“Eyes, Mr. Solomon. You seem to have good eyes. What about the shooter. You get a good look at ’im, at least?”
I couldn’t hold it in. “You’re an ass.” “Quite beside the point,” said Bryant.
I shook my head and took a breath before answering. “The guy was done up in corpse paint.”
“’eavy metal makeup like your Kiss band,” Bryant said.
“These days it’s more associated with black metal: Behemoth, Cradle of Filth?—”
“Sounds joyful,” he said, writing quickly in his notebook. “Do go on.” “That’s most of it. The number of guys who go in for corpse paint is pretty small. So, maybe that’s helpful, I don’t know.”
He continued to write. “Can you describe’owthe man ’ad painted ’imself?” “White on his head and face,” I said. “Black X’s through his eyes.
Mouth done up like it had been stitched shut.”
Bryant stopped writing, walked over, and stood next to the sheet-covered corpse. Then he pulled back the sheet.
Lying there on the metal slab was the guy who’d shot me and Henry.
His makeup was a bit smeared, but there was no mistaking him. “This the bloke?” Bryant asked.
“That’s him,” I said.
Bryant pointed to the man’s right hand. “Lab says ’is prints match the ones on an S&W 500 conveniently found near the body. Some gunpowder tracing, as well—also a match.”
I glanced quickly at the binding thread on the shooter’s wrist; it was just as Emaline had promised, all the same markings, plus a ship’s wheel, which I assumed was the vestige’s personal mark. “Why all the questions if you have him and the gun?”
Bryant smiled. “Always nice to ’ave an eyewitness ID the attacker. And I didn’t want to taint your description of the lout by letting you have a peek before I took your statement.”
I was starting to work on how we’d get the body out of here when Bryant raised a finger.
“There’s one other thing I’d like to show you, Mr. Solomon, if you could spare another moment of your time.”
“Of course,” I said.
Detective Bryant turned and pulled back the sheet from the body on the table behind him. It was Henry.
My heart started pounding. It had been two days. I couldn’t imagine anyone surviving the Meadows for that long. Willingly or not, he must have been swept into the mountain of fire.
My first night in London, I’d realized I had nowhere to go. More than that, I was worried I’d fail my dream and have to go back home. Henry let me crash on his couch. He’d put on the vinyl ofWho’s Nextand sat rocking in a rocker, talking to me all night. We chatted about music and small stuff. We bonded a lot over “Behind Blue Eyes,” feeling like we understood its meaning. By morning, I was okay.
Now the friend who’d been more a father to me than my old man was gone.
My legs started to give. Cassius threw his right arm around me, bearing me up.
“Oh, dear,” I heard Cage say. Bryant stood watching impassively.
You don’t ever get used to it. Seeing someone you love lying there and knowing they can’t hear you, knowing that they would never hear you again. And so you say nothing, just suffer in silence.
Henry really was gone.
The old pressure exploded behind my eyes; every heartbeat pounded inside my head like a kick drum. My wrists ached. But no elastic sting, no heavy rhythms, would relieve it this time. I wanted to wail. Drown it all out. I could only choke back the pain and clutch Cassius’s arm so I wouldn’t collapse.
What seemed minutes later I managed to ask, “How?”
Cage cleared his throat. “Mr. Wilkinson had a single gunshot wound in his chest.” He paused. “But the official cause of death is hypoxia.”
“’e drowned,” said Bryant, clarifying. “This tosser stuffed your friend in an iron safe, locked it, and sank it to the bottom of the Thames.”
