LONDON - 1938
"But why do we have to go?" Herrick bit back a sigh of irritation at the interruption. His protégé was not only late, he smelt as though he'd half-drowned in a vat of Guinness on the way.
Which judging by the look of him, he very probably had been.
Mitchell, for his part, stood in the doorway, one hand trying vainly to keep his head from pounding, his bleary eyes not quite focusing on the scene that lay within.
32 Tiptree Gardens, the home, or more accurately, the former home, of Mr Albert Wainwright, had been a neat, well-kept semi.
Nothing remarkable really, rather like its owner, whose day-old corpse had been laid out in front of the fire. It awaited disposal at a mutually convenient time.
Mitchell watched sullenly as his maker worked silently to smooth the scene, to finesse the details.
It seemed a run-of-the-mill kill, nothing special, yet there was something oddly disquieting about the scene, like some tired tableaux. Then he noticed the single glass on the mantle.
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