The Borgia Ring by Michael White

and he appraised her silently. She was tall and slender, her brunette hair shoulder-length. She had a pretty if tired face, soft brown eyes and fine eyebrows, a transforming smile. He guessed she was in her early-forties.
    ‘ Chief Inspector Jack Pendragon, I believe.’
    He gave her a faint smile and looked at the bags. ‘They look heavy.’
    ‘And seem to get heavier with each step. Must be some weird Law of Nature.’
    ‘Like toast always landing butter-side down?’
    ‘Something like that,’ she laughed.
    He picked up the bags for her and followed her down the corridor.
    ‘You must drop by for a cup of tea sometime,’ she said, taking them from him again after unlocking the door.
    ‘I’d like that.’
    As he left the building it started to rain, huge drops that left dark smudges on the parched pavement. The sky was black but shot through with that almost supernatural glow that comes with electrical storms. The air felt thinner than normal, as though the oxygen was being sucked up into the higher reaches of the atmosphere. Pendragon ducked under shop canopies, dodging the downpour as best he could. A Bangladeshi grocer wished him good evening and tried to sell him some radishes. At the next corner, one of the local ‘characters’, a tailor, resplendent and stereotypical in pinstripe suit and with a tape measure around his neck, tried for the second time that day to persuade him to come in and be measured for a new ‘whistle’.
    The pub was already half-full. It still stank of cigarettes even though the public smoking ban had been in effect for years. A jukebox blared a recent chart hit and a wide-screen plasma TV was showing a football game: Arsenal versus Newcastle. At the bottom of the screen a blue strip carried news headlines. Ordering a pint, Pendragon glanced round and saw the group from the station. Jez Turner spotted him at the same moment. He stood up and beckoned his boss over.
    ‘Afternoon, sir. The Super told me you were getting your place sorted.’
    ‘Got thirsty.’
    Pendragon glanced around the table. His two inspectors, Rob Grant and Ken Towers, were there. They nodded. Between them sat two of the sergeants, Rosalind Mackleby and Jimmy Thatcher. At that moment the third sergeant, Terry Vickers, returned from the bar carrying a tray of drinks. Noticing the chief inspector for the first time, he glanced at hispint. Pendragon shook his head. ‘I’m fine thanks, Sergeant.’ Then he remembered Vickers and Thatcher had been trawling for bones around Frimley Way all morning. ‘Anything turn up?’ he asked.
    ‘No, guv. We’ve searched the entire area. Waste bins, skips … nothing.’
    ‘You going to sit down, sir?’ Turner asked. ‘You’re making the place look untidy, as me old mum always says.’
    Pendragon slipped off his jacket and sat down next to Turner, placing his beer on the rickety Formica-topped table already overcrowded with glasses and empty crisp packets.
    ‘Your turn, I believe, Jez,’ Rob Grant called over with a mocking smile. ‘And, please, make it a bit tasty. Your last bloody effort was piss poor.’
    Turner threw Grant a dismissive look.
    ‘What’s the game?’ Pendragon asked.
    ‘Conundrums. I set the scene and they ask me questions that I have to answer truthfully. They try to figure out how the scene came about.’
    Pendragon grinned. ‘God, that takes me back, I used to play this at Ox—’
    For a telling moment here was silence around the table. Then Ken Towers broke in. ‘It’s okay, sir, no need to apologise for your education … I’m happy to name-drop Kennington Secondary Modern.’ There was laughter around the table.
    Pendragon nodded, a brief smile playing across his lips, and Jez Turner said, ‘Okay. You ready? Right. John and Samantha are dead on the floor. There’s a damp patch on the carpet close to the bodies and shards of glass nearby. What’s happened?’
    Pendragon eased back with his pint, watching the others around the table. He