Warriors (28 page)

“Not sure I’d call it that. One of the worst I’ve seen, actually. Right this way, gentlemen.”

They followed him down an oppressive green-tiled corridor made hideous by fluorescent lighting and entered the morgue proper. It was precisely as dismal as Hawke had imagined a mortuary of the Victorian era might appear, but an unexpected feeling swept over him just before the detective inspector pulled out the stainless steel drawer and revealed the victim.

Sadness, prompted by the presence of ghosts of all the young lads from Verdun, the Argonne, the Battle of Britain, Dunkirk, and countless dead and youthful souls who had resided for a time in this building. Only the monstrous sight of the mutilated corpse stretched out before him interrupted his fleeting reverie.

“Not a pretty sight, I’m afraid,” Cummings said.

“What the hell?” Hawke said, stifling his revulsion at the sight. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Congreve moved around the slab, bending down and peering carefully at various areas of the body before quickly moving on. He had brought a small digital camera and was photographing the corpse from head to toe. There were toes, Hawke noticed, just no fingers and no face. Ambrose took a sequence of shots of what little was left of the visage from every conceivable angle.

“What’s your take, Ambrose?”

“Well. My first thought is
lingchi,
obviously, known as the ‘death of a thousand cuts’ used in China from roughly
A
.
D
. 900 until its abolition around 1905. The term derives from a classical description of ascending a mountain slowly. The executioner grasps handfuls of the fleshy parts of the body such as the thighs and breasts, slicing them away . . . the limbs are cut off piecemeal at the wrists and the ankles, the elbows and the knees, shoulders and hips. And then . . .” He paused.

“And then what?” Hawke said.

“After hours of unspeakable agony, the condemned is stabbed to the heart and his head is cut off.”

“And?”

“This is obviously not
lingchi,
is it? No penetration, no decapitation. And the cuts are utterly uniform in their diamond-shaped pattern, as opposed to random slicing.”

“Well, what then, Chief Inspector?” Cummings said. “It’s got us baffled, frankly.”

“I think this poor fellow suffered a far worse fate than
lingchi
. Far more insidious and long-lasting. I think he was suspended inside a collapsible mesh cage made of razor-sharp steel wire. The sheer weight of his body would cause the cage to slowly contract, slicing his flesh in the precise geometry of these diamondlike incisions. What was left of the soft facial tissue was removed postmortem. As were the fingertips.”

“Do you recognize the methodology?” Hawke asked him.

“Yes. The Shining Basket, as it’s called. The historian George Ryley Scott claims that many unfortunates were executed precisely this way by the Chinese Communist insurgents. He cites various claims made by the Nanking government in 1927 in his 1940 volume
History of Torture
. Also, Sir Henry Norman, a writer and photographer whose collection is now owned by the University of Cambridge, gives an eyewitness account of just such an atrocity as this one. A rather lengthy volume published in 1895 entitled
The People and Politics of the Far East
.”

Hawke was suddenly aware of the stifling heat and the stench of chemicals, decay, and death. He needed air and he needed it badly.

“Thank you so much for your time, Detective Inspector Cummings. I think we’re done for the day here. If you think of anything not in your crime scene report, you can reach me on my mobile at this number.” Hawke handed him his card and made for the exit, because he desperately needed to get out of this house of horrors.

Congreve lingered near the corpse, studying his photographs on the camera’s tiny screen, discussing them with his former colleague.
He likes it here,
Hawke thought.
He’s comfortable.

He’s home.

C
H A P T E R
  3 7

E
arly that evening, after the grisly visit to the morgue, Hawke and Congreve checked into the ever-so-trendy Hotel du Vin in central Cambridge. The magnificent Fitzwilliam Museum stood just across the road and cast its long violet shadow over the lamplit hotel entrance.

Once registered, the two men climbed the steps to their rooms and showered and changed, having agreed to meet for dinner in the lobby at seven. Ambrose had suggested one of his old haunts, a cozy candlelit wine bar in the cellar of the hotel.

Hawke could see that his oldest and closest friend, despite his nonchalance that afternoon, had been deeply disturbed by the gruesome events at the morgue. He decided to avoid that train of thought entirely and keep his tone and manner light.

“Well, you can’t keep it from me any longer, Constable. The rumors are rampant all over London.”

“Rumors? What bloody rumors?”

“I have this upon the full authority of the lads at the Men’s Bar at Black’s. I’m told that you and the lovely Lady Mars have finally set the date.”

“Date for what? Oh, yes. That. Well, I suppose we have.”

“Out with it, then. When is the blessed day?”

“Christmas Day. At Brixden House, of course.”

“How charming. A lovely setting. I hope it snows. Were you planning to invite me? Or restricting the guest list to include only blood relatives and perhaps a smattering of your closest friends?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alex. You’re to be best man.”

“Am I?”

“Of course you are. Who else would I ask? My hideous cousin Rupert from Swinburne?”

“I’ve no idea. You haven’t asked me. That insufferable chum of yours, Sir Percy Squires, rather inferred that it was he and he alone who had the best shot at the title. He was quite sure you were going to anoint him, in fact.”

“He said that?”

“He did.”

“Hmm. Quite right. I haven’t asked you, have I?”

“No.”

“Well?” Hawke said, smiling.

“Well, what?”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?” Congreve said, exasperated. “Damn it, man, you know what I’m saying.”

“Then say it.”

“Do I have to go down on one knee? I am asking you if you would do me the very great honor of being the best man at my impending wedding to Lady Diana Mars on Christmas Day next at Brixden House. Will you or won’t you?”

“Hmm. I shall take it under advisement.”

“Under—”

“Calm down. Of course I’ll do it. And I am honored. And very happy for you both. She’s too good for you, of course, but then you knew that.”

“She is indeed. I know I’m no prize in the great feminine sweepstakes. But she loves me. There you have it. And I absolutely adore her.”

“I see an endless sea of bliss awaiting you both. This calls for champagne, don’t you think?”

“Of course I do.”

“Wine steward, a bottle of your best vintage Taittinger, if you please. Well chilled. My friend here is to be married on Christmas Day!”

After the champagne was gone, the two old friends enjoyed a good filet steak and an even better bottle of the best claret.

Congreve wanted a pipe after supper, and they stepped outside onto the bricked terrace. The night was clear and cold, pinprick stars in the blue-black sky above.

“Where are you on this bloody Master’s Garden murder? Surely you have some preliminary findings in that supercharged cerebellum of yours,” Hawke said as they sipped a brandy. They’d found two chairs on the small brick terrace and settled into a comfortably ruminative silence, smoking and drinking.

“Puzzles, bits and bobs, nothing more substantive,” Congreve said.

“Such as?”

“Oh, the obvious political ramifications. We’ve a friend in Japan and an enemy in China. This murder has something to do with that. Politics. The murderer, we know, was clearly Chinese. No one else on earth is capable of executing a variation of
lingchi
in that specific fashion. Not sure about the victim, of course. We’ll see what we see after we’ve met with Hobdale. One thing is troubling me.”

“Do tell.”

“Idle speculation, and nothing more. Not worthy of discussion at this point, Alex. Yes. I’m afraid we’re really at the mercy of Sir Lucian Hobdale before we take the next leap. More cognac?”

“Why the hell not?” Alex said.

“Why the hell not, indeed? Who’s to tell me I can’t have more cognac?”

“The feminine leash is short and getting shorter? Christmas nuptials are right around the corner?”

“Precisely.”

“Chief Inspector?” A young woman said as she emerged into the moonlight.

“Who’s there?” Ambrose said.

“It’s Lorelei. Lorelei Li.”

“So it is! How are you, my dear? Come say hello to my very good friend Alex Hawke.”

Hawke stood up and extended his hand. Hers was cool and warm at the same time, soft to the touch.

“Won’t you join us for a brandy, Lorelei?” Hawke said. “It’s a lovely night for it. Ambrose, move over.”

“Oh, no, I can’t. My editor’s waiting for me inside. I just stepped out to sneak one of these. Do you mind?”

Hawke’s gunmetal Zippo appeared out of nowhere and he held it to the tip of her cigarette. She took a puff and expelled a thin blue stream that missed Hawke’s right cheek by inches. Her eyes were flashing as she said to Ambrose, “Perhaps I’ll see you both in the morning. I’m down from London, covering the press conference for the
Times
tomorrow.”

“Press conference?” Congreve said.

“Yes. The Cambridge police are issuing a statement on the murder at Sidney Sussex College.”

“You don’t say?” Congreve said. “Murder? Here at Cambridge? Really?”

“Really.” She smiled. “And I suppose you two don’t know anything at all about it?”

“Shocking,” Hawke said. “Is it not? We’re just here for the punting. Have you been out on the river today? Smashing.”

She was not amused.

“Well. So awfully good to see you, Chief Inspector Congreve. And you as well, Mister—?”

“Hawke. Alex Hawke.”

She held his eyes for a moment too long; then she was gone.

“Who the hell is that?” Hawke said.

“Old student of mine. One of a number of Chinese postdocs in my seminars, back when I lectured in international criminology here ten years ago. Why do you ask?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why?”

Hawke sat back down and looked at Congreve a moment before speaking.

“Is she a good guy? Or a bad guy?”

“Hard to say, really. Lads at Six weren’t really keen on digging into the Chinese students’ backgrounds here at Cambridge back then. Smart as a whip, that one. After Cambridge she took two more doctorates. History at Oxford and economics at LSE.”

“Now she’s a reporter?”

“No, an occasional stringer. Freelance. Odd bits and bobs of stuff for the
Times,
Daily Mail
. Covers current events with a political perspective. Why are you so curious about her? Aside from the fact that she’s outlandishly stunning to look at, of course.”

“She was flirting with me.”

“Don’t take it personally. She flirts with everybody.”

“We’ll see about that,” Hawke said. Opening his gunmetal cigarette case, he extracted a stick and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

“I suppose,” Congreve said with a sigh. “She is fabulous looking, isn’t she? A very well-proportioned female. If one likes them, as the French put it so nicely, ‘
Il y a du monde au balcon
.’ ”

“Meaning?”

“Everyone’s sitting in the balcony.”

“Ah.”

“Bosoms, Alex. The balcony?”

“I got it, for heaven’s sake! You stay away from her, Constable. You’re getting married, remember? Christmas Day?”

“God save me, you’re serious.”

“Deadly serious. One more thing. Should I ever see that goddess again? She’s mine.”

Hawke lit his cigarette and took a drag.

He’d seen that gorgeous creature somewhere once before. But damned if he could remember when or where.

Behind the wheel of a speeding automobile, perhaps?

C
H A P T E R
  3 8

T
he bedside phone jangled. Alex opened his eyes, sighed, and looked at his watch. Two o’clock in the bloody morning. Who the hell?

“I can hear you snore,” a vaguely familiar female voice said when he picked up.

“Ah. So sorry.”

“I like it.”

“Really? So few women do.”

“I’m not like most women.”

“How very fortunate.”

“Try not to be a rude, sexist pig if you can possibly avoid it.”

“Sorry. How is that you can hear me snore?”

“You’re loud.”

“But still.”

“I’m right next door.”

“Ah.”

“I hear everything.”

“Surely not everything.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Is there no privacy at all in this damned hotel?”

“Apparently not. You’d best behave.”

“Behave, is it? And if I don’t?”

“I’m not sure. Is your door locked?”

“Of course.”

“Unlock it.”

“Yes, dear.”

Click.

She’d rung off.

He replaced the receiver, yawned, and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. Feeling the cold against his naked skin, he grabbed his navy silk robe. The scant remains of his nightcap stood beside the phone, and he snatched up the glass and downed the dregs.

“Bottoms up,” he said, laughing softly to himself, while he idly scratched his bare stomach inside his robe. “Or at least one certainly hopes so.”

There came a tapping at his chamber door.

“Miss Li, I presume?” he said, opening it a crack.

She bowed her dark head, bent from the waist, and pressed her palms together.

“At your service, Lord Hawke.”

“I do like the sound of that. Won’t you please come in?”

“Come into my parlor, said the fly to the spider.”

He thought about that a moment and laughed. “Quite a good one, that. So you’re the infamous Spider Woman I’ve heard so much about.”