The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [90]
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 death and murder when it was personal.
“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