James studies himself in the ridiculously large mirror hanging opposite his bed. He doesn't often have visitors to his flat. Any inquisitive souls who peek into his bedroom invariably comment on the mirror, making jokes about ego or sex (or both). They couldn't be further from the truth. Pride is one of his besetting sins, but in the form of intellectual vanity, not physical. As for lust... there's been very little of that in his bed, and for years now, only of the solitary sort.
The mirror serves a more important purpose. Every morning before work, James inspects himself, checking that the back of his suit jacket looks smooth and even, with no unsightly bumps from the corset-like binder that keeps his wings hidden under his clothing. Once, when he was still a DC, he'd overslept. In his haste, he'd dressed quickly, and forgot to check himself before leaving the flat. His appearance had sparked countless jokes about Quasimodo and Young Frankenstein's Igor. He hadn't been able to use the excuse of scoliosis that got him through school and university, as that condition didn't appear on his official medical records. He'd made up some bollocks about bad sunburn and needing gauze padding to keep the burn ointment from staining his shirt.
Since that disastrous day, James has never forgotten his morning inspection. Over the years, it's become an ingrained habit, like cleaning his teeth and straightening his tie. Today, he scrutinises himself with greater care than usual. This is his first day back to work after a two-week holiday on an island so remote and isolated that he'd felt safe leaving his wings unbound for the entire time. He'd even dared fly for the first time in years without fearing that he'd wind up as a front-page photo on some sleazy tabloid. He doesn't think that a fortnight of freedom is long enough to undo the discipline of years, but he takes the time to be certain.
He makes a point of arriving early. He's already checked his email and phone messages, but there'll be a small mountain of paperwork waiting on his desk. When he enters the office, Lewis is there, looking at his own mountain with philosophical resignation. "Good morning, sir."
"Morning, James. Did you have a good holiday? Oi! Set that over there." This last is addressed to DC Richardson, who is toting a large evidence box.
"Very relaxing, thanks," James replies, as if they haven't spent the past fortnight together. "And you?"
"Not bad. There was a bloke in the next room who liked to play his guitar late at night. Fortunately, I remembered to bring me ear plugs."
James acknowledges the jape with a soft snort. "What's in the box, sir?"
"A cold case. Thought we might look it over, since we've nothing fresher on our plate at the moment."
After an hour of sifting through interview transcripts, James decides that he needs a break. His back and shoulders feel unusually stiff. Getting away from his desk for a while may help. He rises, catching Lewis's eye. "Going for coffee, sir. Can I bring you anything?"
Lewis dismisses him with a distracted shake of his head. If he's noticed that James is sirring him more often than usual, he doesn't say anything about it. In the months before their visit to Araney, James learned to switch smoothly between work mode and casual mode: working with his governor, DI Lewis, and then relaxing with his best mate, Robbie. It's a balancing act. The past fortnight, though, has knocked him a little off-balance. Just as he kept his wings unbound all the time during their holiday, he kept his tongue unrestrained, teasing Robbie as he would an equal. Until they get back into the normal rhythm of their relationship, James needs to be extra careful about workplace propriety. It would be a nightmare if he slipped up and called his governor 'Robbie' in front of the Chief Super, or worse yet, the junior officers on their team.
Down in the canteen, James gets a few friendly nods and casual greetings. He's standing at the condiments counter, adding milk to his extra-large coffee when he hears, "Hey, Sarge. Welcome back." He looks up to see DC Gurdip Sohal smiling at him. "Have a good holiday?"
"Yeah, I did, thanks. I was... erm... in Scotland. The Hebrides. Did a bit of hiking. Very relaxing."
Behind him a familiar voice exclaims, "Look out, boys! Mind your Ps and Qs—the Sarge is back."
James turns, suppressing a sigh. "Hooper."
"Couldn't help overhearing, Sarge. You do any grouse shooting up there?"
Isn't that what you poshos do on holiday? James translates. In the past, he would have replied in his most supercilious tone that grouse season didn't begin until the 'Glorious Twelfth' of August. "I prefer watching birds to shooting them," he says mildly. He remembers following a hunting kestrel as it glided in circles over the island. He remembers springing into the air to chase a startled seagull that tried to steal his lunch, to the accompaniment of indignant squawks and Robbie's howls of laughter. He remembers soaring high above the Atlantic, and seeing a flock of gannets below him dive into the water at alarming speed, like a bombing raid. One after another, and sometimes several at once, they made metre-high fountains of spray as they hit the water at 100 kph.
Hooper is staring at him. Has he got milk foam on his chin or something? Not likely. Gurdip would have said something. James realises that he's smiling at his memories of Araney Island. "Bird watching," he says, as if confiding an important secret of life. "Entertaining and educational. You should try it some time, Hooper." With a polite nod for the two DCs, he heads back to the office.
How would Hooper react, James wonders, if he told the full truth about his bird-watching? Not that he would ever do something so foolhardy, but for once, the thought fills him with amusement instead of dread.
And so the day continues: paperwork interspersed with welcomes of varying degrees of enthusiasm. Innocent appears to remind Lewis about some forms that are due in two days. She pauses to ask if they enjoyed their holidays.
"Yes, ma'am," they chorus.
"Good. You both look well-rested and ready to put the fear of God into the criminal population of Oxford." With an approving nod, she sweeps out of the room, off to chivvy some other unsuspecting coppers.
After lunch, Dr Hobson pops in. "Welcome back. Look at you, Robbie, all fit and tanned—even the good sergeant is a darker shade of pale. Did you have fun?"
Lewis answers for both of them. "We did, thanks. Nice place. Hathaway's got some pictures on his phone."
"Including one of him sunbathing," James tells her in a conspiratorial whisper.
"I was not sunbathing! I was resting, and I fell asleep on the lounger."
Hobson chuckles. "Email it to me, James. I need new wallpaper for my computer."
A glare from his governor warns James of the many creative ways that Lewis can make his life a misery.
"I brought you a souvenir, Laura," Lewis says, "but now I'm not sure you deserve it."
"If it's a tartan tea-cosy or a teddy bear playing the bagpipes, I'll live with the disappointment."
Lewis removes a plastic carrier bag from his lower desk drawer. And opens it just enough for Hobson to see the contents. James can't see from this angle, but he knows what it contains: a tasting set of whiskies from Hebridean distilleries.
"You're forgiven," Hobson says promptly. She looks at her watch. "Sorry, I've an inquest at half two."
"Murder?" James asks.
The pathologist shakes her head. "Natural causes—and some family members who are certain the much younger second wife did him in. There will be drama worthy of a soap opera." She gives the carrier bag a meaningful glance. "These may be empty by morning. Thanks again, Robbie. James, good to see you looking so well."
With no active case, they finish up for the day at a civilised hour. James says 'yes' to a pint after work, 'no' to dinner together. Balance. Lewis nods, looking neither disappointed nor relieved. Even best mates need time apart. "See you in the morning, James."
Morning comes earlier than expected. At 5:03 James's phone chimes. It's Lewis, telling him that they've caught a case. "I'll be at yours to pick you up in fifteen minutes."
James switches on his bedside lamp. He reaches for the clothing he'd laid out the night before. He pulls on briefs and trousers, sighs, and reaches for his wing binder. Holiday's over, he reminds himself. Time to get to work.
The crime scene is near a rubbish skip behind a florist shop. Dr Hobson is kneeling beside the body. Instinctively, James notes the details: female, mid-twenties. Floral print dress and a pale green jacket. Pink sandals. A pink and green handbag lies a few feet away, its contents scattered across the cobblestones of the alley. A robbery gone wrong?
If the motive is uncertain, the method is unmistakable. Half of the woman's face is bashed in, presumably by the blood-stained piece of lumber that one of the SOCOs is photographing.
"Morning, Laura. What have we got?"
Hobson looks up. "Hello, Robbie. Sergeant. Blunt force trauma to the head, some time between 7 and 8 last night. I'll know more when I do the post mortem, but I'm not expecting any surprises. No defensive wounds. No signs of sexual assault. Someone just walked up to Jenna Brimley and hit her in the face with a piece of wood." She holds up a plastic evidence bag containing a pink nylon wallet. "Identification, credit card, and bank card still inside, but no cash. No mobile. Judging by the tan lines on her left wrist, she was in the habit of wearing a watch; I don't know if its absence means it was stolen or if she didn't put it on yesterday."
"Odd place for a robbery," Lewis says. "What was she doing back here?"
"I'm reasonably certain she wasn't dragged by force. The other possibilities I leave to you."
"Perhaps she worked in the florist's?" James suggests.
Laura shakes her head. "The owner found her. He's never seen her before."
Lewis takes another careful look at the dead woman, and something causes his brows to crease. "And it's an odd sort of robber who leaves jewellery behind." He gestures at the chain hanging beneath the neckline of Jenna Brimley's bloodspattered dress.
James reaches out a gloved hand and gently lifts the chain. He squints at the tiny locket hanging from it. "Gold... and possibly an antique."
Lewis squints at the locket. "He apparently took her watch. Why leave the necklace behind?"
"It would have been dark here. The security light by the back door of the florist's doesn't reach this far. Either he didn't see it, or something spooked him, and he took what he already had and ran."
"Could be," Lewis replies, but the crease in his forehead says he's not convinced.
Jenna's parents are brought down to the morgue to identify their daughter. Dr Hobson arranges the body so that the intact side of the head is facing the viewing window, with the worst injuries covered by a strategically-draped sheet. Petra Brimley gasps and begins to weep. Her husband Nathan turns to embrace her, as much for his own comfort, James thinks, as for his wife's. When the initial shock is over, he leads them to the interview room where Lewis is waiting to take their statements.
The interview offers nothing surprising and nothing helpful. Jenna was a good girl, not wild like some. Everyone liked her. She got along well with her flatmate and at work. They can't imagine who would want to hurt her. It's heartbreaking (or would be if he allowed it). At the end of the interview, a SOCO comes in with a white plastic carrier bag. He hands it to Lewis silently and departs.
Lewis holds out the bag to the Brimleys. "These are your daughter's belongings. They've been checked for fingerprints and suchlike, and we don't need them any longer for evidence."
Petra takes the bag. She pauses before reaching inside, as if the contents might bite. The first item is the pink and green handbag. Its contents, including the pink wallet, are neatly tucked inside. The next item is enclosed in a small resealable bag. "Oh!" Petra stares, transfixed at the gold locket. "Oh... I never... oh, God!" She bursts into tears. Her husband pulls her close, and she buries her face in his shoulder.
"It belonged to Petra's gran," Nathan Brimley explains. "We gave it to Jenna for her 18th birthday. Meant a lot to her, being a family heirloom and all. She hardly ever took it off."
"I'd throw it into the river in a heartbeat if that would bring her back to us," Petra says.
Nathan strokes his wife's head. "I know, my love. I know."
She disentangles herself from her husband's arms and looks again into the white bag.
"Is there something missing, Mrs Brimley?" Lewis asks.
"It's silly..."
"You'd be surprised how often little things can be important," James tells her. "Inspector Lewis once caught a murderer because there was a cup of tea with milk on the kitchen table, and the victim never drank it that way."
"Jenna's watch isn't here."
"What sort of watch did she wear?" Lewis asks.
"It was one of those slappy watches," Petra Brimley replies. "A knock-off she got at Camden Market in London."
Lewis looks at James for a translation. "A digital watch with a removable face. You can buy a set that comes with an assortment of plastic wristbands in different colours."
Petra smiles. "She bought it right after she got her certificate for the office administration course. It came with seven straps, one for each day of the week. Jenna loves—loved bright colours." She blinks rapidly.
"Thank you, Mrs Brimley," James says. Lewis hands her his card, and after the usual assurances, they see themselves out. Within minutes, they're back in the car, en route to Jenna Brimley's flat.
"So... how much does a watch like that go for?" Lewis asks.
"Under twenty pounds, if it's a cheap imitation. And a pawnshop would pay next to nothing." James shrugs. "If she was wearing it, perhaps the killer just fancied the look of it. A gift for his girlfriend?"
Lewis grunts, acknowledging the possibility. The rest of the short drive is spent in silence. Maybe DI Lewis is thinking about the case. Maybe Robbie, the dad, is thinking about his own daughter. Maybe it's a little of both. James stares out the window at the bustling streets of Oxford.
The interview with Imogen Cooper, Jenna's flatmate, is like the same song transposed into a different key. Jenna paid her share of the rent on time, did her share of the cleaning. "She was a good person. She had her faults, but she was a good person." She paces the small rectangle of grass. They're conducting the interview in the garden while the SOCOs search the flat.
"What were her faults?" Lewis asks, with just the right note of casual curiosity.
Imogen looks wary. "Nobody's perfect," she protests.
"Of course not. We're only trying to get a clear picture of Jenna, the kind of person she was. That may help us to understand how this happened."
James nods in solemn accord with his governor. Nil nisi bonum is not the motto of any halfway-competent detective.
"Sometimes, she was too honest. She said what was on her mind, even if it would have been better to keep her gob shut. I don't mean that she was nasty-mouthed, just... she didn't always think before she spoke. She cared about people, about being fair. One time we were in HMV, looking for the new Florence and the Machine, and she saw a big yob jump the queue in front of an old lady. A sensible person would've said nothing, or fetched a security guard. Jenna marched right over and told him off." Imogen sighs. "She didn't shout, didn't curse, just told him that he ought to be ashamed of pushing ahead of a woman old enough to be his granny. That it was unfair and it made him look weak and stupid."
James winces. "What happened?"
"He called her some names I don't like to repeat, threw his CDs on the counter, and walked out of the shop. Happy ending, but it could have gone bad, really bad, yeah? Only she didn't see that."
It could have gone very badly indeed, James thinks. Is that what happened last night? Did Jenna speak her mind to the wrong person?
"Inspector?" One of the SOCOs is hovering by the gate. Lewis beckons him over. The man produces an evidence bag. The contents look like a garish neon rainbow. Plastic watch straps. There are six of them.
What did the mother say? A set of seven? "Imogen, do you know which strap is missing?"
She frowns at the bag. "There ought to be a green one."
"Thanks." That fits. Jenna was wearing a green and pink outfit, and obviously liked her accessories to be colour-coordinated.
Lewis asks about their social life. Were they friends as well as flatmates?
They went to clubs together sometimes. No, not lately, because Imogen has a new boyfriend, and Jenna isn't—wasn't—seeing anyone. Not since June, when she broke up with Fish.
"Fish?" James asks.
"His real name is Tim, but everyone calls him Fish. I don't know why. Some kind of joke." Imogen's eyes widen. "You don't think that Fish did anything, do you? He seemed like a decent bloke, the few times I met him. And the break-up was one of those mutual things. I think." Imogen doesn't know Tim's surname, but she's able to give a good description of him, as well as the name of the coffee shop where he works.
Tim Herring ("call me Fish") is a decent bloke in James's professional estimation, and he can tell that his governor agrees. His account of the break-up agrees with Imogen's: he and Jenna just didn't work out. He was at the coffee shop from 4:00 to midnight. CCTV will confirm that. No, he can't think of anyone who disliked Jenna. He seems genuinely distraught over the murder.
Jenna's place of employment is on the Cowley Road, wedged between a pawnbroker and a kebab shop. The foot-high lettering on the bright yellow awning says Excelsior Letting Agency (Roger Ebeling, Harry Bingham, proprietors). "A banner with the strange device," James murmurs. He doesn't intend to be overheard, but Lewis gives him a sidelong glance.
"You should go into business for yourself," Lewis says mildly. "James Hathaway, poetry for all occasions. Available for birthday parties, weddings, and church fetes." He looks up again at the awning. "Posh name like that, you'd think they'd be letting mansions, not cheap flats."
"Perhaps they aspire to mansions. A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?"
"I don't imagine that letting agents would care for heaven. The mansions up there are supposed to be free, aren't they?"
A dozen different replies spring into James's mind, and he ruthlessly suppresses them all. Lewis isn't as snappish as he used to be about religion, but it's a topic best avoided. Still, he can't help crafting an advertisement for a celestial dwelling-place. 'Mansion incorruptible... all mod cons... short commute to Pearly Gates...'
Inside the office, a young woman with pink-streaked hair and five earrings sits behind the reception desk, reading a thick book. The telephone rings and she snatches up the receiver. "Excelsior Letting, we provide the best for less, Lucy speaking, how may I assist you?" The conversation is a short one. "I'm terribly sorry, but Mr Bingham and Mr Ebeling are not available just now. May I take a message?" She scribbles something on a slip of paper, then returns to her book.
Lewis walks up to the desk. "Excuse me. We need to talk to the proprietors."
"They're not—" she begins.
Men's voices echo through the half-open door of the back office.
"I told you, we should have closed!" the first man growls.
"What good would that do?" The second voice is higher pitched, with a faint trace of Yorkshire in the vowels. "It's a sad thing, yeah, but sad things happen all the time. No one is going to notice or care who's sitting at the desk."
Lewis flashes his warrant card at the girl. "Detective Inspector Lewis, Detective Sergeant Hathaway. And you are?"
"Lucy Dunne."
His tone is almost apologetic. "I'm afraid we really do need to speak to them."
The receptionist's face reddens. "They told me to say they were out."
James summons up a sympathetic smile. "It's hard being a temp, isn't it? Like having to write an essay on a book you've only got halfway through." He nods at the book. Even upside down, he knows Latin when he sees it. "You're reading Classics?"
"Classics and English. I've got an essay on Cicero due Thursday, but Uncle Roger phoned me and said it was an emergency, and could I please fill in today."
"Roger Ebeling is your uncle?" Lewis asks.
"Not a real uncle, but he was at school with my dad, and I've known him forever." Her parents and younger brother are in Canada for a year, she explains. Her dad, a petroleum engineer, is on assignment in the Athabasca oil sands. Uncle Roger is keeping an eye on her. Lucy rolls her eyes. She's eighteen: fearless and immortal. "But he takes me out for lunch sometimes, and dinner most Sundays at his house. Aunt Louise is a fantastic cook."
Lewis bends over the desk, looking rather like a kindly uncle himself. "Lucy, what did Uncle Roger tell you about this emergency?"
"He said that Jenna—the office assistant—had some kind of accident, and could I please come in for a day or two."
"What kind of accident?"
Lucy frowns. "He didn't actually say... only that something terrible had happened, and Jenna was dead. I thought she was hit by a car or something like that." She looks from one to the other. They don't answer her unspoken question.
"Have you ever met Jenna?" James asks.
"I've seen her lots of times when I came to visit Uncle Roger, but I don't—didn't—really know her. She was older than me." Seven years older. At eighteen, that's nearly half a lifetime.
They ask a few more questions, but it's clear that Lucy has nothing useful to offer. Lewis hands her one of his cards. "If you think of anything, please phone me. And now, I think we need to speak to the gentlemen in charge. Don't bother to announce us." James falls into step behind his governor as Lewis heads towards the back office.
James's old governor, DI Knox, liked to compare people to animals, by way of summing up their character. "That one's our thief, Jimmy. Look at him—a real ferret, he is." James thought the whole idea was utter bollocks. Having a healthy sense of self-preservation, he never shared that thought with his governor. Looking at the two men in the back office of Excelsior Letting, he knows immediately that DI Knox would have labelled them a mastiff and a fox.
It takes them a moment to notice they're not alone. "Who the hell are you?" the fox demands. This is the one with the Yorkshire accent. He's lean and wiry, and his ginger hair is mixed with silver.
"Roger!" the mastiff protests. "There's no call to be rude." He turns towards the visitors. His broad, pink face is solemn, his pale eyes carefully sincere. "I'm sorry, but we're not seeing new clients today. There's been a death—"
"That's just what we've come to speak to you about." Lewis introduces himself and his sergeant.
The mastiff is Harry Bingham; the fox is Roger Ebeling. They take turns answering Lewis's questions, switching back and forth smoothly. They hired Jenna seven months ago. She'd left school with a handful of GCSEs, and worked as a shop girl while taking a part-time office administration course. They'd hired her fresh from the business college. She was enthusiastic, hard-working, got on well with the clients. This is a terrible thing. Terrible. Who could do that to a nice young girl?
They'll have to hire a new office manager promptly, Ebeling says.
Bingham protests. "Christ, Roger, she's not even in her grave yet. Your girl can get by for a week or so."
"No, she can't. The lass is taking a demanding course, and that's got to be her first priority. Any road, she's not trained for this job."
"If she can read Greek and Latin, she can answer the phone and file paperwork."
"We'll get a temp from an agency," Ebeling announces.
"But—"
Lewis interrupts. "Gentlemen, before you hire a replacement for Jenna Brimley, do you suppose we could finish discussing her murder?" The agents look abashed, like two schoolboys called into the Head's office. They mumble apologies, which Lewis waves away with a flick of his right hand. "What time did Jenna leave work yesterday?"
Bingham looks blank. "I was in the field with clients all afternoon."
"She left about 5:30," Ebeling offers. "I was in the office until 6:00."
How did Jenna seem these last few days? Was she worried about anything? Had anyone been bothering her? Did her ex-boyfriend ever come by?
The answers are all negative. No problems, no visitors, no clues.
"And where were you between 7:00 and 8:00 last night?" Lewis asks Ebeling.
"I was having dinner at the Golden Swan."
James doesn't need the sidelong glance from his governor to know that it's his turn. "Can anyone testify to that?"
"Several people. It was my sister-in-law's birthday. My wife was there, of course, and her mother, and two of Janet's friends." Ebeling frowns at him. "Why?"
James ignores him. "And you, Mr. Bingham?"
"I'm not certain. I left the office at 6:00. Went to the Badger for a couple of pints, got some Chinese takeaway and ate it at home."
"Was anyone with you?"
"No. I live alone. Why all these questions? You don't seriously think—"
"Just routine," James assures him.
The rest of the questions are routine, and so are the answers. When it's clear that the two partners have nothing more to say, they take their leave.
They discuss the case over a hasty lunch. "I feel as if I'm missing something," James says.
"It's the beginning of the case," Lewis replies. "We're always missing something at this point, unless the criminal's a complete idiot. It could be a robbery gone wrong."
"You don't believe that any more than I do."
Lewis pulls a face. "No, but it's only a feeling in my gut. Some evidence would be nice." As if in response, his mobile chimes for an incoming text. He looks at it briefly. "Dr Hobson would like to see us at our earliest convenience."
James downs the rest of his iced latte in one gulp. "Then we shouldn't keep the good doctor waiting."