I nodded to the uniforms. “Not for me to judge,” I said. “But I think you’ll have to delay that trip to the Bahamas.”
Breall was a quicker study than I thought. He whirled on Sally. “What trip?”
I played it innocent.
“Lois at the travel agency said that you would be gone for a month, right, Sally? A real gossip, Lois. She couldn’t understand why you’d be going by yourself.”
The uniforms grabbed Breall just as he lunged at her.
“That was dirty pool,” O’Brien said. We were at the local McDonald’s and O’Brien was on his second Big Mac and fries.
I’d ordered coffee and was nibbling on some of the fries out of his basket.
“Murder’s murder, whether Harrison was cheated out of two more days or another decade. Sally got impatient – she could see the best years of her life slipping by. Breall was a wild card. He was a recent hire and as the chauffeur probably had as much face time with Harrison as she did. She had a foolproof plan and enlisted Mike to cover all bases just in case.”
“Flimsy stuff,” O’Brien said around his hamburger. “It won’t stand up.”
I shrugged. “A lot of murder cases are made of flimsy stuff. But if they get off, they still won’t be a pair of happy campers. I suspect by now that love has turned pretty sour.”
O’Brien blinked owlishly at me.
“They’ll be at each other’s throats.”
I sprayed one of his fries with catsup.
“Ain’t that a shame,” I said.
BLIND EYES by
The first explosion came at midnight. No warning was given. Oxford Street was surprisingly busy at that time on a Saturday. People waited for buses, hovered for taxis, searched for somewhere to eat, headed for nightclubs or simply walked aimlessly along. Drunks relieved themselves in dark corners. A man with an accordion played evergreen favourites with fitful enthusiasm. A group of young women, fresh from a hen party, laughed and joked their way boisterously along the pavement. Curled up in sleeping bags, self-appointed tenants of the various shop doorways had already counted the day’s takings and turned in for the night. Two burly uniformed policemen studied the suits on display in
The explosion sounded far louder than it really was. It came from a card shop near Oxford Circus and terrified everyone within earshot. The plate glass window became a thousand deadly missiles that shot across the road. Cards were scattered everywhere. Those in the “Get Well Soon” rack were the first to ignite. Women screamed, men yelled, residents lifted bedroom windows or came dashing out of front doors. The two constables abandoned their shopping and ran towards the scene of the blast, one of them raising the alarm on his mobile while the other warned bystanders to keep well clear of the danger area. It seemed only minutes before police cars converged on Oxford Circus to investigate the crime and to control the gathering crowd. A fire engine arrived soon afterwards with an ambulance on its tail. The noise was deafening.
It was a scene that was repeated elsewhere in the city. A second bomb went off in the Euston Road, a third near Victoria Station and a fourth in Baker Street. No sooner had the emergency services reached one devastated area than another explosion was heard. Nor were the bombs confined to central London. Blackfriars, Belvedere, Chingford, Whitechapel, Pentonville, Clapham Common, Greenwich and other sites were targeted. The Metropolitan Police were at full stretch, the Fire Service pushed to the limit. Chaos reigned for hour after hour. The one consolation was that there seemed to be very few casualties.
At the height of the crisis, the biggest explosion of all went off in an electricity sub-station and the whole of the West End was suddenly blacked out. Panic spread uncontrollably. Older inhabitants were reminded all too vividly of the Blitz, younger people were convulsed with fear. Everyone rushed around wildly, wondering what was happening. A foreign invasion? A bombing campaign by Irish dissidents? A visit by aliens? The end of the world? It was only when dawn finally lifted the blanket of night that another crime was uncovered, a theft so shocking that it was totally impossible to believe even though the evidence was there for all to see.
Lord Nelson had been stolen from atop his column in Trafalgar Square. In his place, usurping his position of honour, gazing down Whitehall with a smile of triumph and outraging every true English patriot, was a huge statue of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Fluttering at his boots was a self-explanatory banner.
VIVE LA FRANCE!
Commander Richard Milton was not pleased to be hauled back from his holiday. His week in Cornwall had been curtailed before it had even begun and he was determined to make someone pay for his loss. With his wife’s complaints still ringing in his ears, he was flown back swiftly to London to take charge of an inquiry that was dominating the media like the outbreak of the Third World War. A tall, thin, angular man with a face like a Victorian poisoner, Dick Milton had the experience, the guile and the stamina to lead a large team of detectives in the investigation of what appeared to be a series of interrelated crimes. He got results. That was why he was chosen. When he worked in harness with his old friend, Detective Inspector Kenneth Hurrell, results tended to come quickly.
An incident room was set up in Scotland Yard. By the time that Milton came charging in, Hurrell had already been busy for hours.
“What the hell is going on, Ken?” demanded Milton.
“I wish I knew,” sighed Hurrell. “A series of bombs went off all over London last night. Soft targets. Extensive damage to property. Minor injuries but no fatalities. And then – this other bombshell!”
“Nelson can’t have
“He has, Commander.”
“How?”
“That’s the bit we haven’t worked out.”
“And is it true that someone else is up there?”
“Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Bloody hell!”
“The media are calling it a national scandal.”
“And that’s exactly what it is, Ken!” said Milton vengefully. “My holiday’s been ruined. Nothing could be more scandalous than that. I had strips torn off me when I left St Ives. You try telling your wife that she’ll have to manage without you while you go off in search of Nelson.”
“I’m not married, sir.”
