Chapter 17 : The Introduction
New Scotland Yard, Broadway — August 6, 2010, 9:45 AM
The revolving doors at New Scotland Yard's main entrance were heavier than they looked. I pushed through them into a lobby that was larger, busier, and considerably more intimidating than any government building I'd visited in this life — which was saying something, given that I'd woken up in an NHS hospital and dealt with immigration services.
The reception desk was staffed by two civilian employees behind a glass partition, flanked by a uniformed constable whose primary function appeared to be looking bored while projecting authority. A queue of four people stood ahead of me — a woman with a file box, two men in suits, and a teenage boy who looked like he'd been crying.
I waited. Eleven minutes. The clock on the wall had a Metropolitan Police crest beneath it and ticked with the specific rhythm of institutional time — slower than real time, designed to remind visitors that their urgency was not the building's problem.
When I reached the partition, the civilian behind the glass looked up with the expression of someone who'd been doing this job for exactly long enough to stop pretending she was interested.
"Help you?"
"I'd like to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Homicide and Serious Crime Command."
"Is he expecting you?"
"No. But I have information relevant to a recently closed case. The serial suicides."
Her eyes sharpened. The serial suicides case had been the biggest story in London for a week. A civilian walking in with "relevant information" was either a crank or a lead, and she'd been trained to process both.
"Name?"
"Nathan Cole."
"ID?"
I slid my provisional visa card through the gap in the glass. She examined it, typed something into her computer, and picked up a phone.
"DI Lestrade's office, please. I've got a Nathan Cole at reception claiming information on the serial suicide case." A pause. She covered the mouthpiece. "He's in a meeting. Could be a while."
"I'll wait."
The waiting area was a row of plastic chairs against a wall decorated with community safety posters and a framed photograph of the Metropolitan Police Commissioner looking benevolently at nothing. I sat down, put the case file on my lap, and waited.
One hour. Then two. The teenage boy was collected by a woman who hugged him and led him out. The suited men left separately, looking no happier than when they'd arrived. The woman with the file box was escorted upstairs by a detective sergeant who called her "Mrs. Patterson" — the name landed like a stone in my gut.
Patterson. Like Sir Jeffrey Patterson. The first victim.
Coincidence, probably. London was full of Pattersons. But the name echoed.
At 11:52, the phone at reception buzzed. The civilian answered, listened, and looked at me.
"DI Lestrade will see you now. Third floor, room 312. Constable Mills will escort you."
Constable Mills was twenty-three, methodical, and had been recently told he'd be transferred to traffic if he didn't stop leaving his vest in the locker room. I deduced this from the vest tag hanging from his pocket and the resignation in his posture. Small observations. The kind Sherlock would have delivered as a five-sentence monologue. I kept them to myself.
Room 312 was at the end of a corridor that smelled of carpet cleaner and institutional coffee. The door was open. Inside: a desk buried in paperwork, a corkboard covered in crime scene photographs, two chairs that had been reupholstered at least twice, and Gregory Lestrade.
He looked worse in person than he had through binoculars. Not unhealthy — just exhausted in the particular way that police officers got after a high-profile case that had ended with someone else getting the credit. His suit jacket was draped over his chair. His tie was loose. The silver hair was more disheveled than it had been at Lauriston Gardens, as though he'd been running his hands through it for a week.
"Nathan Cole." He didn't stand. Gestured at the chair. "Sit. Talk fast — I've got a briefing in twenty."
I sat. Put the file on the edge of his desk.
"I identified Jeff Hope as the serial suicide killer independently of Sherlock Holmes. I'd like to show you how."
Lestrade's hand, which had been reaching for his coffee mug, stopped.
"Say that again."
"I identified Jeff Hope. By name. Using geographic profiling and public records analysis. Before the case resolved."
He picked up the mug. Drank. Set it down. "Bloody awful." Not clear whether he meant the coffee or my claim. Possibly both.
"Show me."
I opened the file.
The next fifteen minutes were the most important of my career — such as it was. I walked Lestrade through the geographic profile: four death locations, travel-time radiuses, the Lambeth-Southwark overlap zone. I explained the transport theory — why a black cab was the only vehicle type that matched the victim acquisition pattern. I showed him the licensing data, the narrowing process, the forum post that corroborated Hope's brain aneurysm.
Lestrade listened. He didn't interrupt. His eyes moved between the pages and my face, assessing both — the quality of the work and the quality of the man presenting it.
When I finished, he leaned back. The chair creaked. A long pause.
"This is solid," he said. Not enthusiastic. Measured. Cop-careful. "The profiling method — that's American, yeah? FBI?"
"Geographic profiling was developed in Canada, adopted by the FBI and other agencies. I trained in the methodology."
"Where?"
"Overseas."
"Specifically."
"I don't have documentation I can share. I have amnesia — medically documented, NHS records on file. My background before April of this year is a blank. But the skills are real, and the work speaks for itself."
His jaw tightened. The amnesia claim was the weakest link, and we both knew it.
"So you're telling me you're a trained analyst with no verifiable background, no credentials, no licence, and no explanation for how you learned to do what that file says you can do."
"That's exactly what I'm telling you."
"And you expect me to — what? Put you on the payroll?"
"No. I expect you to keep my number. When you have a case that needs analytical support and Holmes isn't available or isn't interested, you call me. No cost. No obligation. Just a test."
He stared at me. Then at the file. Then at his coffee mug, which he picked up, drank from, and put down with the expression of a man who'd forgotten how terrible it was and had been reminded.
"God, that's awful," he said.
"Worst I've had since a hospital in Lambeth."
A beat. Something shifted in his face — the faintest crack in the professional mask.
"You're the anonymous tipster, aren't you. The one who called in the warehouse on York Road. And the Crimestoppers tip linking the suicides."
My pulse spiked. I kept my face still.
"I filed two anonymous tips, yes."
"Thought so. The phrasing was similar — precise, analytical, American sentence structure. My sergeant flagged it." He almost smiled. "You've been running a parallel investigation for weeks, feeding us intelligence from the shadows, and now you walk in here and introduce yourself."
"Something like that."
"Why now? Why not stay anonymous?"
"Because anonymous tips go through a processing queue and I can't stop a killer with a forty-eight-hour turnaround time. I need a direct line."
Lestrade looked at the file one more time. Closed it. Pushed it back across the desk.
"I'm not making promises. I've already got one mad genius on speed dial and he's enough trouble for any department." He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a business card, and wrote something on the back with a pen that took three clicks to work. "My mobile. Don't call unless you've got something good. And don't use this to show off — I get enough of that from Holmes."
I took the card. Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector. His handwriting on the back was the hurried scrawl of a man who'd written too many notes in too many notebooks at too many crime scenes.
"Thank you, Inspector."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you bring me something I can use."
[Contact Established: DI G. Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Relationship: Cautious professional interest.]
[+15 SP. Police network seed: planted.]
I stood. Offered my hand. He shook it — firm, brief, the handshake of a man who'd made a decision he wasn't entirely sure about but was willing to see where it led.
"One question," he said as I reached the door. "The serial suicides. You got to Hope's name. What would you have done if Holmes hadn't solved it first?"
I turned back. "Filed a detailed anonymous tip naming Hope as the suspect, with his badge number, registered address, and the forum post as corroboration. Then waited to see if the processing queue moved faster than a dying man."
"And if it didn't?"
"Then I'd have done exactly what I'm doing now. Walked in here and introduced myself."
He nodded. Something in his expression — not warmth, not yet, but the cautious recognition of a man who understood that desperation and competence sometimes lived in the same person.
I left room 312 with a business card in my pocket and the first legitimate police contact of my career.
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