The Quasimodo Killings - book excerpt

Chapter One

New Scotland Yard, Victoria Embankment, London, UK, 2021 AD

The new commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had every reason to feel satisfied. As only the second female in her position, following the early retirement of her illustrious ground-breaking predecessor and the first from a BAME background, Aalia Phadkar chose this press conference to impact not only on the general public but also the powers that be.

Even those most unconvinced by her appointment had to admit that she had considerable merits, not least, her striking looks. Some opted to call her statuesque, which her severest critics declared apt because she was, they grumbled, as hard and unfeeling as an ancient Greek bronze effigy dredged from the bed of the Ionian Sea. Instead, her ardent supporters pointed to her undoubted intellect and profound cultural preparation but mainly indicated her crusade to pilot the Met into the vanguard of modern policing techniques.

The occasion of the press conference called to bring to a conclusion the capture of Angus McBain, the so-called Glasgow Slasher, whose chain of razor attacks on innocent young women had terrorised the nighttime streets of central London for over a year, provided Phadkar with the platform she desired to outline her vision of the Met’s future.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Press,” she began in a clear voice in perfect received English—

“Strewth, she sounds like the Queen,” muttered a Fleet Street hack to his colleague, a petite redhead from a rival tabloid.

“She might as well be, with all the power she wields, but let’s hear what she has to say.” She tapped her roller ball pen on her notepad to demonstrate her concentration to him.

“I would like to begin by congratulating my colleagues in the Metropolitan Police from the assistant commissioner down to the most recent recruit among our constables and all the support staff whose magnificent work has led to the arrest of the so-called Glasgow Slasher, thus bringing to an end the disfigurement of solitary pedestrian women whose lives have been ruined by this species of lowlife. Regarding which, I wish to take advantage of this auspicious occasion to send a message to the disreputable specimens who, unfortunately, live in our midst.” Her voice took on a clarity that would have resounded in the crowded room without the aid of the microphones ranged before her.

Determination sounded in her every word. “It is my declared intention to propel the Metropolitan Police to the avant-garde of Western policing. I intend to press the Government for greater investment in technology so that our American cousins and Chinese counterparts will only be able to stare and attempt to imitate us. So, I address my next comments to the criminal fraternity of which Angus McBain is an all-too-typical exemplar. Today’s criminal hardly possesses the intellect of the fictional Moriarty. Scum like McBain have zero culture, an ignorance bred of disdain for the educational opportunities provided by society and wilfully spurned by their underdeveloped brains. This type of squalid individual had better beware since our intention at the Met is to clean the capital of such vermin using every means possible. Indeed, the modern police force intends to demonstrate the merits of an educational system second to none, which enables the force to draw upon the smartest brains the country has to offer.” She paused to beam triumphantly around the assembled denizens of the English Press.

Her pause was well calculated and allowed her philosophy to penetrate the minds of her audience. Now was the moment to strike. “To make the streets of our metropolis safe for the law-abiding citizen at every hour of the day, I unashamedly use this platform to address the Prime Minister himself—he has declared several times that he is the most public-spirited member of his party. As such, he will consider my appeal for an increase in staffing for our overstretched personnel. I refer not only to our old-fashioned constables on the beat in some of the more degraded parts of this fine city but also to the motorised elements and the invaluable deskbound members of our policing community. Thank you for your attention. May I end with a motto? Altiora etiam petamus, which is not the Met precept, but would do surprisingly well, as I am sure you will all appreciate. She beamed around at the shuffling embarrassed figures in the body of the room, many of whom felt like the uncultured criminals she had berated moments earlier.

“Let us reach yet higher,” murmured the redhead to her unkempt colleague.

“Yeah, whatever,” was his ungracious acknowledgement of her learning.

The commissioner provided them with a superior smile, her perfect white teeth transforming the cold, stern image of the speech into an irresistibly attractive portrait for the press photographers. Gliding from the platform like a black swan on a lake, she took the congratulations of the Met Press Liaison Officer and the high-ranking members of her force with gracious aplomb.

All in all, she reflected, gratefully sipping an espresso coffee dispensed by the top-of-the-range machine in her office as she sank into the plush leather swivel chair behind her desk, I couldn’t have asked for a better start for my inaugural speech. It’ll be interesting to read the daily papers in the morning.

She could not know that the most captivating literature the following day would arrive in the form of a letter. That particular communication, postmarked London WC1, she now laid on the green leather surface of her desk. Seething, she dialled an internal number and, her tone icy, said, “I want you in my office without delay, Detective Chief Inspector. I hardly need add that it is a matter of urgency.”

Malcolm Ridgeway closed a report he was reading on an armed robbery at a jeweller in Harrow, frowned, stared at the receiver on his desk, and dwelt on the unusual nature of the call he had just taken. The standard procedure would have been to use an intermediary, for example, the Chief Superintendent contacting him on behalf of the commissioner. Direct contact from the great chief herself and in such a brusque tone surely meant trouble of the kind he could do without. He glanced in the wall mirror, adjusted his tie by a millimetre, checked under his chin to make sure his morning shave had been immaculate, and smiled at the reflection of a fifty-four-year-old that stared back at him. Not bad for my age. I’d give myself ten years less. He hoped that he would meet with the same approval from the Ice Maiden herself. He knew perfectly well that she was born and bred in the United Kingdom, but he couldn’t entirely rid himself of certain preconceptions even if he considered himself a paragon of liberal acceptance. She had used his formal title, Detective Chief Inspector, not his name, which suggested she was in a bad mood. Once, she had addressed him as Mal, just like his other colleagues, who called him Big Mal, as much for his stature as his facial resemblance to a famous football coach of yesteryear. Oh well, I’d better shoot upstairs and not give her an excuse to lay into me.

Curious and full of trepidation, he knocked on her door. He had not enjoyed the privilege of entering the sanctum reserved for the top brass and didn’t know what to expect. The faint scent of perfume, mixed with the aroma of freshly ground coffee, wasn’t among the sensations he might have anticipated. Nor was the fleeting smile of welcome instantly transformed into an expression bordering on glacial. Yet, her voice was kind and gentle,

“Good morning, Malcolm. How are you? Well, I hope, and Ruth? How’s she doing?”

He cleared his throat, wondering how much information was appropriate. “Oh, she’s thriving. She signed another contract yesterday, you know, for those Regency romances she writes. Soon she’ll be making a name for herself. I wouldn’t give them shelf space if it weren’t for her being my wife. Not my type of thing.”

“I’m sure they’re outstanding, Mal. I must read one—I love that period, Jane Austen, Lizzie Bennett and all.”

“I’ll bring you a signed copy, ma’am.”

She almost purred, “Would you, Mal? That would be so kind. Now, then on to less pleasurable matters.” She opened a desk drawer and tossed him a pair of latex gloves. Needing no prompting, he wriggled his hands into them but couldn’t control his puzzled expression.

“You probably wondered why I called you directly?” Not giving him time to confirm, she hurried on. “It was because I want you to deal with this matter with the utmost discretion. For the moment, I don’t want the upper echelons of our force to know about it. Clear?”

“Abundantly, ma’am.”

“Good, here, this letter arrived this morning. As you can see, it’s addressed to me and was posted in the city centre yesterday afternoon after my press conference.” Ridgeway scrutinised the unremarkable white envelope with its typed address before withdrawing the plain, triple-folded sheet of A4 paper. Unfolding it, he read:

Dear Aalia Phadkar,

Or I’m sure you’d prefer Madam Commissioner, given your pompous love of titles and qualifications. Consider this carefully: Lord Robert instructed me to inform you that unless you publicly retract your calumnious diatribe against the criminal classes with a handsome apology, there will be dire consequences. Lord Robert wishes to inform you that many of his fraternity have an extensive cultural preparation, worthy of Conan Doyle’s arch-villain. Furthermore, he firmly believes that nobody in the Metropolitan Police, not even your exalted self, can aspire to his unsurpassed intellect and therefore, he has issued this challenge through his humble servant, yours truly, viz. if the said public apology is not forthcoming by the first day of the next month, to be circulated as a press release, the dire consequences will assume the form of a series of executions—eight, to be precise, which will only cease if the Metropolitan Police has the wit and cultural preparation to explain the theme underlying the killings in the minutest detail. If, and only if, by the eighth murder (how I dislike that term) your minions have not reached a solution, the ninth—the master killing will reveal all to even the dimmest of your detectives. May I suggest, Madam Commissioner, that you swallow your inordinate pride and issue the most grovelling apology that your arrogant nature is capable of?

I remain, your, and Lord Robert’s humble servitor,

One whose name is writ in blood.

Unsurprisingly, there was no signature.

Aalia Phadkar indicated a seat, its padded surface inviting Mal to sink into its softness.

“Before you take that down to forensics, Mal, I’d like to discuss the contents. Let me begin by saying that I have no intention of succumbing to the writer’s threat. What sort of an impression of police competence would a grovelling apology to the criminal fraternity convey?”

“Of course, ma’am, it’s out of the question. And there’s no guarantee that this is other than a crank getting himself off on threatening the most high-ranking police officer in the UK.”

“Strictly speaking, Mal, all chief constables are my peers.”

“Not for modesty, I wouldn’t think.” He further ingratiated himself with his schoolboy smile.

“What are your impressions of the writer and their threat, and what makes you think the sender is male?”

“The whole tone of the thing. The writer’s thrown in a few long words to make us think he’s educated, maybe to graduate level and added the last line to highlight that he’s a cultured fellow. You’ll recognise the allusion, ma’am.”

“Yes, indeed, a twist on John Keats’s epitaph.”

“Quite so. Clever really, substituting blood for water. In that way, he gets two messages across simultaneously.”

“Yes, he wants to underline that he’s cultured. But what do you make of this reference to Lord Robert?”

“Not a lot, ma’am. It may simply be a red herring. He wishes to insinuate that he works for a peer of the realm.”

“We’ll leave no stone unturned. There can’t be that many Lord Roberts.”

“That’s as good a starting point as any. But, you know, many people love to christen their kids Prince, Duke et cetera, so this Lord Robert might be a black guy from Brixton, say?”

“I can see that you’re already thinking laterally, Mal, that’s why I wanted you on the case. But what about a DI—do you have anyone in mind?”

Ridgeway scratched the short hair at his greying temple with his forefinger. “Given the delicacy of the case, ma’am, I think the best call is DI Vance.”

“Jacob Vance. Jake the Rake?”

“He did have a bit of a reputation as a lady’s man, ma’am, when he was a young constable but there’s no truth in it. He’s been happily married to Helena for sixteen years. It was his manner whenever he was near skirt that gave him his unwanted fame. He’s moved on, I’ve always found him a perfect gent.”

“Mmm, I see. I had wondered.” She smiled ambiguously.

“He works with DS Shepherd. They have an almost telepathic understanding—a good team.”

“Smart girl, Shepherd. I’ve followed some of their cases. I’d say she’s in line for a promotion but, as you say, shame to break up a good team. Use the phone, Mal,” she pointed, “and get them up here, smartish!”

Brittany Shepherd was first through the door, Vance hard on her heels. Aalia Phadkar had an eye for tiny, apparently inconsequential details. That Brittany had preceded Jake meant either that she was confident or that, as she suspected, Jacob had played the gentleman, holding the door for his DS. The third possibility was that Jake was scared witless and every second gained outside the dreaded room counted. She smiled secretly at this thought. Yet, of the two, Shepherd’s oval face was paler, contrasting notably with her short dark hair, cut in a 1920s straight bob. Her sapphire blue eyes, turned-up nose, and full lips made her the force’s sweetheart. Her lithe figure contributed to a certain bygone actress appeal.

“Good morning, ma’am.” Vance almost bowed but limited himself to an unshowy raising of the right hand, enough to convey friendliness but with respect. Aalia matched his warm smile with her own.

“Inspector, Sergeant, take a seat.” She waved a casual hand and, sitting, set the example. The desk seemed an intimidating barrier to the two officers, a sensation eased only by the presence of their immediate superior, who, at a nod from Phadkar, began to outline the need for discretion in this case. When he had read the contents of the letter, ostentatiously displaying his latex gloves, Jacob Vance asked. “Excuse me, sir, how can we keep the lid on this one? We’re going to have to involve Max.” He referred to Max Wright, the resident computer geek. If anyone needed to find out information about a person, Max was the turn-to guy. The problem was, Max worked in an open space filled with the desks of other curious detectives and computer specialists. Max’s workstation was the latter’s envy since, as they complained, he inevitably got the first-class equipment from his superiors, no matter the expense.

Before Ridgeway could reply, Aalia Phadkar intervened, “It’s a question of discretion, Jake. All I ask is that you do your best to avoid the usual speculation that accompanies a case when we try to keep it mum.”

“Of course, we’ll do our best, ma’am.”

Shepherd, with some colour returned to her cheeks, asked, “How seriously are we to take these threats? Do you envisage a killing spree based on the writer’s objection to criminals being labelled individuals of inferior intelligence?”

Phadkar formed her lips into a pout. “We don’t know who we’re dealing with, Sergeant, the man who wrote the letter, if it was a man, may be a psychopath.”

“That occurred to me, ma’am,” Brittany said. “This Lord Robert might not even exist but might be a voice inside the head of a delusional psychotic.”

“Good thinking, Brittany, and if that is the case, we may have to consider the threat of nine murders more than hot air.”

“In that case, ma’am, might not a cleverly couched apology save innocent lives?”

“To hell with that, Jake! I’m not taking back a single word of what I said in my speech. We can’t cut the kind of figure that will satisfy this troll! Meeting over! Get to work and collar this individual. Ah, Mal, I want the forensic report on the letter and envelope on my desk as soon as possible. We might get a lucky break. See to it!”

The three detectives left the room with their hearts in their boots. The case seemed intractable, and worse, impossible to keep under wraps.

“Surely, nine human lives are worth more than a pathetic apology,” Brittany murmured.

Jake Vance heard her and said, “C’mon, Brit, it’s not a simple sergeant who has to apologise, is it? If Her Ladyship made a public apology, it’d make headlines in The Washington Post. She’s right about that.”