It’sthe scent of smoke that tips me off.
Sure, the unlocked back door’s a big clue too, but it’s the smoke that really has me worried. I’ve come here alone, checked I’m not being followed. Must have done it a hundred and more times now. Never been anything wrong before. But now the back door’s unlocked and there’s a smell of smoke in the air.
Wood smoke? Coal? I can’t really tell. Maybe it’s the scent of a recently gone cigarette. London’s ruined my country-born senses. All I know is there’s smoke and there shouldn’t be. So where’s it coming from?
I’m in a quiet courtyard at the end of a dark alley, tucked away in a forgotten part of the city centre. You don’t have to go far to find hipster cafés, old Victorian pubs and all the other stuff the tourist board loves about London, but this is well hidden. We chose it for that reason, among others. Not cheap to rent, but not so expensive it looks suspicious either. Just another business trying to make its way in the capital, struggling to pay the bills and maybe open to a little dealing under the counter, as it were. We set it up to fish for contacts, get someone into the local organised crime scene. It was working fine too. Until now.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen like a lost tourist. Pete’s text is there in front of me.
Come to the office. Something’s up. Usual protocols. P.
It’s unlike him not to just phone, but not so odd I’d thought to bring backup. We’re a small team anyway, and this is meant to be deep undercover. Dragging anyone else along would risk blowing the whole thing before it’s really started.
Except there’s that faint whiff of smoke, and the back door’s unlocked.
Despite everything the press and politicians say, most of us in the Met aren’t armed and don’t particularly want to be. I wish I was right now though. All I’ve got is a can of mace and a rape alarm. It’s small comfort as I nudge the back door wider with my foot, try to peer inside. Foolish, really. There’s just the narrow hallway, piled up with old cardboard boxes and a couple of bin bags waiting to be taken out. Then the stairs climb up to the offices on the first floor. Can’t see anything around the corner. Do I shout?
No. That’s being stupid. Come on, Con. Get in there and find out what’s happening.
I thumb a quick text to DS Chambers anyway. Not that she’ll do anything about it, but at least it covers my arse. A quick look around the tiny courtyard, and then I step inside.
The smell of smoke is heavier, but I still can’t see any fire. I take the stairs as quietly as I can, back to the wall for support. Wary. At the top, I peer over the parapet, nervous ears straining for any sound over the ever-present rumble of traffic. Time was I loved that sound, the noise of progress, of sophisticated living. Now I’d happily trade it for the bored silence of my youth.
There’s no one in the outer office, but then I wouldn’t have expected there to be. This place is a front, usually only Pete here going through the motions of being an unsuccessful businessman. Waiting for the right person to start taking an interest in what we’re doing. I don’t notice the chair on its back at first, my gaze drawn by movement at ceiling level. That’s when I see the smoke clinging to the plaster, easing out of the gaps in the doorway through to the front room. Pete’s office. The top half of the door’s made from obscured glass, nothing but indistinct white shapes beyond.
‘Pete. You in there?’ Even as I speak the words I know how stupid they are. There’s a fire alarm in this place that feeds straight back to control. Should be bells ringing, fire engines on their way. My phone should have lit up with notifications when the back door was opened without the right key code, but there was just the text. This is wrong.
I try the door, unsurprised to find it locked. The handle’s warm to the touch though, and when I place my palm against the glass it’s the same. Two steps back, the time for subtlety is over. I kick the door just below the handle, stagger as my foot rebounds off the solid wood frame. Try again, and this time the lock breaks. A third kick has it open, and thick white smoke billows from the room beyond. Through the fog of it, I can see the source, a waste paper bin on fire. Dark charring marks the wall beside it, but mercifully the blaze hasn’t spread. The acrid smoke catches my throat, brings tears to my eyes and makes everything blurred as I hurry in and stamp out the last of the flames. Only then do I turn and see what I already fear.
There’s a large desk to one side of the room, an office chair on the far side. A man sits in it, facing me but unmoving.
‘Pete?’ I step closer, blinking my vision clear. It’s not easy to breathe, but I’m stuck where I stand, unable to process what I’m seeing.
Detective Inspector Peter Copperthwaite, my boss and perhaps closest friend in the force, slumps in the chair and stares lopsided at nothing. If he wasn’t tied up, he’d probably have fallen to the floor by now. I can’t quite work out what’s happened to his face. Blood smears across his skin, bruises seal one eye shut. The other is red and lifeless. A line of bloody drool drips from his ripped mouth, adding to the red stains on his torn white shirt. But it’s the tiny red dot in the middle of his forehead that I can’t stop staring at.
That and the smear of his brains on the wall behind him.
No Time To Cry is released in eBook and Audio format on July 26th 2018. The paperback print edition will be released on November 1st. Click the link below to pre-order.
