat up abruptly, staring somewhere near the ceiling. “Accept him.”

  She hadn’t quite caught his low tone. He’d said it so differently, quietly, like they were chatting over coffee.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Accept him.”

  “Who?”

  He coughed hard. Black-red blood spouted from his mouth, coating the bedding, the floor, and Allie. Air hissed from him. She heard herself yell as she ran for help.

  It was an hour and a half before Allie felt she could leave the hospital. A tall, unflappable Indian doctor hadn’t hesitated in pronouncing Billy McBride dead. Billie’s distraught wife and two of his three sons arrived within an hour of his death. The third son, a banker, was in transit from Paris and wasn’t able to be reached.

  His homecoming will be morbid, she thought idly. She’d rung DS Carr who had been understandably upset and planned to call her friends when she got home. She borrowed a blue-green smock from the old nurse who had also promised to dispose of her blood-spattered shirt. Allie was tired. Screw the Spanish restaurant; a JD and Coke and an early night were about all she was up for now. She said a quiet farewell to Billy’s wife who struck her as a slightly put-upon type whose slumped shoulders and square figure suggested a largely joyless life. But she was stoic and that was impressive given the thoughts she must be having about the shape her future would probably assume. Allie knew from experience that Suzie McBride’s real grief would bite in a few days, just when she thought she was coming to terms with her husband’s death.

  She pushed through the double glass doors of the hospital, taking an involuntary step backwards as a vicious wind slammed into her chest. This had not been forecast, and the triple glazing of the hospital windows had masked the change from her. Nor was respite from the wind available around the corner in Limerston Street. Garbage bins were blowing over, spilling waves of foul-smelling liquids and a large, advertising hoarding above where she had parked her bike flapped wildly. “Great,” she said aloud, “What next? Rain?”

  The big Rocket Three motorcycle next to which she’d been pleased to park earlier had gone, as had most of the cars from a couple of hours ago. Fast food wrappers and paper cups from nearby cafes skated across the narrow street, whipping around her ankles before cartwheeling away. She stooped to retrieve her helme
t from the left storage pannier on the bike. The advertising hording was wrenched from its mounting. It missed her by an inch. It smashed itself to a hundred pieces on the hard asphalt a yard in front of her. She realized her helmet had saved her before she’d even put it on. “Jesus H Christ!” she yelled to no one. She stared at the remains of the sign as paper, metal, and sheeting were torn from it and dashed against the brick walls and ornate iron fences of the exclusive villas across the street. Debris was piling up fast.

  Exhaling slowly, she decided to get the hell out of there. She turned back to her bike. A feather sat on the seat. It was bright white and about twelve inches long. It was just sitting there—despite the howling wind. It had not been there a moment ago—she was sure. Picking it up, she ran her index finger along its trailing edge; a mild electric current ran from her fingers to her feet. It was not unpleasant. Doing it again brought the same result. Almost giggling, she looked around to see if anyone had witnessed her private little pleasure.

  She put the feather back on the seat, so she could wrestle her tight leather jacket back on. The feather didn’t move. Curious, she thought, supposing it must be an aerodynamic thing. Stowing it in an inside pocket, she donned her helmet and stirred the bike into gear. Things were getting weird. It was definitely time to get home.

  Chapter Three

  DCS Ellen Carr stood at the window of her airy city apartment, wine in hand, looking out to the west. The full-length windows spanning the width of her apartment, affording her an unsurpassed view of the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, which dominated the London skyline even at night. She changed her focus as she caught her own reflection in the tinted glass. She self-consciously smoothed her skirt, noticing again the unwanted bulges at the hips. Recently she’d resorted to telling herself that being well above average height, she could carry a little extra weight better than most. But the reflection did not lie. At fifty, she was exercising too little, drinking too much, and relying on her blaze of strawberry-blond hair to carry the day. It wasn’t working. She sighed and hoped her partner, Janice Finlay, a barrister with high-rolling London law firm, Cranston Lock, who now sat cross-legged on the low couch behind her, hadn’t noticed. She wrestled her thoughts back to her job—and in particular, Billy McBride about whose sudden death she had been advised just minutes earlier.

  “Billy was an irascible old sod, you know,” Ellen said. “He had a thirst like an Iraqi bricklayer as well. Lord he could chuck it down.”

  Finlay laughed despite the somber mood since the news of his demise.

  “Where do you get these sayings?”

  Carr let the remark pass. She knew exactly where she got them—mainly from the working class, underpaid stooges that worked for her. A good bunch, she thought, but not a lot of talent. Too many of them were like Billy McBride–just wanting to get paid and go home half-liquored so they could face their dumpy wives and feign interest in the kids. But Billy had been alright once. She was old enough to remember when he had cut a reasonable figure in uniform. It was his promotion to CID that had done him in. She remembered too that the Hungerford massacre back in 1987 had worried him deeply. There had been too many bodies, too much emotion. There was only so much you could take in this job—everybody knew there was a use-by date—the trick was knowing when to look at your label. She turned back towards her partner who was pouring another Sauvignon Blanc for herself.

  “Maybe it’s time I gave this game away, Janice.”

  “You’re not planning on dying on me too now, are you?”

  Carr smiled despite her melancholia. “No, but the future belongs to the kids. Smart kids like St. Clair.” Despite her concerns about her weight and Janice’s forty-something, stick-thin, corporate look proclaiming an admirable dietary discipline, her willpower failed her again. She held her glass out for a refill. “You know St. Clair read at Trinity College?”

  Janice was impressed. “Well, well, my Alma Mater. She’s no slouch then.”

  This was said as a matter of fact. Cambridge grads were not destined to become waitresses or coppers pounding the beat.

  “Why is she slogging it out through the ranks of the CID then?”

  “Because she believes in it—how rare is that?” Ellen waved her hand holding the wine, spilling some on the tile floor. “She told me that at her job interview, and you know what? She convinced me absolutely. I believed her then, and I still do.”

  A light bulb went off for Janice.

  “She’s nothing to do with Professor David St. Clair by any chance?”

  Ellen nodded and smiled. “Well done. Yes, he’s her father.”

  “Aha,” Janice chuckled. “No wonder she’s bright then, Ellen. Hang on to her. David is a bit of a wiz really. Very impressive.”

  Ellen nodded. “He is. Here’s another snippet for you. Her Mother is Suzie Whiteman.”

  “Whiteman… not the children’s author?”

  “The very same.”

  Janice clapped her hands. “My niece loves her books—has about four of them, I think. Pretty somber stuff for kids, I would have thought, but Sophie absolutely devours them. I don’t mind them myself to be honest.”

  They each lapsed into their private thoughts.

  Carr broke the silence not wanting to change the topic. “Her family’s high profile has been a bit of millstone for Allie, actually.”

  Janice pulled herself back from her own ruminations.

  “How so?”

  “Her workmates got wind of it early on in her career, and she cops the whole ‘silver-spoon’ thing pretty hard.”

  “Character building stuff I’d imagine.”

  Carr thought about that. It shouldn’t still be an issue for Allie, but it was. It wasn’t helped by the fact that either of her parents could pop up on television, radio or in a bookstore at any given moment.

  Janice broke in, “It must have been a hell of day for her today. Promoted with all the euphoria that goes with that one moment, then watching her old boss die in front of her the next.”

  Ellen nodded, a far-away look in her eyes.

  “True. She’ll have mixed emotions about today. That’s for sure. By all accounts, they didn’t like each other much, Allie and Billy. They got results, but we knew it was her work. Billy couldn’t solve a child’s riddle in the end. Too busy propping up the bar at that bloody pub over the road from his office.”

  Janice didn’t really fancy another tirade about Billy’s alcoholism.

  “How do you think St. Clair will go as a DCI?” Ellen sat beside her, putting her glass on the low coffee table.

  “Good question. She’ll need to find a way to work with people a little better, there’s no doubt about that.. She’s a bit of a lone wolf and some see that as arrogance, but I don’t think it’s that at all. In fact, I know that she hasn’t told them she graduated top of the class through the Crime Academy. Mind you, it’ll come out in the newsletter next week, so she’s in for some more fun and games. She’s the best and brightest to ever come out of the High Potential Development Scheme, and that’s good news and bad news for her. The bulk of our long-serving personnel still think the whole notion of ‘accelerated development’ is an elitist wank and that good, honest coppers—the ones who have been doing it tough on the streets for decades—are being ridden over in favor of these bright young things.”

  Janice pulled a face. “Well, they are. Aren’t they? Isn’t St. Clair a prime example of the ‘teacher’s pet’ queue jumper?

  Carr shrugged her shoulders and waved her hand toward the city. “We desperately need management talent, Janny, and this is the best way to get it—at least in my view. In St. Clair’s case, she’s now got her chance to show them all what she’s got. If she messes up this opportunity the high-potential scheme will probably go down the drain with her.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a minute, but Finlay could see Carr’s mind was still whirring away on work issues.

  “Ok, spit it out, Ellen. Let’s have your final thoughts on the matter.”