The Black Candle Killings

By Andrew Segal

When the candle burns down the victim dies, watching their life melt away with the wax of the candle.

In her second outing, Private Investigator Tammy Pierre investigates Voodoo killings in a quiet London suburb.

Book 2 in The Tammy Pierre Series.

In a quiet North London suburb a nu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Happy London Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781912951277

Andrew Segal

The inspiration for this story originated when I was invited to a black-tie event, given by a senior American politician. Attended by some fabulously wealthy people, among whom a sprinkling of billionaires, the party was hosted in the heart of London's Mayfair. My attention was drawn by a strikingly handsome young man, with immaculate black hair, who, ignoring protocol, wore a white tuxedo and flourished a long thin cheroot between aristocratic fingers. Exuding charm, he approached the elegant dames, whether alone or accompanied by husbands. I contrived to get as close to him as possible to overhear what they found so fascinating about this individual. The gentleman was a Gigolo. I needed to know more. But when I later made enquiries of my various hosts, none of them could ever recall having invited the man.

Book preview

Prologue

Yuh gonna die!

---

Hmm? Watch you say, lady? Hear me now, hear me. Don’t y’all cry. You muss up yuh face. Me ain’t gonna hurt you none. Gonna be quick an’ easy. All be over soon, soon. You understan’? De Lord, he am waitin’ for yuh.

Lillian Persaud hadn’t had sex with Tom for over a month. As she made for the office at a brisk trot, she smiled to herself. Gorgeous fresh morning. Gentle breeze. A few spots of rain tapping at her brolly. Some wispy grey cloud. Might warm up later, though. Bound to really, she thought with her usual optimism.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted something moving. A shadow; perhaps her own? Couldn’t place it. Coming from behind a parked car? A moment of unease, but not one to break the glorious mood she was in.

The day ahead, filled with appointments, staff meetings and then, this weather forecast had said it would be a mixed day, so at least there’d be some sun to look forward to.

Business was getting busier by the week in her expanding company, Persaud IT Ltd. A hectic day ahead of her. Evening to think about.

Plans for sex, she mused. Lots of it. Asap. On the agenda. And about time too. She smiled again at the prospect. Some soft music; modern jazz. The contemplative tones of Miles Davis’s trumpet. Chic Corea on piano. Tom’s favourite record, Peggy Lee singing, ‘Some Cats Know’, and she added mentally the following refrain, ‘How to go real slow’. Tom knew how to go real slow. Lovely man. What a wedding night they’d had. Not a real wedding, but an exchanging of vows and commitment before an Unofficial Officiant in a Humanist service. They both had their own reasons for preferring to avoid a religious ceremony. A couple of dozen close family and friends in a tiny hotel off the beaten track, near to Bourton-on-the-Water, in the Cotswolds.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time they’d made love, but Tom made it feel that way. It was as if he’d saved something special for just that evening. Up till then, every night with him had been special. But, wow! she thought. Was that night extra special, or was it not?

Not too many nights like it since the baby. Gracie was a demanding tot, and now an even more demanding little girl. Still, she thought, their imp seemed to have got over her current bout of sleeplessness.

Someone on the other side of the street, emerging from behind a tree this time, looking at her. Looking at her? A phantom silhouette. Following her. Dark tracksuit and trainers. Hoodie obscuring the face. Soundless steps. Were they smiling? She couldn’t see.

Lillian frowned for a moment. No-one else around. Early morning. A few parked vehicles. An unexpected feeling of loneliness. Maybe they were scowling? She hurried on, getting nervous now, her heels clicking on the pavement, echoing in her ears.

Like being on the ghost train in a fairground. Never sure what was going to jump out at you. Nothing was going to attack her out here in the street. This was Bloomsbury where bad things didn’t happen. She’d soon be at the office. Door locked behind her. Safe. Then, hot coffee. The world waking up. Staff arriving shortly.

Tom said she was a worrier. Darling, he’d told her one day, if you didn’t have something to worry about, it’d almost certainly worry you. He was right of course. But worriers get things done, she’d protested. And, looking around, she found her imagined stalker had vanished. A heaved sigh of relief.

Baby Grace had been fractious and her sleepless nights had impacted Lillian and Tom. But there’d been six undisturbed nights when the parents had caught up with some desperately needed shut-eye, and now Lillian was beaming to herself as she mentally planned the evening in.

---

Look! Look! See? It say in here in de Bible, Deuteronomy 23, verse 2, dat no-one born of a forbidden union may enter de kingdom of de Lord. Even to de ten generation, none of his descendants may enter de assembly of de Lord. Yuh gonna have to pay, lady.

---

Tom loved cooking, but he also liked to eat out. He’d probably booked somewhere for them already. It was their anniversary, that of the first time they’d met. But tonight was going to be all Lillian’s treat. And for a change there’d be no meat. Tom could eat lamb and beef for England, but he’d been told by his doctor to cut down as his cholesterol levels were too high. So tonight, would be fish. Cod, baked in fish stock, with chopped onions and tomato, and a handful of black olives to finish it off. Steamed new potatoes in their skins, dripping in butter, well, maybe not exactly dripping. A mixed salad, with her own dressing. A bottle of Pino Grigio. And for dessert, a blueberry pavlova coupled with vanilla ice cream by Marshfield Farm, an English make on a par with the best of Italian. Divine thoughts.

Tom hadn’t seen the white thong yet. The one with the split crotch. The matching, barely there, white bra. The contrast with her ebony complexion would be stark. Heavens! she thought, I’ll be stark, or as good as. She’d kept them for an occasion like she was going to make tonight’s. Her legs went slightly wobbly at the thought. However would she make it through the day? she wondered.

The first thing she noticed upon opening up the office was that the alarm hadn’t been set the night before. She frowned. Must have a word with the cleaners later today. But, just the same, she thought, worrying.

They’d kept all the original features of the beautiful Georgian building’s interior, whilst managing to lay out desks with smart glass dividers to allow, if not privacy, at least the chance to concentrate on work without the immediate intrusion of others in the room overwhelming you.

There was a separate boardroom for client meetings, and it was to this she presently repaired. She needed to spread out paperwork in a manner more convenient than might be obtained, no matter how many screens she chose to work with. For all her IT skills, sometimes it was the old tried and tested routines that worked best.

Lillian was happy. Happier than she’d ever been in her life. After a ghastly childhood, from which she’d made a timely escape, things were coming together more satisfyingly than she had ever dared to hope.

---

Dey all jagabat womans tink dey can fool me. Dey run away from me, but me have catch yuh. Me have seen you, lady, flahntin’ y’all an’ yer babby. Lady, de chile am barn of a forbidden union. Who you tink you is? Me ain’t no dotish man. No mamaguy. Me am gonna bring y’all back to God.

---

And yet, that shadow again, from the corner of her eye. And, here? In the office? Her mind playing tricks? Had to be. But why, all of a sudden? She wasn’t normally given to random fears. She’d be seeing ghosts next. Shaking her head resolutely, she told herself not to be stupid.

Then the light pad of a muffled tread, a sharp pinprick in the back of her neck, the warmth of a thin stream of blood, her blood, running down her spine and a cultured voice warning her not to look round.

She felt as though she were being crushed with fear. She couldn’t breathe properly. Her blood was freezing in her veins, as she shuddered, uncontrollably. She could see the papers spread around the boardroom table, but made no connection with them. It was as though she were marooned in a foreign country, where she could neither understand nor make herself understood.

She knew she mustn’t panic, mustn’t scream, because the shadow would want her to scream, would need her to scream in order to exercise power over her. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply to try to calm her nerves. The voice was educated, could be spoken to. She might use reason. This was clearly a case of mistaken identity which she could quickly establish.

Then the voice changed. The tone dropped by a couple of octaves and to her consternation, the accent was now clearly patois.

Lillian heard a match flare, smelled burning tallow as smoke played around her head. She tried to think who it could possibly be. Racked her brains, uselessly. Didn’t know who it was. No idea in the world. But they clearly knew all about her.

"De candle am burnin’ dong. It have you name on de side, Lillian.

"When it reach de bottom yuh gonna die.

"Hmm? Ah! Now you screamin’, Lillian? Dat’s good. Show y’all repentin’. Keep screamin’ now, Lillian, keep screamin’. Ain’t no-one to hear you.

Praise de Lord.

Chapter 1 Day 1

The day was overcast and chill, heavy clouds scudding impatiently across a pewter sky as spots of rain started spattering the windows.

6.00 am and the central heating had just clicked on; the flat wouldn’t be warm for at least another half hour. A sprinkling of goose bumps showed on her naked arms and legs, and she shivered with cold, the black shorty nightie quite inadequate to the task of covering, let alone warming, her six-feet frame.

She heard rather than felt the plop and splash of blood as it hit the marble-tiled floor of the bathroom. Then she felt it too. A wetness between the thighs, a drawing pain in her belly and a heaviness from the waist down that made her limbs feel like buckling. The blood smelled metallic, and as she watched, transfixed, more of it ran down the insides of her legs spreading in a pool at her feet.

Merde! she whispered softly. Merde! Merde! Merde! Propping her head against her fingertips, she watched helplessly as the life she was carrying, the life she’d so longed for, slipped away from her. I’m losing this baby, she whispered under her breath. My baby. Dov’s baby.

Then she thought of her father, with skin the texture of jet, the tall and distinguished, Matthew Pierre. This retired architect, originally from the island of Trinidad, now living close by in Queen’s Park, was suffering from the advanced stages of Parkinson’s Disease. A normally taciturn man, Matthew had not been able to stop talking about the prospect of his grandfathering the child of his only daughter, Tamsin, when he’d been convinced that, at thirty-seven, she’d left it too late and it would never happen. So sad, he’d said, that Tamsin’s mother, her maman, the irrepressible daughter of a French Jewish banking family who’d died of breast cancer ten years earlier, could not be alive to see her own daughter become a mother.

Her ribs still ached dully from the kicking she’d received in an assault some months previously by a man, apparently, called Bear. And the side of her head still throbbed whenever she was stressed, as she was now, from the blade that had all but ripped open the edge of her skull during the attack. The tight curls had grown back where the hospital had shaved her to administer the railway track of black sutures, and she’d let her hair grow longer than the usual short cap of frizz she sported, to further mask the scarring. Andy, her hairdresser at Curligig in Westbourne Grove, had worked wonders, and some of her old confidence was returning.

It was now, more than ever, she felt the loss of her long-term partner. She ached when she thought about little Ginny and how she’d gone without warning, leaving only a farewell note and a CD of music they both loved. Ginny had guessed about her sometime Israeli lover and martial arts coach Dov as Tammy’d started to show, and that, together with the cocaine habit she’d frequently warned Tammy about, had decided her to end the relationship.

Lifting the lid of the toilet, Tammy sat down on the seat, leaning forward, her head in her hands, and waited while the last of the blood carrying the baby she’d yearned for so fiercely escaped from her body like sand flooding through an hour glass. Then she stood over the toilet bowl and flushed it several times until the last traces of crimson and the promise it held were gone.

She tried to cry. She wanted to cry. Her temples ached and her throat felt tight, but no tears came. It was as though the baby had abandoned her. She was inadequate to the task of bearing a child. Lacking as a woman, and with no-one in her life to turn to for comfort. Heaven knows how she’d break the news to her father. Papa would be devastated. It would have to wait till later. Or maybe tomorrow.

She stood under the shower for fully fifteen minutes as though she could simply wash away the memory and thoughts of what might have been.

There was still some seeping residue of blood, so she used some of the standby sanitary wear she kept in the event a heavy period made the usual tampons insufficient in any given month. Then she wandered into the kitchen in her dressing gown and prepared a pot of strong coffee before forcing herself to consider the day ahead.

Life goes on, she thought sadly, with a feeling of the irony of it all.

Of course, she knew it was her own fault. Her GP, Doctor Aziz, had told her specifically not to engage in any undue physical effort. Her high testosterone levels meant it was mere chance she’d conceived at all, still less likely she would again if this pregnancy didn’t go full term. But she’d obstinately ignored him, continuing to work out in the local Queen’s Park gym, and at home whenever the time allowed.

Then there’d been that scuffle, a couple of days ago, when a visiting client from the States to whom she was giving close personal protection, had been approached, unannounced in a side street at the back of the Grosvenor Hotel, Park Lane where she was staying, by a member of the press, and jostled. The reporter was an overweight individual, with a ruddy face and bulbous drinker’s nose. The man had stuck a mobile phone microphone under the nose of the thoroughly alarmed client, a young, newly famous pop singer, dressed in a black mini skirt and black patent leather thigh-length boots, and demanded an interview. Tammy, discreetly turned out in a charcoal grey two-piece trouser suit, turned to the man and softly told him to get lost.

Come on love, pleaded the reporter, clearly the worse for drink and, ignoring Tammy, addressed the young girl, Giss a story darlin’. Is it true you’re after Prince ’Arry? If you was yer too late now darlin’. Then, apparently noticing Tammy for the first time as she loomed over him, And ’oo are you mister when you’re at ’ome? A pause while he examined Tammy with slow deliberation. Then, Blimey! he intoned, shocked, as he got closer and looked up at her, it’s a bleedin’ bird. An’ a good lookin’ one an’ all. Always did like the black ones, and so saying, he dropped the phone, where it clattered to the pavement, and made a grab for Tammy’s breasts.

The young charge looked as though she was about to make a run for it. But turning to her, Tammy said, Don’t worry. This is all perfectly in hand.

Then, quietly to the reporter as she straightened her rumpled jacket and blouse, Now you really don’t want to do that, do you, sir?

Oh, I think I do, dearie. You black birds all like a bit of ’ows yer father, dontcha?

Well, sir, this black bird doesn’t, most certainly not in public and very definitely not with a drunken oaf like you. Now, why don’t you try to behave like a big boy and get out of our way.

’Oo are you callin’ a big boy, you patronisin’ black bitch? You come to this country—

Do we steal all your women, sir?

What? Steal all our…? But you’re a bleedin’…

A small group of Japanese tourists had begun to gather, and Tammy realised the situation needed to be brought to a speedy conclusion. Turning to look over her shoulder at her now terrified charge, Tammy whispered hastily, Hotel. Back entrance. You move. I’ll deal with this and catch you up. Go on, my dear.

The man staggered slightly and lurched in Tammy’s direction, alcohol on his breath, a hand outstretched as he reached again for her breasts.

Acknowledging the tourists with a broad smile and a shrug that said, Whatever do we do in this sort of situation? Tammy grabbed the man by the outstretched wrist and swiftly spun him around, twisting his arm up his back. He grunted in pain, and Tammy whispered in his ear, Let’s not make this any more embarrassing than it need be. Hmm? Sir? and holding the man fast, she hailed a passing taxi with her free hand.

As the cab pulled up, the reporter staggered again, and Tammy caught him under the arms before he could fall. Then opening the taxi door, she heaved the man in and slammed it behind him. Take him anywhere, cabby, as long as it’s away from here, she said, grabbing a twenty-pound note from a pocket and thrusting at the driver.

Okay, darlin’. Yer on, the young driver said with a cheery grin, and the taxi sped off. The tourists gabbling animatedly began to melt away, and Tammy, acknowledging a worrying twinge in her lower abdomen, followed by a needlepoint of insistent pain, thought about the words of Doctor Aziz. A grey cloud of uncertainty settled around her. I’ll be fine, she told herself. I’ll be fine.

But she wasn’t. She’d pressed her luck that day and now she’d paid the price.

7.00 am, time for work. She sighed as her mobile rang.

Miss Pierre, I think you should come in right away. We’ve had the most unpleasant email arrive. Mrs Gilchrist sounded uncharacteristically perturbed.

Thank you, Mrs Gilchrist, I’ll check it out now on my mobile and be in in about twenty-five minutes.

---

A pinprick at the back of her neck startled her into wakefulness. She was in complete darkness, her wrists bound tightly behind her back. Her hands throbbed through the lack of blood, the fingers seemingly swelling under the pressure of the bindings till it felt as though they might explode. The smell was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. The seat, probably of wood, was hard against her thighs and buttocks. She made as though to stand, then realised her legs were bound to those of the seat. She was incapable of any sort of movement. Sweat ran down her legs, her back and into her eyes. Her throat constricted with fear as though locked in an iron garrotte and she tried to scream, then realised she couldn’t. She could barely breathe because her mouth was bound in tape. The man, if it was a man, stood over her. She could sense his gentle breath over the top of her head as he leaned down to her and spoke.

Chapter 2 Day 1

NOW READ THIS

You’ve been taking on some lucrative contracts, work by which we might have earned considerable fees. Our man, Bear, may have overstepped the mark, but he still couldn’t dissuade you from muscling in on our patch. Believe me, we’ve got our eyes on you wherever you are. We’ll tell you when you can take on a personal security job and when you don’t.

Then there are people who shouldn’t be allowed in this country, scum that shouldn’t be protected. If we say leave it, you leave it. You were lucky with that Israeli mediator. Don’t count on being so lucky next time. That scar on your head healed up nicely? How about us adding another to that pretty butch face of yours?

---

She was seated in an armchair her PA, Mrs Gilchrist, in the reception area of her tiny suite of modern offices in Bruton Street. The business name, Pierre Search and Security, was displayed by signwriting on the glass wall outside her offices, with the legend, ‘Discreet investigations, Forensic accounting, Personal security’, written in smaller lettering.

Tammy said, It’s just a lot of hot air. I can’t believe we’re dealing with another security firm, Mrs Gilchrist, it’s just too unprofessional. Absurd, even. That, and being shadowed by a Lexus SUV like my own? Ginny might have mentioned it to you. She shook her head and smoothed the skirt of her business two-piece suit. Bully boy tactics, Mrs Gilchrist, which neither threaten nor frighten me.

If you say so, Miss Pierre. The efficient and redoubtable Mrs Gilchrist, Mrs Florence Gilchrist, whom Tammy’s beloved Ginny had found to fill in as a temp following her departure, was now firmly ensconced as a permanent fixture.

In her fifties, slim, square-jawed, with a sallow complexion, greying curly hair and never a hint of lipstick or nail varnish, she was the epitome of old-world reserve, politeness and respectability. Perennially single, though, apparently, not gay, she had an understanding and appreciation of Tammy for what she was. The ‘Mrs’ was her way of protecting herself behind a title, a hint of an unspecified substance which clearly gave her some personal reassurance. She dressed neatly even if her choice of clothing was somewhat old-fashioned, and always carried an overcoat whatever the weather. She wore a hat with a hatpin, preferred low heels and carried a large, ancient brown leather bag. Her handwriting was immaculate, of the old school, and she seldom, if ever, smiled or exchanged pleasantries, beyond the usual morning and evening greetings. She lived in Camden with her widowed mother, and, interestingly, never mentioned a father.

She was also a qualified chartered accountant, having gained the accounting qualification through part-time study when in her forties. She’d made it clear from the start that she was to be Mrs Gilchrist, not Florence. And despite Tammy’s best efforts, she insisted on addressing Tammy as Miss Pierre. Tammy realised almost immediately that Ginny had employed a woman of impeccable credentials with an unshakeable integrity. One of a fast disappearing breed.

She’d held her previous job as secretary and PA to the director of an aircraft manufacturing company for twenty years, until her boss had retired at the same time as the business was taken over, and many long-serving staff, such as she, were unceremoniously dumped. She seemed to harbour no resentment and made no derogatory comments about the new company or its directors.

Tammy had stood up, ready to go into her office.

Your laptop is on, Miss Pierre, your desk is tidy. Mrs Gilchrist raised one slightly censorious eyebrow. "There’s a cafetiere of hot coffee on the credenza, together with a plate of Garibaldi. The day’s appointments are all logged in your calendar and I’ll brief you now, if I may? You’ve a dozen or more emails requiring immediate attention.

A Mrs Ivy Gomm, lonely middle-aged widow, needs advice on a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-pound debt she’s run up on one of those social media frauds. A younger man telling her he loved her, then fleecing her of all he could get.

Tammy smiled to herself, far be it for her PA to use the word, scam. Any financial details, Mrs Gilchrist?

Yes. She’s clearly a woman of means. A great deal of equity in her home.

Fine, I’ll catch up with her and introduce her to one of my specialist mortgage brokers who should be able to raise the cash for her. Anything more?

A Mr Challoner is worried that mortgagees on a buy-to-let property he owns are seeking to redeem. The changing tax regime has made it impossible for him to return a profit on his investment, but the lender won’t give him time to find funds. He is frantic with worry they may seek to repossess, and he’ll be left with a shortfall on a possible forced sale of an otherwise valuable property. Mrs Gilchrist looked up at Tammy. To tell the truth, Miss Pierre, he sounded positively suicidal. Do you think you can help him? It’s not our usual brief.

A familiar problem these days. I’ll catch up with him as soon as I get a moment. It’s all doable. Thank you, Mrs Gilchrist. I’m sure we can help both clients. I should be able to handle each one pro bono. Anything else? Tammy waited at the door to her own office.

Yes. There’s a Mr John Templeton. An insolvency practitioner who’s been receiving threats on an upcoming case. He wants personal security arranged for him and a company director at a planned meeting of the company’s creditors.

Remembering the last time she’d been called upon to give close personal protection to an insolvency practitioner in similar circumstances made Tammy smile again, despite her present sadness.

Mrs Gilchrist flipped through her handwritten notes. Old habits die hard, Tammy mused. Then the older woman looked up again. A number of pending appointments for this afternoon, to be confirmed. I’m working on those. Otherwise, nothing further for now Miss Pierre. She paused and frowned as she studied Tammy’s face. Are you well, Miss Pierre? You seem a trifle, how shall I put it, out of sorts?

Kind of you to ask, Mrs Gilchrist. Tammy wondered how much she should say, but decided against confiding in her PA for the moment. I’m fine. Bad night’s sleep. Sometimes happens.

Of course, Miss Pierre. Of course.

Before doing anything else, Tammy spent an hour on the phone dealing with the immediate problems presented to her by Mrs Gilchrist, those of Mrs Gomm and Mr Challoner with a note to each to come back to her if further advice was needed.

She’d then poured herself a steaming mug of coffee and started chomping on a Garibaldi, when her phone went. Tammy Pierre, she answered, wistfully fingering a pack of Henri Wintermans panatellas lying on the desktop. Something she’d resolved to eschew during her pregnancy. That, along with the cocaine habit that had contributed to the break-up of her relationship with Ginny, and which she’d also foregone for the duration.

The episode before leaving home that morning had left her demoralised and drained. She ached for a line, but wouldn’t risk Mrs Gilchrist forming conclusions, even if there was no reason to suspect anything. She thought she’d been careful when Ginny was in her life, but there was no fooling her. She recalled the normally mild younger woman protesting, angrily, You’re not bloody Sherlock, you know, in a reference to the famous detective’s cocaine habit.

She put the phone to her ear. Tammy, it’s me. Bob Walker. Tammy’s former superintendent, now Chief Superintendent, from her days in the Met where she’d been fast tracked to Detective Inspector, before departing five years ago to start her own agency.

Bob! she exclaimed. Good to hear from you. How’s life treating you? Throwing good intentions to the wind, and swallowing the last of her biscuit, Tammy now extracted a slim panatella, snapped her Dunhill open and flamed the tip, closing her eyes and drawing in a blessed lung-full of the mixed sweet and savoury essence.

I’m fine. Louise is good. We’re coming up to our Silver. Can’t believe it, it’s all been so quick. James is fine. Working with Herbert Smith solicitors, as you know. Litigation’s his thing. Edwin has just started his PhD in mathematics. That’s happened since we last spoke about the time of that Lyme Regis business.

Terrible, wasn’t it? Those three toddlers. Tammy absently flicked ash into the bowl of a huge glass dolphin ashtray on her desk, whilst noticing Mrs Gilchrist’s frown, much the same as Ginny’s had been, through the open door to her office.

Thanks to you the murder was cleared up.

Not really, Bob. My input was minimal.

I’d say it was critical. But listen, the reason I’m calling is this, we could use your help on a case involving what looks like an issue from your neck of the woods.

Is that France or Trinidad?

Trinidad. Plus, we’re talking North West London. You’re in Queen’s Park, which is the same area.

Okay. How can I help?

We’ve got a particularly unpleasant murder with some macabre associations. Young, single mother, Lillian Persaud, living in the North West London area. Came to this country in her mid-teens, apparently to escape from abuse in a Trinidad convent school for orphans. Never knew who her father was. Her mother, Josephine, was murdered when Lillian was just fourteen years old. It seems an uncle paid her fare, according to what we’ve got so far. She arrived here with pretty much nothing, and made her way. She was heading up her own IT company, with offices in Bloomsbury. Half a dozen top-ranking staff, and the expensive flat. She’d really done well for herself. Bright young woman. Then this. What a waste.

And a child, you say? Tammy pulled again on the panatella, and flicked more ash into the ashtray, ignoring Mrs Gilchrist’s forbidding gaze.

That’s right. Little girl.

And when was the body discovered?

This morning. Early, by one of her staff when they arrived for work. NCA are all there now. We’ve only spoken to her husband, so far. That’s where we’ve got our info from. He was in a pretty terrible state when we told him. Could barely talk. Barely breathe. Dealing with the bereaved, that’s one thing in this job I’ll never get used to.

There’s no easy way, is there, Bob? You get caught up in their despair, don’t you? Do we know the time of death?

With the pathologist. Be a few hours before we can be sure. But some time before staff normally get in. So, we’re guessing, 7.00 am? She normally left her flat at 6.00 am and drove in. Parked in the underground corkscrew car park in Bloomsbury Square, and walked from there to her offices in Guilford Street. Her suite was on the raised ground floor of one of Bloomsbury’s Georgian terraced buildings.

Mode of death?

At first glance, it looks like strangulation. Bruising suggests someone with quite small hands. Might be female? Very unusual if that were the case. There’s not generally the requisite strength. And, the pathologist at the scene, John Taylor, whom you’ll recall from your days at the Met; he noticed a tiny nick at the back of the deceased’s neck, possibly caused by the tip of a sharp knife. Not enough to cause any damage itself, he said. Good man, and very thorough, as you know.

And you said there was a macabre element?

"Next to the body was a printed note; it read:

Deuteronomy 23, verse 2. The Lord’s will be done.

Has anyone looked up the reference?

Yes. Apparently, it relates to illegitimacy precluding admission to, quote, ‘The kingdom of the Lord’.

That it?

Not quite. Where the deceased lay, slumped over the boardroom table, there was a half-burned candle next to her head with what might have been the remains of her name carved in the side.

Tammy felt a growing uneasiness in the