Private London

Chapter 88

Detective Inspectors Kirsty Webb and Natalie James jumped out of their parked car and slammed the doors behind them.

An ambulance was pulled up outside the house that they had been about to call at and a couple of police cars were parked beside it. Lights flashing. Crime-scene tape about to cordon off the area.

Kirsty Webb felt a sinking feeling in her gut again as they hurried up to the door. She always seemed to be one step behind on this case. A couple of uniformed officers were standing outside. Kirsty and DI James showed them their warrant cards.

‘What’s happened?’

‘You here to see Alistair Lloyd? The surgeon?’ asked one of the uniforms. A petite woman in her mid-twenties.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re too late, I’m afraid. He performed a…’ she hesitated ‘… a minor procedure, then topped himself.’

‘What kind of procedure?’

The other officer grimaced. ‘He cut off one of his fingers with a samurai sword. And then fell on it. The sword, not the finger.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Yeah. There’s quite a bit of blood.’ She nodded at DI James. ‘Your boss has been trying to get hold of you. He’s inside.’

The two DIs, walked into the house. It was a bungalow, almost open-plan. A small hall led into a large lounge-and-kitchen area. Several doors led off it. The one on the far right was open and bursts of bright light flashed from the room behind it.

A medium-sized man, balding, overweight, with a scruffy jacket and a skew-whiff tie came out as they walked over. He rubbed his hand over a chin that was dark with more than just a five o’clock shadow. It made a rasping sound and he shrugged apologetically.

‘I was halfway through my Sunday lunch when I got the call. Slow-roast shoulder of pork. Dauphinoise potatoes. You must be DI Webb?’ He stuck out his hand.

Kirsty shook it. ‘Yeah.’

‘Chief Inspector Holland.’ He turned to DI James. ‘Tried to get hold of you.’

DI James took out her phone and looked at it, unlocking the keyboard. ‘Must have been out of range at the time.’

Holland nodded impassively and turned to Kirsty. ‘And yours? Spoke to your governor at Paddington.’

‘It’s in the car, charging.’

He nodded again. ‘Either way it don’t much amount to a hill of beans, I guess – as your man in the hat once had it.’

‘Sir?’

‘No glory due on this one. Your serious-crime gang are on their way over. But this, as they say, is a done deal. See for yourself if you’ve the stomach for it.’ Holland rubbed his own stomach absent-mindedly, probably regretting starting his lunch at all. He ushered the two DIs into the room.

There was a plain black teak table in front of a window with open venetian blinds, also in black. Matching cabinets stretched left and right along the wall in front of the desk.

A Japanese suit of armour stood in one corner of the room.

There was a chopping block on the desk and a white handkerchief was laid neatly next to it. Beyond that on the desk was a wooden holder. Ceremonial. On the handkerchief a small pool of blood had soaked through. A severed finger lay in the middle of it.