Dark Eyes of London by Philip Cox Read Free Book Online

her coat.
    ‘I’d better take your number,’ she said.
    ‘Of  course.’ He gave her the number.  She saved it, and then pressed a few more keys.
    ‘I’ve just sent you mine,’ she said, as a bleep came from his coat pocket.
    ‘Nice place, really,’ she said looking round as she left the flat. ‘Not what I was expecting, to be honest.’
    ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, holding the door open for her.
    She laughed. ‘I expected it to be really slobby.  But you keep it really clean and tidy.  Nice.’
    Tom said nothing, but shrugged. He walked down the stairs with her, and out to the mini, which was parked three buildings down.
    ‘Still there,’ he said.
    ‘Nice to see you again, Tom,’ she said, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.
    ‘And you,’ he replied. ‘Pity it’s not...’
    ‘I know,’ Jane said, climbing into her car. She started the engine, and pulled into the traffic. Tom waited by the roadside until he saw her tail lights turn the first corner. Then he ambled back to his building.
    He slapped himself on the forehead: he had forgotten to ask if Jane knew why Lisa was on the Piccadilly Line. He considered giving her an hour or two to get home then calling or texting.  Then thought again.  Maybe it would keep until he saw her again.
    Maybe.
    As he walked up to the first floor he could hear the couple above having an argument.  Lots of shouting,  some doors banging, something smashing. Tom shook his head as he let himself back in. Locked and bolted the door. Took his and Jane’s tea mugs into the kitchen and left them in the sink. He was in bed in ten minutes.
    Lying in bed, he ran both hands through his hair, then lay resting his head on his hands. What next? He thought. The inquest and the funeral?
    As Tom Raymond drifted off to sleep, a solitary tear trickled down his face.

 
    Chapter Nine
    The early morning sun reflected off the sides of the highly polished black BMW as it swept up the entrance drive of the fifteen storey office block in London’s Docklands. The driver was wearing a black suit and a white shirt with a black tie. He pulled up outside the wide chrome and glass entrance doors.  Secured the handbrake, reached over to the front passenger seat, and picked up the black peaked cap.  As he stepped out of the car, he put on the cap, and quickly checked his appearance in the wing mirror. Stepped two paces to the rear door, and opened it.
    A man stepped out of the car. Underneath his beige overcoat, he wore a dark grey pin-striped three-piece suit. Underneath the suit he wore a blue striped shirt, white collar, and a pink and dark blue striped tie. Matching handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He carried a brown attaché case.
    He was of average height, shorter than the driver, and wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. The suit was maybe one size too small, as it was clearly a tight fit.  The driver was not sure exactly how old his passenger was: late fifties, he guessed.
    ‘Thank you, John,’ he barked at the driver. ‘I will be needing you at twelve-thirty.’
    John saluted. ‘Yessir,’ he said, closing the passenger door. He returned to his own seat, released the handbrake, and drove the car slowly round to the underground parking garage.
    The man walked up to the entrance doors, which slid open automatically. Two women were speaking to the man on reception; as soon as he saw the figure walk through the sliding doors, he broke off from his conversation with the women, and stood up.
    ‘Good morning, sir,’ he called out, only to be ignored as the other man walked quickly round to the bank of lifts.  He pressed the call button, and the door slid open immediately. He stepped in, and the doors slid shut. The indicator display above the lift doors flashed as it made its way up the shaft, stopping at fifteen.
    On the fifteenth floor, he strode out, again ignoring two suited men chatting near the lift and made his way past a bank of desks to a corridor. He walked down