Stephen pulled up at the end of the alley, and we got into the car. The spot was probably illegal, but being in a police car, he could do what he liked. He had opened a laptop that was attached to a center console in the front of the car, and it appeared he was going into a police database.

“There’s an Alexander Newman in here,” he said. “Says he died in 1993, which was the year of the King William Street incident, but his file doesn’t mention it. Says he was Special Branch. Medical degree from Oxford. Trained as a psychiatrist at St. Barts Hospital, three years on the force . . . What was this man doing on a drugs squad?”

“Is this what we should be worrying about right now?” I asked.

“He wants you to go where he died,” Stephen said, not turning around. “Clearly, this place has significance to what’s going on. The more we know, the better we can determine what to do next—or what he’ll do next. There’s also something very strange about this case file. A case like that, six officers dead, there should be endless documentation. This file seems light.”

“You just love the paperwork, don’t you?” Callum asked.

“I’m saying that for a case of this magnitude, there should be hundreds of pages. But all that’s in here are the general report, the coroner’s report, and four officer statements. Basically all this says is that a firearms unit was dispatched to the scene to try to take control of the situation, but by the time they got there, all the officers were dead. According to this, there were four officers in the armed response vehicle.”

He typed some more. I looked out of the window to the dark street we had parked on. Not a person in sight. There was a CCTV camera pointed right at us. That was almost funny now.

“It looks like one has died and two are retired. But one’s still working—Sergeant William Maybrick. City of London Police, Wood Street. He’ll be on duty tonight.”

“How do you know?” Callum asked.

“Because everyone is on duty tonight,” Stephen replied. “I think it’s worth the time to go and find out what he knows. Sirens on, I can get there in five minutes.”

Chapter 32

32

ONE THING ABOUT STEPHEN—HE COULD REALLY drive. He power-shifted through the gears as we tore into the City, ripping past banks and skimming inches away from the cabs and very expensive-looking cars that still floated around the streets. I caught a part of some snarky remark Callum made about Stephen celebrating a lot of birthdays by doing racing track days. Stephen told him to shut up.