Death Angels Read Free

east toward Lavender Hill and the Arding and Hobbs department store. It’s always Christmas there, he thought, a Harrods for the plain and ordinary people who live south of the river.
    Cheeks were flushed with cold. You could feel the winter inside the café too, the fresh smell of clothing and the draft when the door opened and closed. The winds from the north swept across south London and everyone was unprepared like always.
    We once ruled the world, he mused, but we’re helpless when it comes to wind and rain. We still think that we can wear whatever we like and the elements will do our bidding, and we’re never going to change. We’d rather freeze to death.
    He sipped his tea, but it was already too strong. We drink more tea than anyone else but we don’t know how to make it. It’s too weak when we boil it and too strong when we drink it and too hot in between.
    “. . . and so I told him, That will cost you a beer, you S.O.B.,” one of the construction workers said, concluding a story he had been telling.
    The café reeked of fat and grease. People left impressions of themselves that lingered in the air as they crossed the room. It’s like Siberia, Macdonald thought. Not quite as cold but the same resistance to movement.
    He stepped outside and took his phone out of the breast pocket of his leather jacket. He dialed the number and waited. Looking up, he saw passengers walk out of the station’s stone archway as he put the phone to his ear.
    “Hello.”
    “I’m down here now,” Macdonald said.
    “Okay.”
    “I’ll probably hang around all day.”
    “How about all winter?”
    “Is that a threat or a promise?”
    Silence at the other end.
    “I’ll start up at Muncaster Road.”
    “Have you checked out the pond?”
    “Yes.”
    “And?”
    “Anything’s possible. That’s all I can say right now.”
    “Okay.”
    “I want to see the hotel room again.”
    “Assuming there’s enough time.”
    “I need to breathe in that air once more.”
    “Keep me posted.”
    Macdonald heard a click, and the line went dead.
    Putting his phone away, he turned south on St. John’s Road, waited for a break in traffic on Battersea Rise and continued along Northcote.
    He turned left onto Chatto and gazed longingly at the Eagles pub. That was for later, he thought, maybe a lot later.
    After another couple of blocks, he turned onto Muncaster. The row houses shone warily in the January sun. Their brick and plaster merged with the color of the pavement. A mailman appeared out of nowhere, wheeling a letter bag so red it made his eyes hurt. Macdonald watched him ring a doorbell. Postmen always ring twice, he thought as he opened a low wrought-iron gate. He lifted the knocker and banged loudly. Such a brutal way to announce your presence, he thought.
    The door opened all the way to the end of a heavy iron chain, and he saw the outlines of a woman’s face in the dim hallway.
    “Who’s there?”
    “Is this the residence of John Anderton?” Macdonald rummaged around for his badge.
    “Who wants to know?”
    “The police.” He held up the badge. “I’m the one who called earlier today.”
    “He’s eating breakfast,” the voice announced, as though interrupting it was out of the question.
    She wants me to leave so she can finish making her kippers, he thought. The pungent odor of fried herring wafted through the crack in the door. “It won’t take long,” he said.
    “But . . .”
    “Just a few minutes of your time.” He put his badge back and waited. The chain rattled as it was removed. They must have spent a fortune on security, he thought. Nothing left over for a sturdy door. One of these days it’s going to collapse under the weight of its own apparatus.
    She was younger than he had guessed. Not very pretty but in the bloom of youth, although that would soon be gone as well. She’s probably worrying about it already, he thought.
    “Come in.” She pointed toward the living room. “I’ll tell John you’re