Like most policemen, Lestrade was convinced of his invulnerability. The lock took me six minutes, working entirely by touch and hearing. When it gave way, I turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door silently.
And stopped.
If it is difficult for a watcher to stand motionless, it is nearly impossible to remain utterly silent for more than a few seconds: the faint brush of clothing, the pull of breath through tense nostrils, the catch of air in the throat while the person tries to listen.
The hairs on my skin rose with the awareness of someone standing very close.
“Chief Inspector?” I said in a low voice.
A brief shift betrayed the other’s position. I said, “I apologise for the intrusion, but it was important that I speak with you unseen. This is Mary Russell.”
A sharp exhale of breath, the rustle of clothing, then the vestibule light blinded me.
I winced, and saw Lestrade: his thin sandy hair awry, his feet bare, in dressing gown and striped pyjamas, a cricket bat in his grip.
“I nearly took your head off,” he said furiously. His low voice told me that either there were others sleeping in the house, or he too feared discovery. At this point, it did not matter.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” I replied.
“Hardly evening. And what’s good about waking to find someone breaking into the house?”
“You said at my earliest possible convenience. Which this is. I didn’t want to wake your family.”
“You triggered an alarm.”
Perhaps I was hasty in judging Lestrade one of those too-confident policemen. “That note you left, at Mycroft’s,” I said. “Were you serious about withdrawing the warrants?”
He stared at me, shook his head in dismay, then leant the bat against the wall and stepped into a pair of beaten-down slippers left to one side. “Come in here, we can talk without disturbing my wife.”
“Here” was the kitchen, two steps down towards the garden. I eyed the window, decided that to worry about his neighbours playing host to villains was to court paranoia, and continued down the steps. He indicated a chair. I sat.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, filling the kettle at the tap.
“Yes.”
“Not been hiding out too badly, then?”
“Merely cautious. Were you serious-”
“Yes.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I didn’t like the idea of arresting you at a funeral. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced in the first place that the threat served any purpose. Tea, or coffee?” The gas popped into life under the kettle.
“Uh, tea, thanks.”
“Where’s your husband?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him in a week.”
He dropped into a hard kitchen chair, looking tireder than a night’s interrupted sleep could explain. “And Damian Adler?”
“Last I heard he was out of the country.”
“What about the child?”
“She is safe.”
His weariness snapped off. “You know where she is, then?”
“She’s safe,” I repeated, and before he asked again, I got in a question of my own, even though I was fairly certain of what the answer would be. “You’re not in charge of the investigation around Mycroft?” Extraordinary, how difficult it was to use the words
“No. I’m sorry, by the way.” He caught himself, and started again. “I mean to say, I was very sorry to hear of your loss. Mycroft Holmes was a fine man. He will be sorely missed. Which makes the whole thing all the harder.”
“What is that? Who’s in charge?”
“No one.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No one I know. It’s being kept in-house, you might say. Seems that Mycroft Holmes is too important for the grubby likes of Scotland Yard.”
I sat forward sharply. “Would you please explain?”
“I wasn’t on duty, Wednesday night. The man who was got the call at a quarter to midnight: man found dead in an alley. Gets dressed, goes with the car, arrives, and finds a man in a suit there before him, flashing the kind of identity card you can go your entire career without once seeing. This fellow hands over the papers found on the corpse, tells my colleague that Intelligence takes care of its own, and leaves. Taking the body with him. My fellow scratches his head, can’t think what to do about it, and goes back to his bed.”
“‘Intelligence takes care of its own’-that’s what he said?”
“The very words. I didn’t hear about it until the next day. When I did…”
The kettle had begun to boil. He stood and went to the stove, pulling down tea and pot, keeping his back to me. “I had him in for questioning, ten days ago-Mycroft Holmes, that is. The very next morning, his housekeeper is raising a stink because he’s not home. Nobody sees him for a week, until he’s found in an alleyway, then snatched away by someone flashing SIS papers. So I get on the telephone and start hunting down the body. Twenty minutes later, my chief comes in and orders me to stop.”
He finished making the tea in silence, fetched a bottle of milk in silence, brought two mugs to the table in silence.
I blew across the hot surface, thinking. Then: “Why were you at Richard Sosa’s flat?”
“Who?” His face showed a moment of incomprehension, followed by puzzlement, as if he’d recognised the name but couldn’t think why I had brought it up.
“Richard Sosa. In Mayfair? You left your card on the table?”
“I leave my card on a lot of tables. It’s a steady drain on the finances, it is.”
“But why were you there?”
“Oh, for-” He threw up his hands and reached for the sugar pot, flinging in two spoonsful, clearly irritated by a non sequitur. “He’s a government employee with a busybody of a mother who is friends with the sorts of people you might imagine, living in Mayfair as she does. She got all in a tizzy when little Dickie didn’t come home one night, and got onto the PM’s office and he himself rang to me-at home, mind you-the next morning asking if I’d do him a favour and look into this missing-person case. Ridiculous-and to top it off, the son hadn’t even been gone a day! But I went past on my way in, got the key from Mama, who lives upstairs, made sure her darling boy wasn’t lying in a puddle of blood, left my card on his table, and told her she could report him as a missing-person the next day. Friday. Two hours later I’m in my office after one of the most unpleasant meetings I’ve ever had and the telephone rings and it’s the butler-the butler!-ringing to say never mind, the boy’s home. Not even Mama herself, and nothing resembling an apology. Biddies like her cause us a lot of trouble. Now are you going to tell me why you want to know about him, or are we going to go on to another completely unrelated crime?”
“Richard Sosa is Mycroft’s
He stared at me. “Mycroft Holmes’ secretary?”
“His right-hand man. Which may be a better explanation of why you were asked to look into his disappearance than a mother’s connexions.”
“Jesus,” he said.
“You’re certain he was home on Thursday?”
“Like I said, the butler rang. I did then ring back the house-Mrs Sosa’s number-to make sure the call actually came from there. When the same voice answered, I let it go. Why, is he still gone?”
“I think someone broke into his house recently, causing him to panic and run.” I described briefly the
