The Brothers of Baker Street (24 page)

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Reggie entered a small pub on Fenchurch Street, looking for Emma Swoop.

He had called her as he left Baker Street Chambers, using the number from the
TELL EMMA SWOOP
hotline that had been appearing in adverts on pretty much every double-decker in London in recent months.

The number went to a calling service, of course, but he was put through immediately when he gave his name, and then Emma herself picked up the line, quite pleasantly. And eagerly—like a young and energetic spider with a fly tripping on its web.

This pub was her suggestion—a location far enough from both Wapping and Fleet Street that they could meet without necessarily every other reporter in the city knowing about it. She always protected her sources, she said, and for the moment Reggie had allowed her to believe that he was about to become one and that they would be talking about him and what he knew, rather than—so far as he was concerned—the other way around.

And besides, she said, she had skipped breakfast, was starving for it, and this pub served it late into the day.

Reggie found her in a back booth.

She smiled broadly and pushed aside an empty plate as Reggie approached. He caught the scent of bangers and stewed tomatoes.

“Very nice to see you again, Mr. Heath.”

Reggie paused, still standing, and looked about. “No photographer this time, I trust?”

“Of course not.”

He sat down opposite her in the booth.

“I have a letter I’d like to show you,” said Reggie. “And then I have a question to ask.”

“I have some questions as well,” she said.

“No promises regarding that,” said Reggie, “but in return for answering my question, I’ll show you a letter.”

“The letter first, then,” she said.

Reggie took the tip letter—the one written to Sherlock Holmes—out of the pocket of his mac and put it on the table in front of Emma Swoop. Then he sat back to watch her reaction.

She began reading. Her eyes widened, and she read it again from the beginning.

Then she put her hand to her mouth, as if to stifle a laugh. She looked up at Reggie with amusement.

“You make my job much too easy. So now you’re actually getting tip letters people write to Sherlock Holmes? And about your own cases?”

She took out a pen and began to scribble a note for herself.

“Not necessarily,” said Reggie. “Perhaps just a tip letter from someone who knows that if she sends it to Sherlock Holmes, I will receive it.”

Emma stopped scribbling.

“She?”

“A guess.”

“Fine, I’ll take your word for it. Anyone specific in mind?”

Reggie gave her the straight-on look he used for grilling a hostile witness.

“Did you write it?”

She laughed.

“Why on earth would you think I wrote it?”

“Three reasons. First is that you have an interest in stirring things up.”

“Nonsense. People do gobs of stupid things all on their own—you included. I find it quite unnecessary to encourage anyone.”

“Second reason is that you know my chambers address receives letters sent to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Tons of people know that.”

“Yes, because you told them all in the
Daily Sun.
”

“Right, it’s my job. So what? Point still is, tons of people know.”

“Third reason is that your stories in the
Daily Sun
show more knowledge of the crime than anyone else’s. And you made deadlines the other papers missed.”

“Thank you. I do try.”

“It almost seems you’ve had knowledge of the crimes before they occur.”

She gave a derisive laugh at that.

“It might seem. But I haven’t though, have I? I’d have a duty to report it if I had. But I only learn about them after. It’s a big difference, knowing after and knowing before.”

“But to know so soon after, you must have an informant.”

She shrugged.

“Who is it?” said Reggie.

“I’m not saying I’ve got an informant, but if I have, I’ve no obligation to reveal him, her, or it.”

Reggie shifted fully into his barrister mode.

“This has got nothing to do with your bloody rights as a member of the bloody press. This is not a corporate whistle-blower or a government informant exposing what needs to be to the light of day. This has to do with murder and you wanting to scoop the competition and make a reputation.”

She bridled at that, and Reggie could see her searching for a defense.

“I take it you have a problem with ambitious women?”

“No,” said Reggie, “I do not.” But he decided to throttle it back a bit; he would get nothing if all he did was make her angry.

“I imagine you get fan mail,” he said.

She hesitated.

“I do,” she said after a moment.

“Fans who are so enthused about you that their life’s ambition is to send you something that shows up in a story with your byline?”

“Occasionally. It’s no secret; I’m sure you’ve seen my advert.”

“Fan mail about your Black Cab series?”

She sat back in the booth and was silent for just a moment. Reggie knew he was guessing near the mark.

“All right,” she said. “A little over two months ago I saw in the police blotter that a woman was drugged and fondled in the back of a Black Cab—by the driver. I thought it was a hot story, and I wrote it up right. A week after that story came out, I got a letter saying how wonderful it was and to keep up the good work, that the Black Cabs are overrated and an actual menace, and offering to help in any way possible. Which was a bit weird, but only a bit, compared to other stuff I get. And I thought that was all there was to that.

“But a few days after that fan letter I got an anonymous call, saying the police are on a robbery involving a Black Cab at Piccadilly. I got there straightaway, and sure enough, there has been a robbery, the police are there, and the victim is saying that the perpetrator was a Black Cab driver. I was the only reporter on the scene; I got good stuff that didn’t get broadcast over the police radio, and so I had the best story and the
Daily Sun
gave it plenty of space the next day.”

“Did you bother to wonder at all about the tip you received?”

“Not a bit. It could have been anyone at the scene: one of the local shopkeepers; bystanders in the street; someone passing by in a double-decker.”

“But then it happened again after that, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And then, again,” said Reggie. “The murder on Lots Road in Chelsea. Another lucky tip from a bystander?”

“People read the paper. They know who to call when they see something happening. Nothing unusual about that.”

“It was a different person that called each time, then?”

The reporter hesitated, shifting uneasily. If it was the same person, she won’t want to admit it, thought Reggie. She probably hadn’t even admitted it to herself yet. It was one thing to have a Deep Throat contact embedded in a political scandal. It was quite another if the contact was a participant in bloody street crimes.

“As I said, the calls were anonymous,” Emma offered, sounding defensive.

“But was it the same voice each time?” said Reggie.

“What if it was? It could have been a bloody cop calling for all I knew. They leak things. They have their reasons.”

“Not on Wembley’s team,” said Reggie. “So—was it the same voice each time?”

“I don’t know. What bloody difference does it make?”

“The fan letter was the first step in encouraging you to give the Black Cab crimes a high level of coverage,” said Reggie. “All the anonymous tips that followed were to make sure that you kept doing so, and they’re all coming just a bit too early.”

“What are you accusing me of? You seriously think both the fan letter and the anonymous tips were from someone involved in the crime?”

“Yes. Exactly that. And it’s tit-for-tat: You receive the tips because your publisher gives the Black Cab crimes maximum coverage. I don’t know why someone wants to do that, but I know it’s what’s happening.”

“I don’t know that at all,” said Emma.

“All right, then. Here’s the other piece of information I have for you. You can confirm it with Wembley later, if you like; I spoke to him a few hours ago when I got out.”

Emma interrupted so eagerly that Reggie thought she must surely have a recorder running in her purse. “How did it feel being on the other side of the law—being in jail for the first time? This
was
your first time, right?”

“Nice try,” said Reggie. “As I was saying, Wembley’s forensics team has determined that the most recent Black Cab victim—the one that was thrown over the bridge—was not killed by brute force, as were the American couple. It was a gunshot, a single gunshot to the back of the head. Which makes my dead client not a good suspect at all. And although the clothes of the victim would indicate stockbroker or financial analyst or some other wealthy punter, his hands were as calloused as a dockworker’s, and there is every indication that he was dressed in his expensive suit
after
he was killed.”

“That’s absurd,” said Emma. “Why would anyone even try to create a frame that would so surely be disproved by forensics?”

“Obviously no one would,” said Reggie. “It’s not a frame for a conviction, it’s not a frame done for the consumption of the police or the legal system at all because, as you said, they would surely discover it, as they have done. So it’s a frame for a very short-term goal, and since it’s not a frame for the police, the only other possibility is that it’s a frame for the press.”

Emma looked back at Reggie for a long moment. Then—

“So you’re saying I’m being played?” she said.

“I’m saying you can join the club.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. Then she sighed and looked again at the letter Reggie had placed on the table.

“You showed me this on the record,” she said. “That was the deal. So now I get to tell the world that you got suckered by a tip letter written to Sherlock Holmes?”

“Go ahead. At the moment, it’s the least of my worries.”

She laughed slightly, and then pushed the letter back at him. “The anonymous calls are from the same person each time—I think. It’s hard to be sure; whoever it is speaks through something to muffle his—or her—voice. But sounds the same each time.”

“You say the fan letter was two months ago?”

“Yes,” she said.

Reggie considered that. It meant the fan letter had probably been sent just before Nigel’s therapy group at Bath was disbanded.

“No return address on the letter, I presume?” said Reggie.

“Of course not. ”

“A postmark?”

“Yes, I did check for that. The postmark was for Bath.”

“Does that location mean anything to you?” asked Reggie.

“Well, it’s rather a large area, isn’t it?”

“True. Are you familiar with the Mental Health and Recovery Center at Bath?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “Are you looking for a recommendation?”

Reggie ignored that. “Do you know a man named Trimball?”

She paused just for a moment before answering. Then she said, “Heath … do you have any idea how many names of people and places I cycle through in a year? I can go back and check my files, but—”

“All right,” said Reggie. “‘Dr. Dillane’—does that name mean anything?”

“I think I’ve heard mention from some paparazzi acquaintances. Not sure of the context though. I can give you their names, if you’re willing to go near them.”

Reggie considered that. He nodded noncommittally. Then he pretended to check his watch. He paid the bill and got out of the booth to leave. “Thank you for your help.”

She slid quickly out of the booth as well, clearly sensing a new story.

“You have a postmark and now you’re off? It tells you that much?”

“No, not by itself.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said, following along as Reggie went out to the street.

“Not likely. I’m not that foolish,” said Reggie. “But if you need a ride, I can drop you before I leave the city.”

“Never mind then,” she said. “Thanks for showing me the letter. It might be worth a paragraph or two on page six.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” said Reggie.

Reggie walked around the corner toward his car. As he did, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw the reporter getting into a Black Cab.

Reggie drove out of the city on the M4, checking carefully at first to see that Emma Swoop had not waited to follow him in her cab.

Apparently she had not. But with cabs looking so much alike, it could be hard to tell.

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