Beautiful Death by Fiona McIntosh Page B

his mobile so he could take Lily’s call if she rang, pulled on his hoodie and left Croom’s Hill, turning right to enter the elegant wrought-iron gates that heralded the entrance to the nearly 200 acres of one of London’s oldest enclosed parks.
    By the time he had passed the Knot Garden, Jack had found his breathing rhythm, and his mind turned towards the case notes he’d begun reading, and would finish tonight. His irritation at Lily’s silence was soon forgotten.
    At a quarter to three the next morning a van stole quietly into the car park of Sainsbury’s on Cambridge Heath Road, a stone’s throw from the Royal London Hospital. The engine was cut. Two men emerged from the vehicle wearing beanies, gloves and scarves wrapped halfway up their faces. They were not unusually dressed for the time of year — or night — although their furtive glances and stealthy movementsas they left the van behind them picked them out as being up to no good. Their luck held, however; at this hour no one looked twice at anyone else. Cars and shoppers were on the move into and out of the supermarket and its car park for a spot of late night/early morning shopping. The men melted away from the supermarket surrounds into the alleyway that led onto Commercial Road and turned right at the HSBC Bank. From there they wended their unhurried way towards Brick Lane. Minutes later, in Brick Lane’s Beizel Bakery, also open twenty-four hours, they were served by a weary counter girl, who could not know that the still warm, salted bagels she bagged up and took the money for were for two men who had just dumped a faceless corpse . . . not that they knew it either.
    She batted uselessly at the fine dusting of baker’s flour that had settled around her shoulders before she tiredly counted out the change from the ten pound note to what looked like a pair of taxi drivers.
    The men walked out of the shop, already cramming the delicious bread into their mouths and joshing each other about an easy night’s work delivering a van to a hospital. The men melted away into Tower Hamlets, stomping ground to many a famous crim, including Jack the Ripper and the Kray Brothers.
    By the time she was found Lily was in full rigor mortis, her limbs stiffened, fingers like claws, her ruined face no longer beautiful . . . in fact no longer there.

5.
    The middle-aged receptionist’s feet were lifted off the floor in the bear hug she received from DCI Hawksworth as he entered the top-floor corridor near the library.
    ‘I was hoping Superintendent Sharpe would secure you for us, Joan,’ Jack murmured for her hearing alone. ‘Thank you.’
    ‘I know how you need lots of mothering, Jack,’ she said, smiling warmly at him. ‘I also revel in the clamour of television and radio crews desperate to get interviews with you,’ she added archly over her half spectacles. He grinned.
    Jack knew he was one of her favourites and to have the Joan Field stamp of approval meant he was definitely in the good books with the power players of New Scotland Yard. ‘Everything sorted?’
    ‘Just about. Helen’s been a saint. Malcolm gave her all of yesterday off and you know how she can get anyone to do anything for her.’ Jack nodded. Joan was one of the few people in the Met who calledeveryone, no matter how senior, by their first name and got away with it. ‘So I think we have all we need to get going — anything else that needs to be done I’ll iron out today.’
    He blew her a kiss. ‘Kettle on?’
    ‘Better!’ she called after him. ‘I secured an urn and a proper coffee-maker for you.’
    ‘Brilliant!’ Jack murmured as he arrived at the main operation room. It was still deserted but wouldn’t be for long. Kate, he imagined, would arrive first and then everyone would be in by eight. The clock on the wall told him that was in thirty-three minutes. He checked his mobile. No message from Lily. He pulled off his coat and scarf and threw down the files he’d pored over