THE THE BIG BEN MYSTERY
Fernando Trujillo
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
The Big ben mystery
Copyright © 2010 Fernando Trujillo
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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* * * * *
THE BIG BEN MYSTERY
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
Only someone who is dead inside can take charge of the preparations for his own funeral without feeling even the slightest pang of nerves. Wilfred Gord threw the coffin catalogue as far as he could, barely a metre and a half, and lay back on the bed thoughtfully. He still hadn't discounted cremation. The idea that his body would rot in a box had yet to convince him.
According to most studies, seventy years was within the average life expectancy for men. However, this failed to console Wilfred. To tell the truth, nothing did.
His life had passed too quickly. He had achieved what others could only dream of, and very few get. He had built a financial empire with his own hands, starting from scratch, and become the powerful owner of a business conglomerate that encompassed every activity imaginable. There was no job that Wilfred's employees did not occupy. But despite the uncountable successes achieved during his life, and the incredible challenges that he had overcome, he was now completely defeated by a fearful enemy that would take his own life: cancer.
His mansion was one of the most distinguished in London, the city in which he had lived all his life and in which he was about to die.
"I couldn't get here any earlier," Ethan said, poking his head through the doorway.
The two formidable bodyguards that were always posted at the entrance stopped him for an instant, then, after verifying his identity, let him enter. Ethan threw them a sharp glance that would have been angrier under other circumstances. He approached the bed where Wilfred lay, and sat down beside him with the ease of a body that had yet to reach twenty years old. His smooth, unmarked face and his abundant mat of brown hair contrasted with the bald head and deeply lined face of the old man in front of him. They both had brown eyes: Ethan's shining with the intensity of youth, Wilfred's sunken and lifeless in their sockets.
"It doesn't seem to matter now," the old man said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, turning his head so he could look Ethan in the eyes, his expression of deep pain touching the young face beside him. "None of my doctors think I can live more than two or three months."
"They don't know what I know," Ethan said, taking Wilfred's thin hand in his. "There's still hope… I think I've found a way."
Wilfred's eyebrows lifted imperceptibly. "You said you couldn't reveal the secret," he murmured with difficulty.
"Remember the first thing I explained to you. There are rules. I can't tell anyone else. I've already risked too much. Think of the greatest danger you can imagine… I can assure you I am facing something a thousand times worse."
After a considerable effort, Wilfred lifted his left hand from under the sheet. The bodyguards, understanding the gesture, left their posts.
Wilfred still didn't know what to make of Ethan. Despite the undeniable proof of his identity, a sliver of doubt remained deep within. Neither his age, nor the foul cancer itself had affected his ability to reason, of that he was completely sure. And even in his wildest dreams he knew avoiding death was impossible. Still, he had nothing to lose in listening to Ethan's suggestion, even though there were many other things to attend to. Hope urged him to listen, to consider anything new, however absurd it might be.
Ethan waited until the door was closed before he turned back towards the old man.
"Well then, you must pay attention to the little that I can tell you," he said, lowering his voice. "It's possible that I can't see you again, so it's very important that you remember what I'm going to say. Can you do that?"
Wilfred was irritated by the thought that this insolent young man didn't realize that his memory still worked better than his. His frown was a good enough answer.
"Excellent," Ethan replied showing no sign of irritation. "The first thing is that never, under any circumstances, can you mention my name. It's simply better not to add unnecessary obstacles."
"Why can't I mention you?" Wilfred asked in a whisper.
"I can't tell you. If everything works out well you will know in time," the young man answered. "You have to trust me. Just follow my instructions and you will live a lot longer. More than you can imagine. What have you got to lose?"
"In the little time left to me… nobody can cure me… maybe you have to accept that as well."
"Damn! Isn't it enough for you to know who I am? You have to believe me. I'm doing all this for you. If my identity isn't enough to convince you that it's possible, I don't know anything else that will."
A look of desperation covered Ethan's face and he frowned until his eyes hurt and a tear ran down his cheek.
The memory of the time when Ethan had revealed who he was cut through Wilfred with the speed of a lightning bolt. He had never before had the sensation of having talked with a true madman. Ethan's story had been so strange that only a mind completely detached from reality could have come up with anything like it. In spite of everything, the details had fit into the puzzle one after the other with disconcerting ease. Wilfred had demanded a DNA test and anything else that he could think of to confirm that the whole thing wasn't a horrible joke. But in the end, his doubt waned and he was forced to accept the accuracy of the test results.
"I believe you," Wilfred mused. "Go ahead and tell me. I won't forget it and I will do what you tell me to."
"Do it, please, it's your only chance," Ethan said opening his eyes again and looking at the old man. "I'm risking much more than my life in helping you."
"More than your life? What are you talking about?"
"Don't worry about that. Just remember this name: Aidan Zack. He's a detective. You have to meet him."
"A detective can cure me?"
"No, but it's part of the solution, although he doesn't know it yet. He doesn't even suspect what's coming."
"What do I say when I meet him?"
"I can't reveal that now without breaking the rules. As strange as it may seem to you, and in spite of everything that is going to happen from now on, don't forget there are rules, and that sooner or later you will learn them. Everything follows a certain logic and everything has its consequences. Don't forget that."
"OK," the old man said, without sounding very convinced or even as if he understood what he had to do. "I will find this Aidan. Then, I'm afraid, I will have to improvise."
"I have to go," Ethan said, getting up abruptly and leaning over the old man, moving the bed slightly as he did. "I wish I could tell you more. I hope you will understand what this is all about before it's too late." The young man kissed Wilfred's bald head tenderly, as his hand stroked the old wrinkled skin of his face. "Look after yourself, my son. I'm always with you."
Ethan turned away to hide the pain that suddenly filled his heart, leaving the room quickly to avoid collapsing right there and then.
"Goodbye, father. I'll find that detective," Wilfred called after the young man disappearing through the door, his whole body shaking with the thought that nothing could help him get used to the fact that his father was fifty years younger than him.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 1
With a threatening roar, flames leapt across the intersection of two of the principal traffic arteries of London. A tongue of fire surged out of the centre of the conflagration and enveloped several parked cars, setting off a chain of explosions that spread the fire further. The intense heat prevented anyone getting close to the scene of the accident, while further back a crowd formed at a safe distance, nervously watching the column of black smoke that swirled into the sky, where only moments before the traffic had been flowing normally.
Some pedestrians helped others who had been knocked onto the pavement by the force of the huge explosion, pulling them out of danger and looking back to see if they could help anyone else. The ground was covered with broken glass, and the smoke made breathing difficult.
"What happened here?" a tall, thin man covering his face with his arm asked. "Is anyone injured?"
"I don't know," a woman in the crowd answered. "It'd be impossible to survive this fire. It seems that a petrol tanker speeding down the street lost control in the chaos and crashed into a bus coming the other way."
From behind the poor shield that his hands offered against the burning temperatures around him, the tall man studied the fire through the space between his fingers. In the centre of the accident scene, a mass of unrecognizable metal jutted out of the flames. The man couldn't be sure what it was, but because of its size, imagined that it had been something bigger than a car. He turned his head away from the direction of the smoke, coughing violently.
"We have to get back," he said after a few seconds, "We're too close and that tanker must have been carrying petrol or something similar to cause a fire like this."
"Dear God!" a woman cried out. "There's someone alive."
To the crowd's astonishment, a portion of the fire in human form separated from the mass of flames and, after a couple of paces, stumbled. The poor soul waved his arms desperately and finally fell to the ground, dead. Someone made an effort to get close to him, but the searing heat forced him back.
After a few moments, police sirens could be heard. The squad cars quickly cordoned the area off, before the first fire engine arrived. Firemen filed out, formed groups, and in studied coordination located a fire hydrant, connected their hoses, and began to fight the fire from behind oxygen masks.
At first the jets of water made little inroad into the fire, but after a few minutes, and with the help of another fire engine, whose crew was working from the other side of the street, the flames began to subside, until, a while later, in a giant smoking mass it came under control.
"Captain!" a fireman shouted from within the cloud of smoke, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask, "If I tell you this, you're not going to believe me. You've got to come and see this for yourself."
"This isn't the time for games, Jim," the captain shouted back from his distant vantage point. "Search for heat pockets and secure the zone. You two," he said, signalling two firemen at his side, "go and see what Jim is doing and lend him a hand. And tell him I'm in no mood for jokes."
The pair nodded and entered the smoke that was beginning to disperse slowly. Stew Walton frowned as he watched them walk off, then turned to give orders to the rest.
"Let me go!" yelled a voice that Stew didn't recognize. "I'm fine."
"It's for your own safety," he heard Jim say.
Stew looked in the direction of the voices and was stunned to see Jim emerging from the smoke with a short, fair-haired man. Not only was it incredible that someone had survived the fireball, but the survivor was dressed in an impeccable white suit. His silky blond hair was perfectly combed. His movements give no indication of where he'd just been. He wasn't limping or coughing, only his clear blue eyes shone with a light expression of uncertainty.
"Get back to work," Stew said to the confused firemen who were beginning to surround the stranger. The captain cleared his way to the man and had the sensation of wanting to touch him to verify that he was real and not a hallucination. "How's it possible that he's come out of this unscathed?" he asked the two men. Jim just shrugged his shoulders. The survivor studied him without saying a word. "Is there anyone else alive?"
"No one," Jim answered. "We've found at least thirty bodies, and maybe there are more."
"I don't know what happened," the strange, white-suited man said when he noted Stew staring at him. "I was sitting in the bus when I heard the sound of tyres screeching on the asphalt. I crashed against the seat in front and I think something hit my head. The next thing I remember is finding myself in this mass of smoke with this man here," he said, pointing to Jim.
"Is that all?" the captain said, taking his mask off now that they were a fair way from the flames. "I've been working as a fireman for twenty years, more than enough time to know that no one walks away from a fire like this, let alone looking like you do." Stew could not avoid lacing his words with anger. "This is unacceptable. I need a better explanation than the one you've just given me. Who are you?"
"My name is James White," the man answered, defensively. "And I can't see why I would want to hide anything. Now leave me in peace."
Astonished, Stew watched the survivor walk away, carrying the mystery of his miraculous survival with him.
"I want you to look at every damn piece of ash you find and give me an explanation of how this individual has left these flames without a scratch," he said to Jim as he rushed after James White. "I'm afraid you can't leave," he said when he reached him. "There are a lot of dead people back there, and until we clarify the cause of the accident I can't let you go. It's possible that later on you might be able to remember something that can help us. Besides, you'll have to spend some time in observation to make sure you haven't suffered any injury."
"But I'm fine," James White complained. "How could I be walking like I am if there was something wrong with me?"
"Although there are no obvious fractures or contusions, there could be other problems," Stew said, thinking that he didn't give a damn what they might find. The only thing that he had as clear as a bell in his head was that he was going to get to the bottom of the mystery of who this James White was. "You could be intoxicated from smoke inhalation, for example. Let the professionals do their work."
After much protesting, Stew managed to get the man on to a stretcher and into an ambulance. He took a note of the hospital they were going to and returned to what was left of the fire.
# # #
Unable to stop his lips twisting into a cynical smile, Aidan Zack entered the surgery.
"You're late," Doctor Shyla said dryly.
"I had a bad night," Aidan lied without worrying too much about whether Shyla believed him or not. It was his last session for the year and he wanted to keep it as short as possible. "Besides, the traffic didn't help."
"The only thing this shows is that you don't take therapy seriously, detective," Shyla said, watching Aidan sit down in the comfortable leather armchair that he detested so much. "Do you want to talk about the causes of your bad night or admit there's another excuse?"
"I don't know what's up with you, Doctor," Aidan answered, beginning to regret having arrived late. He'd trusted that his therapist would be less strict in their last session together, at least until the first session in the new year. "Don't take it so seriously. It's our last meeting and no doubt you've already made a decision. I know you've already edited the report. We can get straight to the point."
Aidan relaxed a little seeing the doctor take a deep breath and move in her seat. It seemed she was going to get over her anger, and for once the implacable Shyla would let him do the same. Surely she was as sick of these confrontations as he was of this damn therapy. He leaned his six-foot-ten-inch frame back in the armchair and placed his hands on his knees.
"In the end," Shyla lamented, "I still haven't decided what recommendation I will put in my report. There are many things that still worry me. I'm given to understand that your superiors aren't too happy with you either."
"They're fools," Aidan snapped. He wasn't in any mood for a chat. He'd already argued this point in previous sessions and didn't see why it was necessary to cover his feelings up to someone who knew him so well. "Maybe some of them aren't too pleased, but they know I get the job done."
"It doesn't make any sense to beat around the bush," she said, looking him straight in the eyes. "They're going to release Bradley Kenton very soon. What do you think about that?"
"Absolutely nothing," Aidan replied without any emotion. "That happened a long time ago."
"You don't expect me to believe that, do you? I know you treat it as if it happened yesterday," Shyla said, watching Aidan cross his arms, returning her stare. "Very well. I know I can't prove that you've not got over it, your self-control has stopped you talking about this man unless you're forced to, but I don't have to be a psychologist to know that nobody gets over something like that without talking about it."
"Well, I have," Aidan assured her flatly.
"Five years isn't that long, Aidan," she disagreed. "Especially, taking into account that this man killed your wife. It would take a lot of time for most people to get over a trauma like that."
"That's most people, not me," Aidan said, forcing a smile. "It's another perfect example of who I am."
Both of them knew that was a lie, but there were other more important things. It was a game. Shyla had to evaluate whether Aidan Zack was capable of doing his job as a detective. It came down to whether or not he was a threat to himself or to others. There were many in the force who were carrying big problems that could hinder their work as policemen.
"Your physical recovery is one thing," she said. Aidan had been in a coma for two months after the accident. He'd made a full recovery, getting over injuries that should have been permanent or even fatal. His spinal injury alone should have left him paralysed. "Your physical tests have shown that you're back to normal. But the mind is something else. When was the last time you had sexual relations?"
"Last week," he answered without thinking, "A beautiful twenty-five-year-old blonde. It was pretty good." He paused, hearing Shyla's pen tap on the desktop, seeing her frown. "Ok… ok. Is the frequency of my sexual relations relevant to my detective work? If so, you'd better interview Jake, it's been two years since his last." Shyla's frown deepened and Aidan decided to leave it there. "Five months," he said thoughtfully, "Maybe six. I'm not sure."
"How was it?"
"A true disaster," he said without any sign of embarrassment. "It wasn't one of my best moments. Different tastes, you understand. I would have preferred something else. Do you really want all the details?"
"No. I'm familiar with your tastes. Did you feel anything more than just sexual attraction?"
Aidan didn't know how to answer. If it came to the crunch he hadn't even felt physical attraction for the woman. It wasn't that it had been that bad. It was simply a one-night stand that hadn't worked out well. He'd been in a bar drinking when the woman had walked up and started talking. It had been months since he'd slept with anyone. It had been the right time to take what she was offering with the minimum effort required. Aidan was a good-looking man, and he knew it, but not as much as all the women who walked up to him in bars. He was a well-muscled, low-fat forty-five-year-old. His hair was still on his head, he had movie star features, and his six-foot-ten- stature made him stand out anywhere. Even so, most of the time he was the one who'd taken the first step.
"It was just sex," he finally said instead of inventing a little sentimental drama. "If you really want to know."
"Like always," Shyla observed. "It's time you got over your wife's death."
"I don't see how that will make me a better policeman."
"It will help you generally. And that goes for any profession. I know you're a good detective," she said before he could reply. "Technically one of the best. But your attitude has changed since that terrible accident. You've got problems getting on with your partners, you don't get on with the press, incidences of insubordination are more frequent, and some say you're more violent with criminals."
"I've always got on bad with the press," Aidan said arrogantly, "Even before the accident. Any of my partners can vouch for that. As far as everything else is concerned, I reckon I've improved a lot in the last year. There are hardly any misunderstandings. You can see I'm on the right path," he concluded, smiling.
"It's not enough. Your work's dangerous. I only want the best for you."
"Then let me keep on getting better," Aidan said. "If it's true that you're worried about my health why do you want to leave me without a job? I've already lost my wife and lost a year being in and getting over that damn coma. Do you really think it's good for me to lose my job?"
Before the doctor could answer him, his mobile phone rang.
"I forgot to turn it off. Sorry," he said, secretly pleased that the session had been interrupted. "Yes? Inspector. Calm down… No, I'll get there late. I'm with the shrink." Aidan shrugged his shoulders, looking at the doctor. She just nodded disapprovingly, she was used to the disrespect that the word shrink implied. "I saw something on the news last night. What's that got to do with me? But, sir… I've just said that I saw it. Anyone who survived that accident should be in a hospital bed stuffed with tubes and surrounded by respirators. I can't interrogate him… Is this a joke? Ok. I'll write it down… I understand," he said finally, hanging up and putting the phone back in his jacket pocket. "Well, Doctor, I'm sorry, but I've got to go. If you're thinking of giving me the thumbs down, tell me now. It will save me worrying about this little job for the Inspector."
"I suppose we can see each other next year," Shyla said, taking a deep breath. "Get out of here."
"Thanks a heap, Doc," Aidan said from the door. "I wish all women were like you."
Excited about having finished therapy for the year, Aidan Zack left the building thinking about the interview with the survivor of yesterday's accident in which forty people had died. He lit a cigarette, started the car and drove towards the hospital.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 2
After four years of marriage, it still excited Susan to watch her husband get dressed in an elegant suit, even though this time it wasn't one of her favourites. His body was made for it, the jacket showing his shoulders off in a way that she found irresistible. Despite his short height, she wouldn't change him for anyone else.
"Can't you wear something else?" she asked, as her husband combed his dark hair back from his forehead until his black eyes were satisfied with the image in the mirror before him. "It's not that it looks bad on you, but it's better not to go out dressed completely in black."
"I feel like wearing this suit," he said as he did the buttons up. "It's a long time since I've worn it."
"At least you could wear a different-coloured shirt," she insisted, without smiling.
"I didn't even think of that," William answered. "The only thing I know for sure is that I should go out like this today. It's strange, but something tells me that black's the right colour to wear. It's my first day of work at a new branch. I want to feel good."
"As if I didn't know," Susan exclaimed, getting close and throwing her arms around him. "We still have the house full of unopened boxes. We're never going to finish moving in." She took her husband's face in her hands and gave him a long passionate kiss. "You'd be cute in any colour. Let's have breakfast."
"When I get back from work I'll help you finish unpacking everything," he promised, as he went down the stairs of their home.
Susan detected a trace of guilt in his voice, most likely because of the little he'd done to help with the moving in since they'd arrived. They dodged the boxes that were scattered around the living room and entered the kitchen.
"As if I am going to believe that you'll help," she said, smiling.
In reality, he wasn't interested in anything related to the move and they both knew it. William was on the way up. They'd bought a big house, a two-storey flat in an upmarket block, and she felt happy. So happy, in fact, that she'd forgotten the thorn that had been in their sides for the last three years. She couldn't get pregnant. They'd tried all the traditional methods, and now were going through a series of tests. The doctors couldn't find any reason to explain it away. She was fertile, the abortion she'd had before meeting William proving that. And he didn't have any problem that they could find.
They breakfasted on coffee and a lot of toast, and agreed to go out later and look for a new sofa.
"Well, I've got to go," he said, standing up. "What's the problem?" he asked, studying his wife's smile, as she looked at him from head to foot.
"I can see them laughing at the undertaker look, sweetheart," she said, "especially when you introduce yourself as Mr Black."
"Don't be stupid. Everything'll be ok. I'll tell you about it later."
He gave her a long farewell kiss and an affectionate slap on the cheek as revenge for the joke she'd just made about his clothes and name.
As soon as he had closed the door, Susan cleared the table and began taking the cups to the sink, but stopped when she heard the doorbell.
"You're a disaster," she called out, leaving the kitchen and crossing the hall. "What, have you forgotten your keys?"
She got a shock when she opened the door and almost clashed heads with a stranger. The short man was dressed completely in white. His hair was blond, very blond, and his eyes were the lightest shade of blue she'd ever seen, almost white.
"What do you want?" she asked, thinking that the stranger was somehow very familiar. "You've mistaken–"
The man in white stepped around her and walked inside without saying a word. He stopped in the middle of the living room and looked around.
"What are you doing?" Susan demanded to know, her fear building. "Get out of my house straight away or I'll call the police!"
The stranger didn't seem to hear her. He returned to the door, closed it, and then went to the kitchen, staring at everything as he went. Her panic began to leave her slowly. The man in white didn't seem interested in her, but the very presence of a stranger in her house made every conceivable possibility spin through her head. Her legs were frozen and she prayed that this was a robbery and not a preamble to rape.
The man in white left the kitchen and walked among the boxes that filled the floor. Susan could see him more clearly now and suddenly realized why he was so familiar. He was William's double, except for the skin colour and eyes. It was her husband down to the smallest detail. His shoulders, nose, lips, everything seemed an exact replica. If William had dyed his hair, put in blue contact lenses and donned a white suit, she wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. And what bothered her even more was that he moved like William, had the same body language. It was crazy. So crazy, in fact, that she began thinking her husband was playing a terrible practical joke on her. He'd changed clothes outside and come back to play this little trick on her.
The intruder had finished studying the living room and was turning in the direction of the stairs that led to the floor above, when suddenly the front door swung open. Susan couldn't believe her eyes as William floated through the air and tackled the man in white. They began fighting their way around the room, bumping into the little furniture there was, until they suddenly stopped.
They stayed still, facing each other. Susan was speechless. She had to do something, say something, scream at William to call the police and run out of the house in search of help. But she couldn't do anything. She was paralysed with fear and stunned by this unbelievable scene in which her husband was fighting with what seemed like a mirror image of himself. It was simply crazy. And now she noticed for the first time that they were carrying swords. How did she miss that? Where had they got them from? And not ordinary swords at that. They looked like knight's swords. Something from the Middle Ages. And, not to spoil the mysterious contrast between the two men, her husband's sword was dark grey while the stranger's was light grey. Except for that, they were identical.
She came to life when she realized what was about to happen. A scream flew out of her throat as the duel began as if the two had been waiting for her scream to start it. The swords clashed, throwing sparks each time they met. The metallic echo of each thrust and block rang around the room as the two swordsmen followed careful lateral steps one following the other. Susan only stopped screaming when she could no longer breathe. Her husband was in a sword fight with his double. It didn't make any sense. Was she dreaming? It seemed not, as she watched William Black measure every movement and thrust with a precision that only a deep knowledge of fencing and hours of training could produce. He'd never mentioned anything about fencing to her.
The duel didn't last much longer. She thought it would never end, given that both men seemed to have the same mastery of the glistening sword in their hands. But suddenly, the man in white avoided a lunge and with a slash from above cut off William's head.
She would never remember exactly what happened next, so dominated was she by the greatest horror she'd ever witnessed. She could have sworn that the man in white's sword disappeared in his hand. The killer stayed still for an instant, studying the flow of William's blood across the carpet.
Just before she fainted, Susan saw William's killer leave by the front door, without ever having looked at her once.
# # #
On arriving at the hospital, Aidan Zack left the car in front of the main door, half on the pavement, and threw a cigarette butt through the window.
A fat security guard approached Aidan angrily. "You can't park there."
Aidan flashed his badge and walked past the guard towards the entrance.
"There's room for parking back there," the guard called after him.
"It's urgent," Aidan said without even looking at him. "It won't wait."
He heard an insult behind his back as he passed the automatic doors of the main entrance.
The tanker driver who had presumably caused the accident was a known member of a gang of drug dealers that Aidan had infiltrated the year before. That was why the captain had wanted him to talk to the survivor; to find out if he'd seen the driver. If so, maybe Aidan could identify him. But it didn't make much sense. Aidan Zack knew the gang's methods and they never used petrol tankers, especially if they were full.
He went up to the second floor and, following the signs, chose the corridor to the right.
"How much longer am I going to have to stay here under guard?" Aidan heard someone ask from within Room 211.
"Mr James White?" Aidan asked, entering the room.
Two men spun around immediately. At first glance it was difficult to tell them apart. They were both dressed in white. Evidently, the one in the long coat had to be the doctor.
"Who are you?" the doctor asked.
"Detective Inspector Aidan Zack. Are you Mr White?" he said, ignoring the doctor and staring at the man in the white suit.
"Yes, that's me. I hope you've got the authority to let me go. They can't keep me here when there's nothing wrong with me."
"Before that, I've got a few questions," Aidan said, lowering his head to look White in the eyes. He was at least two heads taller. "If you don't mind, it might be better if I sat down."
"You can leave us alone," James White said to the doctor with a touch of anger in his voice. "I'm sure you've got patients you can help."
The doctor closed the door behind him.
"You've got to get me out of here, detective. This is crazy."
"Take it easy," Aidan said, starting to get curious about James White. "First, tell me what happened and then I'll see what I can do."
"Don't you print reports?" James complained. "I've told this a thousand times already. They must have written it so anyone can read it."
"This will be the last time," Aidan said patiently.
"I don't remember much," James began after taking a great sigh. "Something hit me on the head and when I came round I was standing next to a fireman in the middle of a cloud of smoke. I don't know why, but nothing happened to me, simply nothing."
"That doesn't interest me. The doctors are here to bother you with that sort of question. What I want to know is what happened before the accident. Did you see how the bus came to crash against the tanker?"
"No," James answered, surprised by the question. "I was reading a magazine, when the bus braked suddenly and I slammed into the seat in front."
"Perhaps you heard something?" Aidan insisted, realizing that he'd come to the hospital for no good reason. "Any detail that could help us find out how the accident happened."
James shook his head.
"Then, that's all. Thanks for your cooperation."
"One moment," James White said, staring at Aidan strangely. "You seem familiar. Have we met before?"
"I don't think so," Aidan answered, thinking that he wouldn't have forgotten this short man dressed from head to foot in white.
"I don't think I've met you either. But there's something familiar about you," he reflected, his mood changing from bored to curious, the effort of trying to remember where he'd met Aidan changing the expression on his face. "I don't know why, but I've never had such a peculiar feeling about a stranger."
"It could be the knock on your head, Mr White," Aidan suggested, uninterested in White's vagueness.
"Curious," James murmured to himself staring at the floor. "It couldn't have been a casual meeting. I guess I'll remember later."
Aidan stopped listening and crossed the room on his way out. The door opened before he reached it and a tall man entered, stopped, and stared at him in surprise.
"Who are you?" Aidan asked.
"Stew Walton, Captain of the Fire Brigade. And you?"
"Detective Inspector Aidan Zack. You're the one who put the fire out after the accident, aren't you?" Aidan said, shaking the other man's hand. "I'd like to talk to you for a second."
They walked to a coffee machine that Aidan had seen outside the room.
"Want a coffee?"
Stew shook his head so Aidan just poured one for himself. "Have you been able to find out why the vehicles crashed?" Aidan asked. "Any unusual detail would help."
"No, nothing out of the ordinary. The tanker was loaded with fuel, which was why the fire was so big. I can't see what provoked the crash. From the few facts that we've got and from interviews with witnesses, it seems both vehicles were driving straight. We don't know why the tanker deviated."
"Any evidence of drugs?"
The captain shook his head, surprised. "No, not that I know of. But the fire would've incinerated drugs. Either way, we're still going through the ashes. Something might turn up later on. Do you think there's a connection between James White and drugs?"
"No. That's a dead end," Aidan said, sipping the coffee and nearly spitting it out. He knew now why Stew had turned his offer down.
"Then I suppose it's back to the truck driver," Stew concluded.
"I'm sure you understand why I can't answer that question. I imagine that if the Fire Chief is here it's to work out how this bloke walked clean."
"Exactly. I don't get it. Has he said anything to you?"
"About the same as he told you, I guess. He banged his head and can't remember anything."
Seeing that he was getting nowhere, Aidan bade farewell to the captain and went back to his car. He left his card and asked him to let him know when they'd finished examining the rubble from the accident.
The fat security guard was still at his post, bad tempered as before. Aidan put his coffee cup in his hand, along with a weak apology, and marched to his car. He was surprised not to hear a new insult behind his back. Before he got in, he lifted the wipers up to take a paper off the windscreen. He read it and screwed it up.
"I wouldn't chuck that if I were you," someone said as Aidan turned around. "It's an official document."
"You've fined me?" Aidan asked, watching the policeman approach arrogantly.
"I advised him that you refused to move your vehicle," the fat hospital guard said, close now, with a smirk on his face.
"Next time, don't commit infractions and this won't happen," the policeman advised Aidan. "There's no special deal for policemen. The law's the law."
"Well done," the hospital guard said approvingly.
"I'm in no mood for this," Aidan told him, without showing any sign of irritation. He looked away and threw the parking notice over his shoulder onto the ground.
"Did you see that, detective?" the hospital guard asked, pointing animatedly at the paper ball. "Look, he's just thrown it on the ground. This is complete disrespect for the law. A little respect would be better, don't you think?"
"Of course," the policeman said firmly.
The motor of Aidan's car purred as soon as he turned the key and started the ignition. And to the security guard's surprise, the policeman who'd just written the ticket got into the front seat and patted Aidan on the back as the car started to move off.
"You fined me?" Aidan said, looking at his passenger.
"I couldn't help myself. Besides the guard begged me to. Do you know how long it's been since the last ticket I wrote? I can hardly remember."
Lance Norwood was in many respects the exact opposite of his partner Aidan. A pleasant detective who got on with everyone, or at least anyone who didn't ruffle anybody's feathers. He was always in a good mood and did his job according to the rules, mainly to avoid problems.
"You're a funny bastard," Aidan said. "I'm going to recommend to the Inspector that you be assigned to the traffic department."
"Too boring. I'd prefer to stay with you," Lance said. "Solving mysteries and the rest of that shit. It's more entertaining. Have you heard about Big Ben?"
"No. What's up?"
"It seems it's gone crazy. Today I passed there and I could've sworn I was drunk. The bells sounded out of tune. And I don't know if the time was right. Everyone was looking at the tower."
"They'll fix it. That clock is the symbol of the city."
"Just as well. Turn to the right at the next," Lance said, indicating a junction ahead. "Hey, you've passed it. What's up? Have you still got the hump because of the fine?"
"We'll take longer that way," Aidan grumbled.
"You're wrong there. We're not going to the station. We've got a case, and you're going to love it. A murder."
"The captain told me to talk to the survivor. He didn't say anything about a new case."
"Well, he rang me later. How else do you think I knew where you were?"
"What makes you think I'm going to enjoy this?" Aidan asked, lighting a cigarette and veering out of his lane as he did. He stopped at the next red light and stared at his partner. He was angry although he didn't know for certain why.
"It's a strange case," Lance said, hardly covering up his smile. "It seems the victim has been decapitated with a medieval sword. What do you think about that?"
* * * * *
CHAPTER 3
"Only a little more effort and you'll do it," Earl White advised enthusiastically.
Keeping that optimistic smile on his face was a lot more difficult than the effort the pathetic lump of flabby flesh stretched out in front of him was making. Earl felt worried, but clung to the smile desperately, as a vein in the boy's forehead swelled threateningly. He considered wasting a couple of new sentences loaded with false hope that it could build him up, but in the end he chose to convince the youth to take a break and helped him put the bar back on the rack before it crashed down into his chest.
"You almost finished the set," Earl lied. "Cool off, then try something else."
"I was close, wasn't I?" the boy said, panting, getting up and wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Some day I'll be as strong as you, Mr White. A lot stronger, you'll see."
"I told you to call me Earl," the trainer said patiently. "The only thing that you have to do is keep at it and you'll outdo me, for sure."
Anyone with a minimum of common sense would have known immediately that there was no possibility that the boy could ever do that or even have a body like Earl White's. Earl was the most admired weight trainer at the gym and a real treat to look at for bodybuilding fans. When he did his exercises in his tight singlet, everybody around him stopped what they were doing to watch. He knew that well enough, showing off his physique went with the job.
Earl strolled through the gym equipment looking for anyone who needed his expert help. He ran his hand through his blond hair, as his blue eyes located an attractive female silhouette hanging from a bar trying to finish a set.
"Need any help?" he asked kindly.
The girl let go of the wooden bar and her feet landed on the ground. She was dark skinned, green eyed, her long black hair pinned in a ponytail. If it hadn't been for the prominent nose, Earl would have considered her perfect.
"Mr White, I presume," she said, looking at him, amused.
"Precisely. I'm the weight trainer, and to be honest I'd prefer you to call me Earl," he said, taking care to sound natural and keep his enormous biceps in her line of sight. "You're new, aren't you? I don't remember having seen you here before."
"Really, you're the new one," she pointed out. "I live in London and have been coming here for three years. I've missed the last seven months because of work. I guess you started working here some time then."
"Yes, four months ago." Earl couldn't take his bright blue eyes off her. "You shouldn't put so much pressure on your back without spending time in the weight room first."
"What makes you think I don't?"
Much to his dismay, Earl stopped listening to her. He was in a pleasant conversation with an attractive girl on the point of getting her phone number. But something was stopping him doing that. A feeling of alarm invaded his mind, making him tremble. Something was about to happen and he had to intervene. It wasn't a hunch or anything in his imagination. It was a certainty.
"Is everything all right?" the young woman asked, watching the expression on the trainer's face change. The shine in his eyes had gone and he was studying everything in the room around him as if his life depended on it.
Earl didn't realize that the young woman had stopped talking and was staring at him. The only thing that made any sense was working out what was going on around him. He couldn't see anything but his senses were working overtime trying to locate the danger. But what risk could there be inside the gym? He didn't have the least idea. Nevertheless, his emotions didn't leave any room for doubt, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. He took a quick step towards the woman and slapped her hard with the back of his hand. She flew across the floor with the force of the blow and crashed into a column several metres away. Everybody in the gym stopped, as astonished by the trainer's action as the girl had been. One of the bodybuilders reacted and went to the girl's assistance.
Without paying any attention to the chain reaction that had spread through the room, Earl concentrated on his feelings and surprised himself by crouching down. He doubted that he was going to be able to explain what had happened to those staring at him now. But he managed to get his growing sense of urgency under control. He felt ridiculous, but he bent his knees as much as he could and squatted, trying to convince himself that he was not going mad.
A great rumble sounded just above his head and he felt something fall on his back. He looked up and saw small chunks of plaster dragged along by an enormous vibrating steel lance stuck in the wall. He understood immediately that if he hadn't crouched down the lance would have gone right through his head, and that of the girl he'd knocked out of the way. He passed his hand along the steel bar and realized that his arm was covered by the sleeve of a jacket. His tight singlet had disappeared along with the rest of his gym clothes, and, as weird as it seemed, he was now dressed in an elegant white suit.
He had no time to examine his new clothes, as a sharp whistle cut through the air. Earl spun around on his heels in time to see another lance heading straight for him. In a flash, he raised his left hand and felt an impact. The blow sounded like metal against metal. He was now carrying a shield.
Without showing the slightest surprise about the shield or the amazement that reigned through the room, the trainer crossed the gymnasium, treading softly in his recently acquired white shoes, dodging broken glass. Helped by the shield, he made it to the front door and ran down the street.
# # #
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" Lance Norwood asked, tightening the seatbelt. "Later, you'll be surprised that the press is complaining about you."
"Whatever you say. It was a pure coincidence, I swear," Aidan said, without looking at Lance.
He'd just put his arm back in the car after tossing a cigarette into the street, which had landed on the back of one of the journalists that formed a crowd there.
"It won't fit there," Lance said.
Ignoring his partner's advice, Aidan Zack squeezed the car into the little space there was between the two other vehicles, and after a few fancy manoeuvres parked the car. One of the tyres finished up on the pavement and in the end a new dent was added to the rest.
"Not very fair," Aidan said, closing the door behind him.
"As usual, a load of old iron," Lance observed, passing his hand over the latest damage. "It's the worst looked-after car in London. Doesn't it occur to you to ring me when it starts falling to pieces?"
Lance took a deep breath and went after Aidan, who was already in the circle of journalists. It wasn't hard following his partner because his head stood out above everyone else's. The microphones followed Aidan like predators after their prey.
"Police, make way," Aidan yelled as he cut through the pack of journalists. "There are no statements for the moment. Move on."
Lance fell into stride behind Aidan to avoid having to face the flood of questions himself. It wouldn't be the first time that Aidan had argued with a journalist who interrupted his work. In Lance's opinion, Aidan was right, but that wasn't enough, he had to maintain control because that's how it was with the press. Freedom of the press meant just that.
Finally they made the entrance to the building, where some uniformed police were holding the throng back. Aidan pushed his way through with his elbows and the two of them showed their badges and were let through.
"You still haven't told me how it went with the shrink," Lance said while they were making their way upstairs.
"Great," Aidan smiled. "I'm off the hook till next year. I told you that would happen. You owe me money."
"I still don't know why they haven't asked me about your madness." Lance raised his head. The prospect of going up so many stairs struck him as being too hard. "I'm your partner, the human being you spend most time with, given your pathetic social life. Nobody knows better than me how sick you are. I can assure you, if she asked me I'd put you in an institution for life. So you'd better pay me for my silence. I'm the one who should get paid for being your partner."
"Don't bet next time," Aidan said, his hand following the railing upstairs.
"I don't have any cash on board," Lance said opening his hands. "Let's do it this way. I'll pay you if you come along on Friday."
"We've already talked about that. It doesn't turn me on. I don't trust you."
"That's unfair," Lance said, offended. "I've been looking for the perfect woman for you. She's got the lot. Besides, she won't knock you back."
Aidan stopped on each step and stared back at Lance, leaning into his face. Lance pulled back each time, swallowing saliva.
"I'm not going to get involved in another one of your messes," Aidan said threateningly. "I don't even feel like hearing what you've arranged so that she won't reject me."
"It isn't what you think," Lance explained, raising his hands in an attempt to calm things down. "I can see that you're still too angry with that redhead, but I feel that mistake more than you do. This time will be different. She's perfect. Almost seven foot tall, like you. That's one reason why she won't reject you. Am I a genius or what? Do you know how difficult it is to find a woman that tall? Obviously, I haven't told her anything about you being mentally unbalanced. We'll keep that to ourselves."
"I'm not going to argue with you," Aidan said, turning and continuing up the stairs. "I'll find an excuse before Friday. And stop calling me unbalanced. I wouldn't exactly call you normal."
"I'm only trying to help you," Lance explained, panting. His legs felt as heavy as iron. "The first thing's to accept your problem, that's the only way to get over it. The mind is very delicate…" He paused as Aidan shot him a glance. "Very well, I'll stop, but only if you let me help you with the other problem. You've got to admit your social circle's the pits. You need a push. Besides you accepted the idea of going on Friday and I–"
"Ok, I'll go," Aidan cut in, realizing Lance wouldn't let up. "Now, enough of this crap." Lance had the smile of a winner written on his face even though he was puffing. "We're here," Aidan said, "and it's only the fifth floor. You look like you've run fifty miles. Why don't you spend more time burning fat than giving me a hard time?"
"It's my bad luck that the lift's out of order," Lance grumbled, running his hand over his stomach, promising himself he would lose weight. "Well, at least I get mine in now and again. You, with all those muscles of yours, you're hard pressed eating a chicken."
Aidan spun around and crossed his lips with his index finger.
Lance knew that he'd reached Aidan's edge of tolerance and backed off. He nodded and watched his partner walk to the door of Mrs Black's flat.
The flat was full of police and there were a few that Aidan didn't know. Some were taking samples, others looking for prints. Photographers were taking photos. Others were standing around drinking coffee and talking about what had happened as if the whole thing had been a scene from a new film. Inspector Wystan was frowning in the corner at something one of the pathology squad was telling him. To tell the truth, there was nothing strange about the scene. Just more police than normal, which Aidan imagined was because of the weird nature of the crime.
"Have you ever seen so many police?" Lance asked, looking around. "Seems like decapitations bring them out. It looks like an office party."
"I'll take a look at the body," Aidan said. "It looks like Mrs Black's in the kitchen. Go and find out."
"Somebody else's sure to have done that. I'd prefer to go with you."
"I want you to do it. The psychiatric team has no doubt been harassing the woman. They've probably already given her tranquillizers."
"I can see you don't have much time for our psychologists," Lance said, laughing. "Ok, I'll interrogate her but don't get used to giving me orders."
Aidan watched Lance disappear into the kitchen. He walked into the living room. The headless body was sprawled on the carpet, dressed in an elegant black suit. A pool of blood filled the space where the head should have been. Aidan observed that Mr Black had been very short, five foot six or less. He looked around the floor at the evidence of a fight. The furniture was broken and boxes were tossed everywhere.
He recognized Fletcher Bryce kneeling by the body. He was, in Aidan's opinion, one of the best pathologists, and had a lot of experience. He was sixty years old, and his propensity for getting into bad moods was his only defect.
"Seems like someone's lost his head," Aidan said, crouching down beside Fletcher, who was stretched out beside the body studying the cut on the neck. "A clean cut, don't you think?"
"Too good," the pathologist answered. "The head rolled over there by the wall. Maybe yours should be there too, Aidan. You know how many head jokes I've been listening to? Can't say you detectives are that original."
"I see you're still grumpy," Aidan said, extending his hand. The pathologist shook it with difficulty from the angle he was at. "Just as well you don't have to wait that long before you retire."
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