Hyde Park Pursuit

By Oz Erickson

Hyde Park Pursuit offers a thrilling tale of murder, intrigue and danger.

Navy Vietnam War veteran Jon Macy and real estate broker Allison Young never imagined that a run in London's Hyde Park would end with them witnessing a murder. The last words of the victim send the handsom

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Aug 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781648958540

Oz Erickson

Raised in his early years on a remote Bahamian island by parents escaping the stuffy confines of East Coast society, Oz Erickson later graduated from Exeter Academy, Harvard College and the Stanford Business School.  After finishing college, Oz, an adventurer at heart, hitchhiked through Europe and journeyed throughout Africa, climbing Mr. Kilimanjaro and trekking through Ethiopia.  After traveling across the Sudan by fourth-class rail, he voyaged down the Nile on an old Egyptian river boat.  Next, by bus, train, and foot, he crossed Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India.  He spent a month hiking in the Himalayas before journeying through Burma, Thailand and Malaysia, culminating in a 2000-mile hitchhike across Australia.

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Prologue

The tall, broad-shouldered man stepped from his Jaguar limousine, slung a duffel bag over his shoulder, and strode toward the waiting boat.

Good morning, sir. The boat attendant gave a respectful salute as he lifted the barrier to the boarding ramp.

With a nod, the tall man stepped on board.

It was five-thirty on a beautiful Sunday morning in June of 1971, dawn just breaking. As always, he had let his driver sleep in and had driven himself. He insisted on it. It wasn’t right to roust a bloke at five o’clock on a Sunday morning to drive ten minutes from Mayfair to Charing Cross and then sit around for seven hours. No, the tall man treated his men with respect, and they returned the favor with loyalty.

Besides, if he couldn’t live outside the security cocoon for a few hours a week, life wasn’t worth the salt on his beautiful bottle-green racing boat. This morning, the boat’s rich lacquered finish veritably glistened in the clear light. The Thames was smooth as glass. Not the slightest breeze wrinkled its shiny brown surface as the man eased the Daedalus out of its slip, gunning the engine just to hear it growl. Slowly, he moved the craft down the fabled river. Daedalus. He liked the name. Unlike his son Icarus, Daedalus hadn’t destroyed his wings by flying too close to the sun. Nor had he soaked his feathers by touching sea spray. Daedalus had found the perfect spot to soar. So had the helmsman, and he dedicated every Sunday morning to returning to that secret spot.

For the moment, he kept the throttle close, cruising slowly through London. His London.

A tugboat captain waved as the two boats passed. The tall man ceded a smile, then returned his eyes to the velvety Thames, his thoughts turning to the treasures awaiting at Sheerness, which he’d collected every Sunday for the past seven years.

Outside the heart of the city, he entered broad, open waters. He pushed the throttle forward, and the powerful boat sent its long white wake farther and farther into the distance. An open smile of delight escaped the man’s natural reserve.

Unable to resist, he spun the wheel quickly to the left until the boat spun like a top, its prow high in the air and its stern deep in the water, a dancer executing a daring pirouette. Then he pointed the bow straight ahead, throttle flat. The engines thundered. Twenty, thirty, forty knots.

Gradually, he pulled back the throttle, and the roar turned into a purr. The boat sliced smoothly through the water. The shoreline panorama constantly changed: one moment industrial heartland, the next, wild marshes. It was a peaceful time, a quiet moment to plan the next week, as he moved past the banks, the taste of sea salt sharp on his lips.

Near Sheerness three hours later, he stopped a quarter-mile south of a small blue fishing boat and thirty feet from a channel-marker buoy. He was near the middle of the miles-wide open mouth of the Thames where it broached the North Sea. There were ten buoys in the estuary; the one he used changed from week to week.

He dropped his anchor close to a tennis ball–sized, red float drifting near the buoy, then pulled his lunch—turkey and provolone on a croissant, with a bottle of Montrachet—out of the duffel bag. He ate and drank, casually eyeing the blue fishing boat, which was at rest, as always. Two nameless, faceless fishermen held their rods angled out over the gunwale, their heads covered by Australian bush hats. Nothing was the least unusual about their presence, their appearance a prearranged signal that all was safe, and that the morning would be as profitable as it was beautiful.

Moments after savoring the last of his croissant, the tall man rose. With binoculars to his eyes, he carefully conducted a final security surveillance of the sea. Then with a long gaff, he seized the anchor chain, sweeping along with it the thin line attached to the red float. Ten feet below the float, like a halibut hooked to a trolling line, hung a sixteen-kilo waterproof package. This one never got away. It was his catch of the day, suspended by a small lift bag.

He lifted the anchor until it rested just below the bundle. Then with one smooth, well-practiced gesture, he pulled the anchor out of the water, its flukes cradling the seaweed-green parcel.

A quick slice with a neatly palmed knife severed the line and punctured the bag. The red float drifted away.

No one witnessed this smooth maneuver. No one ever had. Even an observer with a high-powered telescope would have missed it; the action was too swift and too concealed.

His back to the Sheerness shore, the man carried his burden into the shelter of the half roof. Here, protected from prying eyes, he quickly stuffed the package into his white duffel bag, wrapping it securely in his sou’wester pants.

Sixteen kilos of pure cocaine, its street value more than three million pounds sterling. He’d record the numbers later, as he always did, though he knew the totals as well as he knew this estuary. With more than seven hundred kilos coming in each year, his commissions had exceeded £75 million over the past seven years.

The private thrill of his extraordinarily profitable Sunday-morning excursions sharpened his life. Drug smuggling had never been about the money but rather pushing the limits and getting away with it, like the time he had entertained three beautiful women on the top floor of the fabled White Tower while the unknowing Christmas celebration of his senior staff had raged one floor below. Or the eighteen kilos he’d had in his Jaguar when he’d visited the prime minister at 10 Downing Street the previous year. He felt himself stir at the thought of his newest companion, hoping she’d be back from her shopping excursion by the time he returned to Mayfair. Living outside the law always made him…eager.

The helmsman turned the Daedalus around. The morning’s excitement had settled, but he still experienced deep pleasure as the engines responded to his slightest touch.

As he motored back to London, he made the decision he’d been mulling over for days. Normally, he was decisive, but this would be a truly momentous move…with savage consequences. Yes, he would do what the Colombian had asked, but he would do it differently. Much differently. He’d give it a twist that would shock even a Colombian drug lord.

Chapter 1

C ome on, sleepyhead, get up.

At any other time, Jon would have welcomed that voice, but being rudely awakened after landing in London at four-thirty in the morning was no fun. Dawn had been breaking when they had finally settled into their flat.

What ungodly hour is it? he asked. His eyes had yet to open, lids still sealed by one too many in-flight beverages.

With an effort, he forced his eyes open and gazed at Allison standing in the doorway, blonde hair flowing softly past her shoulders. She’d slipped on a short skirt, one of those micro minis he’d heard about. Certainly shorter than anything he’d ever seen. He had no complaints, of course. Standing there, the twenty-four-year-old made a striking figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, she had an hour-glass figure. Deep-set blue eyes framed with long lashes highlighted the beauty of her face. Only a bump in her otherwise straight nose kept her from movie star beauty. A slightly marred Ursula Andress, Jon thought.

She also sported a radiant smile.

He wondered what right had she to look so good. She’d been on the same flight, and she was up earlier than he.

The simple sight of her standing there would have come as a huge surprise to him only twenty-four hours earlier. Before running into her at Logan, he hadn’t seen her in months since a breakup initiated, ironically enough, by his offhand suggestion that they travel together to England. Casual dating had obviously been just fine for her, but traveling together had been a different kettle of fish—too much intimacy? Yet there she had been yesterday, dispatched by her Boston real estate company to evaluate the London market, boarding the very flight that would be taking Jon to London for a three-week vacation. The plane was half empty, and they had sat together.

His ticket had been both his twenty-fifth birthday present and his college graduation gift from his sister and brother-in-law—along with the use of their Hyde Park flat and an XK-E Jaguar. Somewhere over Greenland, Jon had offered Allison a guest room, adding quickly, No strings attached. She had politely refused, saying her company had booked her a hotel room in some other neighborhood. He pointed out that it was far from the business district. She’d eyed him carefully before smiling her acceptance and agreeing to stay with him.

’Tis… Allison feigned a British accent, studying her watch with raised eyebrows, precisely ten after twelve, Greenwich Mean Time. Her voice then switched to pure Boston. Time to move.

He groaned, then listened to her steps as they retreated down the hall to the kitchen. The sound of the faucet followed. Coffee, yes, please, thank you. Simple syllables rolled around his head as his crusty eyes studied the luxurious room.

A blue velvet canopy hung over him. Yellow silk-covered chairs with clawed feet stood on either side of the great bed. Heavy brocade curtains covered the windows, blocking the outstanding view of Hyde Park and the panoramic vista all the way down Park Lane to Piccadilly Circus.

Thank you, Adrian and Susanna. He smiled, thinking of his beautiful, golden-haired sister, and Adrian, tall, slender with a carefully groomed black beard. He imagined them just returning from their family vacation in San Diego. SeaWorld and the zoo for them, Westminster Abbey and Big Ben for him—maybe Allison too, if he could pry her away from work.

She tripped back down the hall. Are you decent?

Another glance at her long, tanned legs and alluring figure tempted him to throw back the covers and show exactly how indecent she could make him feel.

Why did I ever let her go?

The answer came so readily that he pushed it aside.

Here’s your coffee, she said. I couldn’t remember for sure, but I think you take it black.

He nodded.

Good. And I toasted a couple of these things, she said, holding out a plate.

Crumpets. You eat them with tea.

Don’t be such a prig. We’re having them for breakfast with coffee. Or lunch. Whatever this is. The time change has me all discombobulated.

She sipped from his cup, then retreated to the door before turning back, swirling the hem of her skirt. There’s a pretty park across the street. What do you say we go for a run?

Twenty minutes later, they stepped out of the elevator and into the Victorian lobby cluttered with heavily ornamented furniture, beveled mirrors, and an intricately woven burgundy carpet. The elderly doorman eyed them, all but sniffing his disapproval of Allison’s brief running shorts. In contrast, he reluctantly smiled at the muscular, 6'3" Jon.

Jon liked the shorts. He loved jogging with Allison for other reasons too. She always kept a good pace and talked as she ran. Easy entertainment and a fast way for him to wake up on this warm, lazy Sunday afternoon.

As they headed into Hyde Park, Jon switched sides to hear Allison better. His right ear had taken a beating in Vietnam—the ear that had often pressed against the stock of his M16 when he’d fired at the ever-elusive enemy. Even after Jon switched to Allison’s right side, however, the martial sound of drums and trumpets rising boisterously from a gaily decorated bandstand drowned out her words.

Allison burst out laughing when she realized he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

Jon envied her innate sense of joy. He was the person who’d just received his Harvard degree in economics, he the one who had grown up in a loving, wealthy family, yet Allison, with an alcoholic mother and absent father, possessed a joie de vivre that intoxicated him.

She darted off the road to flee the people crowding the thoroughfare. Jon followed her through the trees to another path dappled with shade and scented by exquisite purple and pink flowers. They flew past picnickers sprawled on blankets in the sunshine. Young hip-looking lovers strummed guitars and smoked while older couples sat primly nearby, reading or sipping wine.

Allison surprised him by ducking off the path again, leading him through trees and bushes. The lane she took brought them alongside a lake shimmering in the sunlight.

She pointed to a Do Not Enter sign hanging on a low fence and said, But I think we should, don’t you?

Before he could object, she’d cleared the top rail. He fell into line, knowing that on a day as glorious as this, he’d follow those legs anywhere.

Dense underbrush soon slowed her, and both of them had to force their way through thick lilac bushes before entering an open glade of soft grass. Allison collapsed at the edge, her chest rising and falling.

Lewis and Clark you’re not, Jon said between breaths.

Oh, I don’t know about that. I think I’ve discovered a lovely little pasture.

He looked around. He’d been in Hyde Park many times but had no idea where they were.

God, this feels so good, she said. Come on, lie down. It’ll cool you off.

He doubted that, looking at her in her scanty running shorts, but either option, cooling off or heating up, sounded splendid to him.

But within moments of lying beside her, Jon was taken aback by the smell of the lush green vegetation to a thick Vietnamese rainforest filled with hidden menace. The clean smell of grass and late-season lilacs faded to rotting jungle odors from his endless year in the Mekong Delta.

Two years since he’d left that hellhole, but memories still returned, as vivid and vicious as ever.

He reminded himself that he was in England.

England.

Still, his eyes searched the trees for snipers, and a distinct sense of dread weighted his limbs. Ambushes happened in places like this when you let yourself relax.

Are you okay? Allison was staring at him.

Fine. But he was breathing hard, as if he were still running. He couldn’t stop glancing at the verdancy that surrounded them, so densely alive that he could almost hear the leaves growing. I just need a minute. Time for the memories to fade.

Fade, goddammit.

Allison touched his face, but he pushed her hand away. No, he said. No more games.

I don’t play games. She propped herself on an elbow and looked at him closely. What are you talking about?

You coming into my room last night in nothing but your nightgown. I could see right through it. I don’t like being teased. I hate it. He was blaming her because he couldn’t stomach the truth.

You were shouting in your sleep. You were yelling for help. What was I supposed to do? Put on a dress before making sure you were all right? She pushed his hair off his damp forehead. Jon, the war’s over. It’s not part of your life anymore. It’s behind you.

He looked in her eyes and kissed her for the first time in months, flooded with relief when she kissed back.

She rolled on top of him, pressing her nylon shorts against him. She reached under his shirt and caressed the hard ridges of his stomach. He moaned and heard her groaning too, but something in the air prickled his senses, a feral instinct that had saved his life in ’Nam. Even this marvelously aroused woman couldn’t override it.

Jon—

He put a quick hand over her mouth and hugged her tightly, stilling all movement. Across the clearing, coming from opposite corners, two men pushed their way into the glade through the heavy brush. Jon pulled Allison back into the shelter of an overhanging lilac branch.

The men stopped a few feet short of each other, sixty feet from the hidden couple. Jon couldn’t hear their murmured conversation, but he knew neither was happy. They stood stiffly. No handshake or easygoing gestures. Nothing friendly. If this was business, it was cold business. Finally, the men sat on a thick log at the far end of the clearing, the perch incongruous for two well-dressed men.

For a moment, Jon wondered if the specter of Vietnam was to blame for his fear, but then Allison whispered, Strange bedfellows, don’t you think? She clearly found them suspicious as well. The men were an odd pair. The shorter man had olive skin and tousled dark brown hair, and he looked little more than skin and bones draped in a wrinkled white linen suit. He placed a briefcase on his lap, which jiggled as his feet kept time to the band music. Sweat beaded the small man’s forehead, and he appeared to be breathing hard. Even at a distance, Jon could see him taking in air.

The other man had the bearing of a quintessential British businessman, stolid and formal in a blue pinstriped suit. He wore dark leather driving gloves, and his tanned skin suggested long afternoons playing golf. His left hand clutched a large Gladstone bag carefully placed on the log next to him.

A three-piece suit? Allison whispered. Even you’re not that uptight. She nudged him and smiled.

The Englishman nodded imperiously. Had the other man said something? Jon couldn’t tell. He hadn’t seen the man’s lips move. The small guy opened his briefcase.

Business? Allison said. Or drugs?

She was right, of course.

Let’s go, Jon whispered. He’d come to London for a vacation, not to play the French Connection’s Popeye Doyle. And he sure didn’t need to watch a drug deal go down or endure any other kind of stress. He’d used up his lifetime quota in Vietnam.

But Allison shook her head. She was not moving.

The small guy handed over papers, and the Englishman studied the documents carefully. Finally, he looked up, nodded his head, and smiled. He turned toward his own bag and opened it.

Pomp and Circumstance reached a crescendo in the distance.

A loud crack emanated from where the two men sat. Gun steady in his gloved hand, the Englishman fired twice more into his companion’s torso.

As if in slow motion, the white-suited man slumped to the ground.

Allison went rigid and opened her mouth in horror. Jon, with mechanical, mindless speed, clamped his hand over her mouth and forced her deeper into the brush.

The Englishman leaned over, laid his gun on the grass, placed the stack of documents in his handbag, snapped the bag shut, and walked smartly away. In seconds, he’d disappeared into the trees. His victim writhed on the ground, clawing his chest, his mouth opening and closing as the music played an eerie soundtrack for his agony.

Allison trembled, her tears wet on Jon’s tightly pressed hand. Then she struggled wildly to free herself.

No, he warned.

She broke away, sprang to her feet, and crashed through the thickly scented flowers, racing to the dying man. Kneeling by his side, she pleaded, Hold on.

He muttered, and she leaned over, her ear to his mouth. He twisted in pain.

Jon scanned the trees for the Englishman, then ran to Allison in a low crouch, feeling exposed, crossing yet another rice paddy.

He grabbed her arm, but she yanked it away. Jon looked into the woods once more. No sign of the shooter.

Allison tore the man’s shirt with her teeth and stuffed strips of the white cotton cloth into his chest wounds, drenching her hands with his blood.

Do something, Jon. He’s dying!

Not much we can do. He’d seen too many men die. There was a look, and this man had it. He wouldn’t last two minutes.

Jon’s eyes fell to the gun on the grass, an old Smith & Wesson .38. Untraceable, no doubt. An organized-crime execution? This looks like a mob hit, he said. We’ve got to get out of here. Now!

No, Allison said fiercely. We need an ambulance and the police.

"No policía, the man gasped in Spanish. Cannot trust…policía."

Jon opened the man’s briefcase. Inside were a rosary and a handgun. When he saw the semiautomatic weapon, he dropped the briefcase like he’d been bitten. He started to back away, then realized he’d better wipe off his fingerprints.

As he finished using his T-shirt on the briefcase, he heard Allison sob. He looked over to see that the man’s body had slumped. His chest, so visibly active when he’d been sitting on the log, was still.

Jon tried to pull Allison away. He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do. Let’s go. This is some sort of gang murder.

But still she wouldn’t move. She looked dazed.

Panicking, Jon raced to the edge of the clearing and stared into the woods, terrified that the killer might be staring back.

Then he watched as Allison slipped her hands into the dead man’s pockets, then stood unsteadily. The music reached its final crescendo as she staggered over to Jon. He took her arm and beat the bushes aside until he found a path.

They ran, stopping only at the Serpentine to wash their hands in the lake: Allison because hers were stained with blood, Jon to wash away the memory of all the grisly deaths he’d ever seen.

But this one, he knew even as he lifted his hands from the cool water, would lodge in his memory like all the others.

Allison was wrong. The war wasn’t over. It would never be over.

Chapter 2

Jon’s hands shook noticeably as he poured the whiskey, splashing it on the black marble bar in his sister’s flat. Allison didn’t care. She gulped the mouthful that made it into the tumbler. Jon did likewise, then poured another round.

When he grabbed a rag to wipe up the whiskey, he spotted his face in the shiny black surface of the marble. His jaw was clenched, eyes intense. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe.

You want to call the police, or do you want me to? Allison asked.

Bad idea, he said. We should stay out of this.

We have to. If you don’t, I will.

There was a long pause.

Okay, I’ll do it, Jon said. But he must have been a mobster. You know that, right?

Why do you say that? she snapped.

Jon downed his whiskey and felt the burn deep in his belly. God, he’d needed that. Because England’s not like the US. People don’t carry guns around. They’re incredibly illegal. Jesus, even the cops don’t have them.

Allison, mugged twice when she’d lived in Chelsea, each time for less than ten dollars, shook her head. That’s hard to believe.

No, what’s hard to believe is that someone killed that guy with a traceless, forty-year-old Smith & Wesson and then dropped it. That’s a pro move. Nobody’s ever going to catch him with the murder weapon. And you know what I found in the dead guy’s briefcase? He didn’t wait for an answer. Another gun. Both of those guys were thugs. The Brit just got the jump.

Allison slid her empty glass over to him.

Jon played barkeep, more accurately this time, then pushed it back.

I’m not saying we have to go to the police station. Allison sipped her whiskey. But we should sure as hell call.

I will, but not from here. I’m not dragging Adrian and Susanna into this.

Where’s the nearest pay phone?

The corner. I’ll go; you shower.

*   *   *

The red British phone booths, like the shiny black London cabs, normally pleased Jon with their crisp cleanliness, so different from those in the States, but he wasn’t sure anything could please him now. Number for the police in hand, Jon fed coins into the slot, dialed, and a moment later heard, Hyde Park Station. May I help you?

I need to report a murder. He could scarcely believe he’d spoken those words.

Where, sir? The woman responded as if murder were an everyday occurrence in London. Maybe it was.

Hyde Park.

Are you sure of this, sir, or are you repeating something you’ve heard?

Damn sure. I was jogging there less than thirty minutes ago when I saw it happen. A shooting, he added.

May I have your name, sir?

It was near the bandstand, not far from the Serpentine, in the wild section, Jon said, ignoring her request. He offered all the details he could remember before abruptly hanging up. Then he stepped back, staring at the phone. His face felt hot. They’ll find the body, he told himself. It’s not like it’s buried in the bushes.

He entered the flat just as Allison was walking down the hall from the bathroom wrapped only in a towel.

She threw him an uneasy smile over her shoulder. Done?

Done. They’ll find him, Jon said brusquely. Let’s go have some tea. Change of scene.

On the flight over, Allison had been charmed by the prospect of a traditional English tea. Of course, that had been on the plane before the murder, when he’d promised her the complete complement of cakes and cucumber sandwiches, champagne, and tea. He had serious doubts about his appetite at this point.

Are you going to shower? she asked.

Right away.

Better make it a cold shower, he said to himself as he hurried down the hall. What with the murder, the whiskey, the call to the police, and the near-naked vision of Miss Loveliness herself, I could use it.

Afterward, when he saw Allison dressed, he didn’t know whether to wince or whistle.

What? she asked.

Could she possibly not know? It’s your dress.

She glanced down at her short green frock, so mini that he could see her matching panties, then looked back up. Don’t you like it?

It’s…lovely. But forget the Ritz or Browns or even the lovely shop downstairs. Not with her dressed like that. It wasn’t just the hemline; that was the least of it. She had tied her hair back with a white headband, was wearing white imitation patent leather flats with deep creases in the sides and was carrying a cheap vinyl handbag. South Boston was speaking, and it didn’t sound so good.

But she’s so beautiful.

That’s true, he thought, agreeing with himself, but his blue blood wouldn’t budge.

We’ll just run down to Knightsbridge, he said. That neighborhood wouldn’t mind. But not Harrods. Do you have a sweater or a shawl?

She held up a white cardigan. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?

Something’s very wrong, he said, no longer thinking of her outfit, which was such a petty concern that it made his heart feel about the size of a peanut.

I can’t get it out of my mind either, she said. I must have washed my hands fifty times in the shower.

He took her in his arms and started to hug her.

She resisted, saying, I’m sorry, but I can’t wrinkle my dress. I want to look good.

She sounded so vulnerable and was trying so hard that, for the umpteenth time, he wished, really wished, he weren’t such a prig.

He smiled. You look wonderful. I know it’s hard, but let’s put aside what we saw, at least for a few hours. London’s so great in the summertime. Here, he said, handing her an extra key for the flat’s private elevator. I meant to give this to you earlier. You can’t get up here without it.

He locked the door to the flat as they stepped into the small tenth-floor jewel-box lobby encased in beautiful hand-carved wooden wainscoting. A Gainsborough hung on the wall to their left.

I’ll try my key. Practice run. Allison inserted her key into the elevator lock and pressed the button before dropping the key into her purse.

For a moment, Jon’s eyes took in the shiny handbag, the broad white plastic belt, the cheap shoes, and the polyester dress. Time for Christmas in June?

*   *   *

They ate little with their tea—a few bites of cake and hardly any of the dainty cucumber sandwiches. No champagne at all; neither of them wanted the fizzy after belting down whiskey.

Allison appeared preoccupied the entire time they were in the tea shop, which Jon ascribed to the obvious reason. It wasn’t until they strolled arm in arm down to the Tube that Jon had an inkling that her preoccupation might stem from something else. But even then, Jon assumed that riding the Tube was part of the sightseeing she’d had in mind, a sign that perhaps she, more than he, was really putting aside the murder.

As they shuttled beneath the city, he began to rattle off the districts she might want to visit on her real estate assignment: neighborhoods with the best reputations, most history, that sort of thing, but when they exited the Underground into a neighborhood he had never visited, he realized at once that something was wrong. All he could see were run-down shops and flats and streets that were oddly empty for a Sunday afternoon. Not a safe neighborhood.

We’ve got the wrong stop. Let’s get out of here. And fast, he added to himself.

No, it’s right, she said in a grave tone he’d never heard before. Already, she was crossing the street to a row of apartment buildings, checking addresses. Here it is. She handed him an English driver’s license for a Jorge Medina.

Jon looked at the picture and then looked again, stopping in the middle of the street. What?! This is the guy who got killed. Are you out of your mind? How’d you get this?

Keep your voice down, she said.

She’s right. He looked around. He saw no one, but who was to say that somebody couldn’t hear him? There were open windows, distant voices.

Allison linked her arm with his and led him to the sidewalk. "When I leaned over him, he said he had something in his house. Muy importante. Documentos. Proof. He said proof in English."

And that’s why you’re dragging us here? Jon asked angrily.

He repeated it twice.

Listen, Allison, I’ll bet it’s not just documents he has there. There are probably kilos of cocaine in his closet. This is crazy. We’re going to wind up in jail. Just because we’re in London doesn’t mean we need to play Holmes and Watson.

I’m not playing games, she said for the second time that day, much more serious now than earlier when she had denied teasing him. That man died in my arms. He told me because he wanted me to know. He trusted me.

Allison, we’re not breaking into some murdered guy’s flat because he happened to tell you something—

In the last seconds of his life, she interrupted. And who said anything about breaking in?

Thank God! I thought you were suggesting—

She silenced him by holding up a ring with three keys. We don’t have to break in.

Where’d you get that? But Jon already knew…from the dead guy’s pockets.

Allison was walking up to the front door of the building like she owned it. Jon had scant seconds to decide whether to go along or stop her.

He knew in these fleeting moments that if he made a scene, it might prove a bigger risk than simply tagging along like a tardy husband, so he caught up to her, stroked her back as she unlocked the lobby door, and muttered, In for a penny…

Inside, Allison started right up the stairs to flat number 6, the address on the license. She unlocked Medina’s door as casually as she had the building entrance