He nodded appreciatively. “I have no doubt of it.”
“I believe it inevitable and unavoidable, that perhaps the overwhelming crime rate of America is, after all, linked to the growing numbers who feel alienated in an increasingly technological age.”
“Hramm, interesting theory. I've heard it before, in fact.”
“Do you doubt it?” she pressed. “Not in the least, as one of many contributing factors, of course.” He then ruminated about England's growth and progress, slurring the two words as if they were dirty, saying, “Greater London has-the last I looked at figures-a population of 6,775,000.”
“As I said, crowded, most in ghettos.”
He ignored her, going on, “Birmingham has 1,004,000, Leeds 711,000, Sheffield 534,000, Glasgow 725,000, and Scotland's capital, Edinburgh 438,000; while the capital and largest city in Wales, Cardiff, has a population of 280,000.”
“You must have a photographic memory,” she replied.“I'm good with numbers. Photographic, I'm not so sure. At any rate,” he continued, “in between these larger urban areas, a host of small towns and villages-all having one main street and one main shopping area-now flourish and grow.”
Again the emphasis on “grow,” the way it rolled bitterly from his throat, seemed a sure sign of how Sharpe felt about urban sprawl. Jessica said, “I take it, you don't care for progress as it is typically defined?”
“Look at it this way. Since the late forties, say about 1946, some twenty-one new towns were established in England, five in Scotland, and two in Wales. Some two million live in these small communities. In Great Britain alone, some six million dogs and almost as many cats also live as household pets, all with little or no room to scratch much less grow. So you can well imagine how the people feel about one another.”
Jessica was about to reiterate her fear that violent crime in England would only increase when she found herself becoming lost in his powerful, potent, green-eyed stare, so instead she turned and studied the rolling green landscape below. The airplane began passing over great expanses of wheat fields, the number one crop in all of England. She marveled at the beauty unfolding beneath them.
Jessica could just make out the small white dots along all the hillsides, the countryside peppered with sheep and cattle. The land rose up a deep, plush carpet of green, a startlingly deep, abiding green that Jessica had never before seen.
TTiey were above and to the right of Southhampton, and soon after, they reached sight of the enormous city that had begun as a Roman seaport.
As they came within view of London's cathedrals, Jessica immediately made out the gargoyles. The cathedrals were littered with phallic-shaped gargoyles hanging far out over the pinnacles, some at heights no doubt impossible to make out from the ground. The whole effect made the city below appear almost hostile to those flying over, like a kingdom ever vigilant, ever expectant of enemies from without, ever ready for war. The buildings, taken as a whole, crafted a giant bed of nails in the gloom of twilight. Government buildings, castles, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, St. George's Cathedral, St. Martin's and others, all jutting skyward with their arrowlike turrets, shone beautiful in the fresh morning light. The River Thames ran through the city like a huge, lacy ribbon or like an uncoiled snake, depending upon one's mood.
Jessica's mood had come full circle. Her arrival in London filled her soul with excitement. From Heathrow Airport to downtown London, she had an opportunity to see the choking pollution, congested roads, ugly factories, and blighted areas of the city-the necessary evils upon which all bustling, great cities rest. Far from the splendid, rolling, and majestic hills of England she'd witnessed by air. However, in forty minutes, she and the others entered the frenetic downtown city, which was filled with history and cemeteries. It had been the home of such notables as Rudyard Kipling, Samuel and Ben Johnson, Charles Dickens, Daniel Defoe, Tennyson, Blake, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Carroll, Shakespeare, Disraeli, Churchill, Shaw, Newton, and Darwin-all men who had shed light onto the world. It had also been home to Jack-the-Ripper and other infamous killers.
She was “on the old sod” so to speak, and the official New Scotland Yard car, sent to greet them, traveled lanes that had been traveled by Boswell and Bacon, Raleigh and Drake, kings and queens, and so many others in history and literature. The place swept her imagination and played games with her heart.
“We're nearing the York at York's Gate, where you will be staying, Dr. Coran,” Richard Sharpe informed her. “We've got you a room there. It's central, close to the Yard, and coincidentally looks out over the Victoria Gardens Embankment where the first body was discovered.”
“All rather a neat package, all in the City,” added Copperwaite.
“The business district,” Sharpe clarified for her. “We will drop you at your hotel, allow you to settle in, and motor round to pick you up, say at eleven?”
“Where are you going?”
“As officers of Scotland Yard, we're duty-bound to report in before all else.” Sharpe then requested that the driver take Dr. Coran to the York by way of Savoy Place where a room awaited her arrival. But Jessica, seeing the now-famous revolving square sign that signaled New Scotland Yard headquarters, the modem structure at odds with all its ancient surroundings such as the Royal Horseguard and the Ministry of Defence, balked at separating so soon, saying, “No, I'd like to see what you have so far in your ready room before I go on to the hotel.”
“Ready room? Ahh, you mean our operations room-the ops! But really, we have so very little there,” apologized Copperwaite.
“You've seen the bulk of what we have in the files,” assured Sharpe.
“I want to have a look at the bodies as soon as possible, then.”
“It's rather early,” countered Sharpe, “and you must take into account jet lag. It was a long crossing. You may wish to acclimate to our-”
“I rested on the plane!”
“So you did. Yes, of course, then if you're sure…”
“I'm sure. Take me to your corpse,” she said, trying a joke to loosen Sharpe up a bit.
“That would be Chief Inspector Boulte.” Copperwaite quickly plugged into her joke with his own. “He's likely white as a corpse by now.”
Even the driver laughed at Copperwaite's remark.
“Well, yes,” agreed Sharpe, amused. “Likely pulled the few remaining hairs from his head since we left.” There was some disturbance at the parking lot entrance leading to the rear of the Yard, so Sharpe told the driver to let them off where they waited before the building. “Shall we alight here?” he suggested to Jessica, opening her car door.
Jessica wondered if the man had a rude bone in his body. He behaved far more like a choirboy than a cop. “So your Chief Inspector Boulte, I take is as his name implies-rather tightly wound? And from what I gather, he isn't so sure of my joining forces with the investigative team? Is that it?”
Copperwaite came around and joined them on the curb. “Wasn't all for it, calling in help from the colonies, you know,” he conspiratorially told Jessica.
“Has a hard time accepting the fact we lost the war to you Yanks. Asking for outside help, especially from Yanks, well, there you have it,” added Sharpe. “ 'Fraid I played a bit of a game with him. Gave the newshounds the impression he meant to seek out your help, you see, rather than it being my idea. He didn't care for the gesture, but it did assure us of getting you in on the case.”
She could not help but wonder about the twists and turns that had placed her here beside Richard Sharpe. Copperwaite added over her thoughts, “You can well imagine the sum total of collar work on Richard's part to bring this about, Dr. Coran.” Copperwaite then addressed his senior partner directly, adding, “Got your bloody neck in the harness now for it, Sharpie, and that's likely the only reason Boulte ever came round to the idea. Wants to tighten his reins on you, he does.”
“Quiet now, Stuart.”
“The man can be an absolute sticky wicket.”
“I said stuff it, Coppers.”
Copperwaite bit back his lip, his features taking on a more serious appearance, his hair still disheveled from the plane ride.
“Chief Inspector Boulte simply thinks of himself as above the salt,” Sharpe said in near apologetic tone to his partner.
“Aye, true.”
Jessica had no idea what they meant, and her eyes registered this fact with Sharpe, who added, “In olden
