The Brothers of Baker Street (6 page)

There was no way for Reggie to reach through and grab it from him; the glass partition had only a small aperture at the bottom.

“Don’t miss the turn,” said Reggie irritably. “Dorset House on Baker Street.”

“I’ve never missed a turn,” said the driver. “I know these streets better than any of the fancy GPS stuff that the lot are talking about now.”

“Sorry to have doubted you,” said Reggie, not interested in what lot the driver was referring to. He just wanted to get out of the cab without any further conversation related to Laura’s breasts.

“You don’t need all that futuristic crap if you’ve got a head on your shoulders.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Reggie.

“Now about your lady friend. Know what I look for in a woman?”

Reggie looked out the window and saw that they were still one turn away from Baker Street, the light was red, the traffic was heavy, and he would probably have to endure another two minutes of conversation.

“No,” he said.

“A woman who will let me take my shoes off. My last missus got upset over that. We went on holiday to the summerhouse in Spain, and she wouldn’t let me take my shoes off in the front room. So that’s a trade-off right there. There is value in being able to take off your shoes.”

“You have a summerhouse in Spain?” said Reggie.

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“I used to,” said Reggie. He thought about that for a moment, and then asked, “How long have you been a Black Cab driver?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Ever want to do something else?”

“Sport fishing in Bermuda, when I retire.”

“I mean, some other work for a living?”

“Not a chance. Took me too long to get where I am. Five years just learning the street Knowledge, supporting myself at my day job with the Royal Mail, then putting my skinny arse around the City at night on a moped. Could never do that now, there’s no scooter big enough. Anyway, why would I want to do something else after all that?”

“And you gave up a perfectly stable government job for this?”

“Of course I did. Easy choice, mate.”

They were slowing now.

“Here’s your Dorset House,” said the driver.

Reggie paused before opening the door.

“Wouldn’t give it up then, driving a cab?” said Reggie.

“Not for anything,” said the driver.

Reggie got out of the cab and gave the driver a better tip than he had originally intended. He had made up his mind. He went directly to chambers and rang the solicitor from that morning.

It was late in the workday, but she picked up almost at once. Her voice was bright.

“I will represent your client,” said Reggie.

“Brilliant,” said Darla. “I couldn’t be more pleased.”

“Who is prosecuting?” said Reggie.

“Geoffrey Langdon, over at Stiles Court. Is he any good?”

“Deceptively so,” said Reggie. “He wants you to underestimate both him and his case. Bludgeons you with self-effacement. He’ll stand up before the judge, hesitating like a schoolboy, and next thing you know, you’re flat on the floor. When is the preliminary hearing?”

“Two days.”

Bloody hell, that was soon. Reggie said nothing for a moment.

“Is that a problem?” said Darla.

“It’s not much time to poke holes in the prosecution’s case.”

“But it is just the committal hearing. There will be sufficient time before trial to create a defense, surely.”

“If it comes to that,” said Reggie. “But better to get it tossed at the outset, wouldn’t you say?”

“Why, of course,” she said. “I’m such a dunce, I don’t know what I was thinking—except that I thought that they surely had a prima facie case in any event. Do you see major flaws?”

“We at least need to test the prosecution facts a bit. They might have got it wrong, you know.”

“Oh,” she said, as if it had just occurred to her. “Of course. Tell me what we can do,” she continued, sounding eager to make amends.

“Did you get anything at all from your private investigator?”

“I had him interview the witnesses who said they saw the cab. He’s sending his report, but he said he didn’t turn up a useful thing. Used up all his paid legal-aid hours on it, too. Sorry, did I botch that as well? It seems we’re on our own for the rest of it.”

“No,” said Reggie, feeling a bit more friendly toward her now. “No, it was worth a shot. But we need a look at the crime scene. Will you set that up?”

“Surely,” she said.

An hour later the phone rang. Reggie picked up.

At the other end of the line was Geoffrey Langdon.

“Heath—hear you’re taking the Black Cab case.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t realize you were doing criminal again. But I do always have the devil of a time keeping up.”

“It’s an exception,” said Reggie.

“Well, it would be a wonderful opportunity, I think, for me to learn from you, Heath. No doubt about it. I mean, if it were to go to trial. But you’re going to plead it out though, aren’t you?”

“Thank you for bringing that up,” said Reggie. “I was just about to ring and see if you want to drop the charges now or wait until I contest the committal hearing.”

“Drop them? Oh, dear. No, I’m afraid I can’t do that. No. Considerate of you to suggest it, I suppose. But no, we can’t do that. The case is quite … well, rock solid, really. You’re sure you won’t plead?”

“I can’t ask an innocent man to plead to homicide.”

“Well, of course, if he were innocent, but—”

“And if I didn’t believe him, I wouldn’t have taken the case.”

“Yes, understood. Quite scrupulous of you, of course. Well, see you in two days, then. Say, have you seen the
Daily Sun
this morning?”

“No,” said Reggie, and then he hung up the phone. He didn’t need to hear another question about Laura in Phuket.

In any case, it struck him that Langdon had been just a little too anxious to get a plea.

Reggie picked up the phone and rang Detective Inspector Wembley.

“I’d like to buy you a pint,” said Reggie.

“Why, Heath? You’re not doing criminal again, are you?”

“A one-time thing, I expect.”

“What’s the case?”

“The Black Cab driver accused of homicide.”

“You can buy me the pint,” said the inspector. “But, of course, I’ll tell you nothing you shouldn’t already know.”

Reggie regarded that as a fair bargain. Wembley sometimes overestimated what everyone else should know.

Reggie exited Baker Street Chambers and took a cab to the Stick and Whistle pub on Tothill Street, just one block over from New Scotland Yard.

A small crowd of police officers boisterously watched a match between Chelsea and Arsenal on the big-screen telly. Reggie went to the bar and bought two pints, paying no attention to the match. He had been a great fan of football as a child, but not in the years since.

Inspector Wembley was already seated at the bar. The inspector was middle-aged, with white hair and the stubbornly declining build of a man who had once wanted to be a prize-fighter. He was leaning intently toward the wide screen as Reggie approached, his shoulders moving in a subconscious punching motion, as if he were about to jump into the match himself and flatten a defenseman who was giving Arsenal trouble.

Reggie sat down and put a beer in front of Wembley.

“Damn, that was blatant! Red card him!” shouted Wembley.

“Been a while since I’ve taken a criminal brief,” said Reggie, as Wembley turned his attention from the screen just long enough to seize the pint. “Anything I should know about this one?”

“Don’t really have much choice, do you?” said Wembley. “From what I hear, your calendar is pretty much open.”

“True,” said Reggie.

“The prosecution’s case is solid, Heath. If you want my advice, plead your client and be done with it.”

Reggie nodded. “You always think that. And so does Langdon when he’s working for the Crown. But is there anything I should know?”

“I’m sure Langdon will send you his file,” said Wembley, casually turning his attention back to the sports screen.

“He did,” said Reggie, “but prosecuting barristers always manage to leave something out. What should I know that isn’t in the file?”

“If it isn’t in the file, I’ve no idea,” said Wembley. “But what is in the file is that we have identified the suspect by his cab number, and he has no verifiable alibi. We don’t withhold facts, Heath, you know that.”

“Yes,” said Reggie. “But if all this happened according to the prosecution’s theory, wouldn’t you expect there to be substantial evidence in the Black Cab itself?”

“You might,” said Wembley. “Unless the perpetrator had it properly cleaned after. Which appears to be the case.”

“Still seems to me the prosecution is rushing this one a bit,” said Reggie.

“No comment,” replied Wembley. But then he actually turned his attention from the sports screen and looked over at Reggie.

“All I can suggest is that you think about the victims for a moment.”

“Bloody rot; you don’t need to remind me to have empathy for victims, Wembley.”

“That’s not what I meant, Heath. I only meant, think about who the victims were. Their profile.”

Reggie did so.

“American tourists,” said Reggie after a moment. “And it’s still high season.”

“Spot on,” said Wembley. “And this isn’t the first of the crimes. So before you get yourself too deep in this, consider it from the City’s point of view.”

“Spell it out for me.”

“The Black Cabs are known throughout the touristy world as the most reliable and crime-free mode of transportation devised by man.”

“Perhaps a slight exaggeration,” said Reggie.

“No, it’s a fact. They’re safer than your mother’s baby carriage. Nothing is more risk-free. There has not been a single crime or allegation of a crime associated with anyone’s ride in a Black Cab in more than twenty years. I can tell you that for a fact. No rape, no robbery, no murder, no nothing.”

“A credit to all of London,” said Reggie, nodding.

“But in the past two months,” said Wembley, “there have been seven.”

Reggie waited for a moment, then asked.

“Seven what?”

“Assault, robbery, and now murder.”

Reggie said nothing. He was astounded.

“Seven of
each?
”

“No, no—I mean seven total incidents.”

“I see. A sort of variety pack, then.”

“A cab driver bopping about London and harassing American tourists is like having that shark roaming around offshore in—where was it, Nantucket?—in
Jaws
. Bad for business. You don’t really want anyone to know about it. But once it hits the papers and everyone knows about it, you want it over with, right quick. Especially when someone dies. Really, Heath, you need to learn to appreciate the politics of things. Read the daily rags once in a while.”

There was a chorus of outraged shouts at the wide screen now, and Wembley looked back over his shoulder to join in.

“Bloody hell, will they ever red card that wanker?”

Then he turned back to Reggie.

“I mean,” said Wembley, “if you can get past all the ink they’re devoting to yourself. And to Miss Rankin.”

“That’s a red card, Wembley,” said Reggie, and then he put down his beer and left the pub.

5

Despite Wembley’s endorsement of tabloid reading, Reggie had had enough of the daily rags. He hoped that the private investigator’s report would prove to be more useful. It arrived at chambers the following afternoon, and Reggie had just enough time to review it before setting out to meet Darla Rennie at the crime scene.

But the report had little that was helpful.

The investigator had interviewed both the barman at the pub in Covent Garden and two Chelsea residents who said they saw the cab some twenty minutes later. All of the witnesses acknowledged that they had not been in a position to get a look at the driver’s face. If it went to trial, Reggie would hammer on that.

But the identifications of the license plate were another matter. The barman distinctly remembered the letters in the middle of the license number—
WHAMU1
—because they happened to form an acronym for West Ham United, a popular football club. A jury would believe his reason for remembering those letters.

The second sighting was on King’s Road, near Chelsea Harbor, where the cab had apparently rounded the corner in a hurry, narrowly missing two middle-aged women who had just stepped into the street, splashing both of them from the recent rain—and to such an extent that they wrote the number down and actually called in a complaint to the police.

Reggie knew he could argue that the second witnesses might have written the number down incorrectly, but their call to the police established a solid time line—and the number they wrote down included the same acronym that the barman recalled so clearly.