“If you need a ride out of here later, sir,” the young armored car officer stated, “we’ll be happy to assist.”
“Thank you.” Hyde shook the young man’s hand. “Keep safe out there.”
The officer gave him a cheery thumbs-up. “Always.”
The doors of the armored car closed like some monstrous beast. Then they were off, streaking for the exit.
“If you’ll follow me, sir.”
Hyde fell in with the group waiting for him. Even though they fairly bristled with weapons, the men of the group were wary.
Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous parking garage. They took a flight of steps down to the next level. Guards stood at attention in front of the opening. Bright light blazed through the doorway.
“Detective Chief Superintendent to see Dr. Smithers,” one of the men announced.
The guard glanced over Hyde’s ID and handed it back. He nodded. A half-healed wound tightened his left cheek and promised a terrible scar in the future. If the man lived to see it.
Hyde had to blink several times as he entered the makeshift morgue. The lights were incredibly bright. He felt the heat from them, too. The warmth seemed to intensify the smell of death that permeated the room as well. Despite his years of experience with the Metropolitan Police Service, Hyde felt almost unnerved and queasy. He parted his lips and breathed through his mouth to lessen the stench. It didn’t help much.
Several steel tables had been brought into the garage area, but even as many as there were, there were several body bags around as well. They lay stacked like cordwood, awaiting their final fate.
What are we going to do when we run out of body bags? Hyde wondered. Two weeks ago, he would have been shocked and slightly sickened that he’d even thought such a question. Tonight, however, he realized that it was a real concern.
Dr. Smithers was in his sixties, a withered bone of a man with ill-fitting false teeth and deep eye sockets. The heavy magnification of the lenses made his eyes appear too big for his skull. He wore white scrubs streaked with blood.
“’Ello, Alf.” Smithers spoke in a whispery, sandpaper voice. “I ’eard you ’ad a close call on the way over.”
“A bit. None the worse for wear. It happens often enough now that I don’t think about it much after it’s over.” That wasn’t exactly true. He had nightmares nearly every time he slept. Hyde offered his hand.
Smithers held up both of his. His gloves were covered with blood and gore. “Not a moment for niceties, I’m afraid.”
Hyde dropped his hand back at his side. “You sent for me.”
“I did.” Smithers waved Hyde over to a body against the wall.
The body was different from most of the others. This one had on the strange armor of the men who’d helped out when the British military had faltered in the streets.
And who had died by the hundreds at St. Paul’s Cathedral just a few days ago, Hyde reminded himself.
Another man stood by the table where the dead man lay. The man was in his late thirties or perhaps early forties, tanned and fit. He wore a turtleneck, slacks, and a trench coat. His head was smooth-shaven and so was his jaw. Black-lensed sunglasses covered his eyes.
Hyde stared at the man, awaiting introduction. After a moment, he decided that Smithers wasn’t going to give it. He held out a hand and announced his name.
The man made no move to take Hyde’s hand. His face remained neutral. He said, “We’re aware of who you are, Chief Superintendent.”
Feeling foolish, Hyde withdrew his hand. “Who are you?”
“No one you need to trouble yourself with.”
“Then maybe you’d like to wait upstairs.”
The man smiled at that. “I think not.”
Hyde glanced at Smithers.
“’E won’t give me ’is name either,” the coroner said. “But ’e’s some kind of ’igh muckety-muck. ’E’s got a letter from the prime minister’s office what says so.”
“I have…connections,” the man said. He focused his sunglasses on Hyde. “I was told you could identify this man.”
Despite his anger, Hyde’s attention was drawn to the dead knight on the table. Why would anyone think that he knew—
But he did know the dead man. That stunned the chief superintendent into silence for a moment.
“Do you know him?”
Hyde nodded. “I do.”
“And he is?”
“Thomas Cross.” It was hard to recognize Cross in the shape he was in, but the features were remarkable, not overly handsome, but definitely a man Hyde remembered. Cross looked like he’d been parboiled. His flesh was ready to fall off the bone.
“Who’s Thomas Cross?”
“A man I got to know in connection with a bit of investigating I did.”
“You arrested his son for base-jumping two years ago.”
That surprised Hyde, too. He wondered where the man was getting his information. “I did. For base-jumping from Big Ben.”
“That’s how you got to know Thomas Cross and his son Simon?”
“Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“What do you know about the father and son?” the man interrupted.
Hyde curbed a sharp rebuke. As chief superintendent he wasn’t used to being treated in such a cavalier fashion. He took in a deep breath and let it out. “Nothing.”
The man didn’t say a thing, but even his silence was insulting.
“The fine was paid,” Hyde said. “The young man did his community service. Then he got out of town.”
“Out of London, you mean?”
“Yes.” Hyde didn’t know how much clearer he could be. “But not before he staged another jump from the Tower of London. Right before he caught the train. Before we could put a hold on the flight, he was gone. He was cheeky.”
“Where did he go?”
“Who?”
“Simon Cross.”
“South Africa. Cape Town, I think.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure Simon Cross went to South Africa?”
“Yes. His father”—Hyde nodded at the corpse—“asked me to facilitate things for his son.”
“Why?”
“There was some problem with the son’s passport.”
“What
