feel?’
‘All right, I suppose. My appetite seems to have gone walkabout.’
‘So you don’t fancy a full English?’
She gave me a foxy smile. ‘As in breakfast? No, thanks.’
‘Sexual innuendo at this time in the morning? Shame on you, Karen Oaten.’
‘Why don’t you try “Karen Wells”?’
‘Because I know you’ll keep your own name. That’s who you are in the Met.’
‘Work isn’t everything, Matt.’
‘I never thought I’d hear you say that.’
She took my hand and put it on her bulge. ‘We’ve got someone else to think about now. Magnus Oliver Wells.’
‘Where did “Oliver” come from?’
‘My grandfather on my mother’s side. I liked him.’
‘Okay.’ There were worse names. Like Heinz. Or Sebastian. ‘I’m ravenous. Do you mind if I stuff my face?’
Karen shook her head, then pulled me closer, her eyes suddenly damp. ‘Don’t ever leave me, Matt.’
‘Of course I won’t. What’s got into you?’
‘Nothing. It’s an emotional time. Now go and have your grease feast.’
When I came back with a plateful of eggs, bacon and sausage, I sat at the table. Karen had drifted off to sleep, so I left the cartoon and found a news channel.
I was halfway through a mouthful of food when I heard the announcer’s voice get serious.
‘In the City of Brotherly Love, a gruesome discovery,’ said the over-made-up woman with huge hair. ‘TV stations, including our own, were directed by anonymous calls to a disused factory in North Philadelphia. There, the crews found human organs said to come from murdered university professor Jack Notaro. His body was…’
The pictures showed a scrum of cameramen and reporters around a police line.
I watched as a tall man wearing a senior officer’s insignia on his uniform jacket and cap inserted himself between two street cops. Microphones were immediately directed at him, like arrows on their way to Saint Sebastian. Which made me wonder where the FBI man with that surname was. I was sure this was where he and Bimsdale had flown off to last night. The caption read Major Andrew Carstens, Philadelphia Homicide Chief.
The reporters were baying like wolves. It wasn’t often they got to make the headlines in their own story. A particularly pushy type, an oxlike man with carefully sculpted facial hair, got his question in first.
‘Major, will you confirm what was found?’
The policeman gave him a weary look. ‘As I think you know, Wayne, a human eye and kidney were located in the building behind me.’
‘By the crew from WZNT News,’ the reporter said proudly.
‘Major!’ yelled another reporter, this one Chinese and almost as tall as the cop. ‘Major, what about theNazi objects that were with the organs? Are they linked to the murders in other cities?’
Carstens looked reluctant to answer. I wasn’t surprised. Peter Sebastian had probably fitted an explosive device to his backside. If he strayed onto the FBI’s patch, his colon would be well and truly irrigated. This was looking bad. Rothmann and his group of extremist thugs had to be involved.
Eventually the major went on, confining himself to stating that a copy of Mein Kampf, a Nazi flag and an SS dagger had been arranged around the eye and kidney. There were also Waffen-SS marching songs playing on a boom box.
I pushed the plate away, no longer interested in food. The camera was panning around the crowd, then zooming in on individual members of the public. These were the ghouls who rushed to rubberneck at crime scenes, the gorier the better. That was when I saw him, the shithead. He was wearing a beard—probably false—and had a woolen hat pulled down to his ears, but I recognized his ratlike features immediately. It was Gordy Lister, one of Heinz Rothmann’s sidekicks. In Washington before the slaughter at the cathedral, we’d made the mistake of letting him go before we knew just how important he was. Here he was, right back in the frame.
I picked up the phone—it
‘All right, I suppose. My appetite seems to have gone walkabout.’
‘So you don’t fancy a full English?’
She gave me a foxy smile. ‘As in breakfast? No, thanks.’
‘Sexual innuendo at this time in the morning? Shame on you, Karen Oaten.’
‘Why don’t you try “Karen Wells”?’
‘Because I know you’ll keep your own name. That’s who you are in the Met.’
‘Work isn’t everything, Matt.’
‘I never thought I’d hear you say that.’
She took my hand and put it on her bulge. ‘We’ve got someone else to think about now. Magnus Oliver Wells.’
‘Where did “Oliver” come from?’
‘My grandfather on my mother’s side. I liked him.’
‘Okay.’ There were worse names. Like Heinz. Or Sebastian. ‘I’m ravenous. Do you mind if I stuff my face?’
Karen shook her head, then pulled me closer, her eyes suddenly damp. ‘Don’t ever leave me, Matt.’
‘Of course I won’t. What’s got into you?’
‘Nothing. It’s an emotional time. Now go and have your grease feast.’
When I came back with a plateful of eggs, bacon and sausage, I sat at the table. Karen had drifted off to sleep, so I left the cartoon and found a news channel.
I was halfway through a mouthful of food when I heard the announcer’s voice get serious.
‘In the City of Brotherly Love, a gruesome discovery,’ said the over-made-up woman with huge hair. ‘TV stations, including our own, were directed by anonymous calls to a disused factory in North Philadelphia. There, the crews found human organs said to come from murdered university professor Jack Notaro. His body was…’
The pictures showed a scrum of cameramen and reporters around a police line.
I watched as a tall man wearing a senior officer’s insignia on his uniform jacket and cap inserted himself between two street cops. Microphones were immediately directed at him, like arrows on their way to Saint Sebastian. Which made me wonder where the FBI man with that surname was. I was sure this was where he and Bimsdale had flown off to last night. The caption read Major Andrew Carstens, Philadelphia Homicide Chief.
The reporters were baying like wolves. It wasn’t often they got to make the headlines in their own story. A particularly pushy type, an oxlike man with carefully sculpted facial hair, got his question in first.
‘Major, will you confirm what was found?’
The policeman gave him a weary look. ‘As I think you know, Wayne, a human eye and kidney were located in the building behind me.’
‘By the crew from WZNT News,’ the reporter said proudly.
‘Major!’ yelled another reporter, this one Chinese and almost as tall as the cop. ‘Major, what about theNazi objects that were with the organs? Are they linked to the murders in other cities?’
Carstens looked reluctant to answer. I wasn’t surprised. Peter Sebastian had probably fitted an explosive device to his backside. If he strayed onto the FBI’s patch, his colon would be well and truly irrigated. This was looking bad. Rothmann and his group of extremist thugs had to be involved.
Eventually the major went on, confining himself to stating that a copy of Mein Kampf, a Nazi flag and an SS dagger had been arranged around the eye and kidney. There were also Waffen-SS marching songs playing on a boom box.
I pushed the plate away, no longer interested in food. The camera was panning around the crowd, then zooming in on individual members of the public. These were the ghouls who rushed to rubberneck at crime scenes, the gorier the better. That was when I saw him, the shithead. He was wearing a beard—probably false—and had a woolen hat pulled down to his ears, but I recognized his ratlike features immediately. It was Gordy Lister, one of Heinz Rothmann’s sidekicks. In Washington before the slaughter at the cathedral, we’d made the mistake of letting him go before we knew just how important he was. Here he was, right back in the frame.
I picked up the phone—it
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