End of the Century by Chris Roberson

Melville.
    â€œThe prime minister has issued specific instructions that this matter will not be made available for public consumption. The newspapers are not to be informed of any aspect of the investigation or of the murders themselves until such time as the prime minister deems appropriate. With the Jubilee in the offing and the city already crowded with dignitaries, the last thing we need is another sensation such as the Whitechapel murders engendered. It might be good for the sales figures of the penny papers, gentlemen, but it will do Her Majesty's Government no good at all, and even less good for you all, should you allow it.”
    Chalmers glanced from Melville to Blank and Miss Bonaventure and to the constable who stood a few yards off, indicating that the prime minister's wrath would know no bounds of rank or privilege were news of these murders to be made public.
    â€œI believe you mean ‘worse’ instead of ‘less good,’” Blank said. “But I think we all take your meaning.” He turned to Melville. “I'll solve this one, Melville. You have my word on it.”
    Melville drew his mouth into a tight line, but nodded. He evidently could not tell whether Blank had meant the words as a taunt or a reassurance; Blank did not really know himself.
    â€œNow,” he said, resting on his cane, his hands folded on its silver head, “if this is the third murder, I want to know everything that you have on the previous two.”

THE BLACK CAB AT THE STAND looked like something out of an old movie. Like you'd have to wear a fedora just to ride it in, or else hang onto a sideboard with a Tommy gun in either hand. But the guy behind the steering wheel didn't quite meet the dress code, in a ratty T-shirt and slacks. Still, the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car, so that had to count for something.
    Alice stood on the curb, while the guy leaned out the window and looked her up and down. “Where you going, love?”
    â€œLondon.” The guy gave her a little smile and raised an eyebrow. Alice felt a blush rise in her cheek. “The London Eye,” she quickly added. “The one near Westminster Bridge. The big Ferris wheel?”
    The cab driver chuckled, and smiled, but gently. “Yeah, I know the one.” He stuck out his lower lip and rubbed it with a thick finger. “How much money you got, love?”
    Alice tightened her grip on her backpack's strap. “I've got enough.”
    The cab driver shook his head, still smiling. “Nah you don't, sweetie. Here to there'll cost you forty pounds, easy.”
    Alice's eyebrows knit as she tried to do the conversion rate in her head. That was something like sixty bucks, a significant percentage of all the cash she had.
    She didn't say anything, but evidently she didn't have to, her thoughtsshowing themselves on her face. “You don't want a black cab,” the cab driver said, gently. “What you want is to take the tube. A one way ticket on the Underground'll cost you three quid forty.”
    Alice tried to look in control, and nodded like she'd known that all along. “That's definitely cheaper.”
    â€œEnnit?”
    Alice's cheeks felt like they were on fire. She hadn't even gotten out of the damned airport and already she'd managed to look like a complete hayseed. She stammered thanks at the cabbie, who just waved merrily and went back to studying his racing form. Then she went off to look for the subway station. She'd gone two steps when she realized she could have just asked the cabbie, who was sure to have known, but having committed to turning around and walking away, she couldn't back out now.

    Alice had only ever been on a subway once before, in Mexico City, on a school trip a few years before. Her mother hadn't wanted her to go, but Alice had pulled extra shifts after school at the family business, the postal contract unit on Anderson Mill, and saved up enough to cover almost