Brodie knew what he was about to say as he lifted the right arm, already stiffening and heavy with the rigor mortis that had begun to set in.
The fingers on the left hand had been severed, then placed on the desk on a court document by a folder that lay open, as the judge had apparently worked early before the courts opened.
“Aye,” Brodie replied.
Revenge. The word was there, the murder most definitely meant to send a message.
The judges’ chambers, including the entire courts, might have been closed off to anyone except members of the MET and CID.
Mr. Dooley had informed the constables posted at the entrance that Brodie was to be allowed access, authorized by the Home Secretary.
A bit of a stretch of the truth, yet perhaps not.
Another murder. The judge very clearly left to slowly bleed to death as the killer went about his grim task with that display on the desk.
A message? Or merely the final step in his task.
Three murders within a matter of days. And all the victims were known to Brodie from his time with the MET.
Eleven
HAMMERSMITH, LONDON
MIKAELA
I was notsurprised to see a plain-clothed man at the entrance to the residence of Chief Inspector Dawes.
In working with Brodie on other inquiry cases that eventually included the Metropolitan Police, I’d learned it was not unusual to find an inspector stationed at the scene of a crime. Particularly if the crime involved someone of some stature.
In this case, it was the murder of one of their own, so to speak, even though the chief inspector had been retired for several years.
The inspector nodded as I stepped down from the coach and approached the front entrance. I did not recognize him.
He held up a hand. “Sorry, miss. The residence is restricted due to an incident. Do you have business here?”
I had prepared for this without Brodie accompanying me. I retrieved one of our calling cards from my bag and handed it to him.
“Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe, Private Inquiries?” he read the front of the card.
I nodded. “We have been given authority in the matter by the Home Secretary. Mr. Brodie is to meet me here. I do hope you won’t keep me waiting in the rain.”
A bit of a stretch of the truth, as Brodie was not aware that I had decided to come there.
“The Home Secretary, you say?”
“Due to the victim’s long service with the MET, we are assisting in the investigation.”
Admittedly, a somewhat thinly disguised excuse, as we had not officially been requested to participate. Still…
“Very well. I’ll not keep you waiting in this beastly weather. You may go inside, but don’t disturb anything within the premises. There’s no one about, the housekeeper has made other arrangements.”
I thanked him. “I am here to observe and make notes of the scene.” I had come prepared for that part of it and held my notebook aloft.
“Tedious work at times,” I added. “However, quite necessary even though I am certain your people have been quite thorough.”
He nodded from under his brimmed hat, then opened the door for me.
The foyer of the residence contained a coat rack with umbrella stand, a long coat hanging from the rack, where the chief inspector or perhaps his housekeeper had placed it after he returned from some outing. Nothing unusual in that.
