How ironic, he thought. The one night I let my hair down and this happens! No one who knew Jack Tyler would have described him as a party animal. And yet he had partied with the best of them last night, celebrating a friend’s fortieth birthday. It had been a crazy affair, and he had lingered to the very end, safe in the knowledge that today was his day off so he could sleep in until late morning, or early afternoon, if he wanted to – and he really wanted to.
That was clearly not meant to be.
As he stood in the shower cubicle, its powerful jet bombarding his tired limbs with steaming hot water, he gradually began to feel more human. He remained there for several minutes, allowing the scalding water to work its magic until he felt able to face the day ahead. As a token protest at being called in on his day off, he decided not to bother shaving, even though with two days’ worth of growth already covering his face, he knew he really ought to have made the effort. Jack vigorously towelled himself dry, wondering how badly the call to duty would interfere with his plans for the day. Talk about bad timing! Today was his mother’s sixtieth birthday, and his father had arranged a surprise dinner party to celebrate the event. The entire clan was under strict instruction to attend – come hell or high water. He didn’t dare miss it; his absence would break her heart. And dad, who had gone to such efforts, not only to organise the get-together but also to keep it a secret, would never forgive him. Whatever else happened today, Jack promised himself, he would be there for his family.
Precisely twenty minutes after receiving the unwanted telephone call, Jack Tyler stood in the kitchen finishing off the last of his coffee and toast, which had been hurriedly prepared and hastily consumed. As he put the crockery in the dishwasher the doorbell rang half a dozen times in quick succession. Tyler opened the street door and scowled unwelcomingly, only to have a folded newspaper thrust in his face. “Aren’t you a little old to have a paper round?” he asked, snatching the paper from his caller’s outstretched hand.
“If my boss paid me more, I wouldn’t need to,” Detective Inspector Tony Dillon said.
“If I had my way, I wouldn’t pay you at all,” Tyler growled. “Ringing my doorbell like a bloody debt collector! What will my neighbours think?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Dillon said lightly. “From what I hear, they don’t like you much, anyway.”
“Ha, ha,” Tyler said, tossing the Sunday paper onto a kitchen worktop. He doubted that he’d get the chance to read that today. He returned to the hall, where he scooped up his warrant card, mobile phone, and keys from a small table.
“Bloody hell, Jack! You look rough,” Dillon said. “What time did you get to bed last night?”
“The problem’s not what time I went to bed last night, it’s the ungodly time that I had to get up today!” Tyler complained.
Sometimes Dillon had to remind himself that Jack Tyler was not only one of the Metropolitan Police’s youngest DCIs, he was also one of their most respected homicide detectives. Standing there, unshaven, with his short brown hair uncombed, his collar sticking up on one side and his shirt hanging out on the other, and looking as though he needed at least another four hours of sleep, Tyler more closely resembled a vagrant than a top-notch detective. “So, tell me. Are you deliberately trying to get yourself known as Britain’s answer to Columbo?”
“What?”
“It’s just that you’re not wearing a tie today, and your suit is all creased like you haven’t hung it up since the last time you wore it, and you haven’t shaved or combed your hair. Oh – and your shoes could do with a polish,” Dillon explained. “Apart from that, you look very presentable.”
Tyler had five off the peg suits that he rotated, whereas Dillon was renowned for his immaculate appearance and his expensive taste in clothes. He had arrived at Jack’s house looking resplendent in a charcoal two-piece Pierre Cardin suit, a crisp white T.M. Lewin shirt, and a red silk tie. The decorative silk hanky protruding from his top pocket was folded to perfection, despite the early morning call, and his gold cufflinks and diamond studded tiepin shined as though they had just been polished – as did his shoes.
“You’re very observant. I can see why you chose to become a detective. So what if I’m not wearing a tie and my suit is a little creased. Who cares?” Jack had a tie in his pocket, which he planned to put on as soon as they got to work, but he was damned if he was going to tell Dillon that.
“I do,” Dillon said, “You look scruffy, like Columbo, only worse.”
“I look fine.”
“I bet you haven’t even looked in the mirror today,” Dillon chided, shaking his head in disappointment. “You could’ve at least combed your hair. I’m sure you do it just to spite me. Well, I’m not being seen in public with you looking like that.”
With a sigh that signalled defeat, Tyler briskly ran his fingers through his still wet hair, working it into something resembling order. “Have you arranged for an exhibits officer to go to the scene yet?” he asked, pulling out his tie.
“Of course,” Dillon said.
“And the group pager message?”
“Sent. I’ve said there will be a briefing at HT at nine o’clock.” HT was the phonetic code for Whitechapel police station.
“Good.” Jack turned away from the hall mirror and faced Dillon. “Happy now?” he demanded somewhat petulantly.
“It’s a bit better. Pity about the stubble though,” Dillon said as he pulled Jack’s collar down for him and straightened the knot of his tie. Unlike Tyler, Dillon wouldn’t dream of going to work unshaven, unless he was on a stakeout
