The Babylon Rite by Tom Knox Page A

The landlady flickered a glance at Adam.
    Nina explained, her voice tremulous, ‘This is Adam. He’s … he’s a good friend who’s been helping me. Y’know, deal with this. But I know it’s late and this must appear crazy.’
    ‘I lost my own father last year, I entirely understand, it’s such a
terrible
thing – it always hits you more than you expect. The only reason I was so paranoid is because of the break-in. Before. But you know about that.’
    Nina lifted her face. And gently detached herself from the hug. ‘Yes. He told me, of course. Were you frightened?’
    ‘Not me, no! But he was so upset. You know they took all his notebooks, don’t you? His precious notebooks from his trip.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But why did he refuse to go the police? Very odd. And then of course that man – the argument – anyway that’s why I’m so paranoid.’
    ‘Which argument? There were lots, Sophie. His mood swings at the end.’
    ‘In the flat, a few days later. With the American. I heard the voices.’
    Adam watched the two women, bewildered, unable to gain a purchase on the conversation.
    Nina sighed. ‘Was he really
that
upset?’
    ‘Oh I think so. Oh yes, he was very unsettled. First a break-in, then the arguments. A colleague perhaps? Anyway.’ The woman hugged her arms around herself, her purple cardigan tight around her chest. ‘Look at me, this is not the time for chatter. I’m so sorry for everything Nina. If you ever want to … you know … just call. I’ve been through it. You have to give yourself space, let yourself grieve.’ She gave Adam another glance, this time entirely unsuspicious. ‘It’s such a raw night, I’ll be going, and I’ll let you … get on with things. Goodbye. And call me!’
    ‘I will Sophie, I will. Thank you.’
    The two women hugged again. Then Sophie Walker disappeared down the cold tenement stairs, heading for her ground-floor apartment. Without a word Nina, swivelled, turned the key in the lock, and she and Adam entered the flat.
    It was very cold and truly dark inside, the apartment exuding a maudlin scent of beeswax polish. Adam flicked a hallway switch, which engulfed them with sudden light.
    ‘You never told me any of this. A break-in? An argument? Surely this is relevant?’
    Nina’s reply was fierce: she turned and gazed at him with her green eyes wet and wide. ‘Because he never told me. Any of it.’

10
East Finchley, north London
    ‘Er, dad, what are you doing?’
    ‘Nothing, son, nothing.’
    Mark Ibsen was flat on his back on the living room floor in their small house in East Finchley. His wife was Sunday shopping with his younger daughter Leila. His son was unimpressed with his dad’s answer.
    ‘Dad. You’re lying on the floor.’
    ‘Luke. I’m fine. Haven’t you got some Xbox thing you can go and play for seventeen hours on your own, like normal kids?’
    ‘It’s more fun watching you, Dad.’
    DCI Ibsen sighed, and gazed up. He was trying to conceptualize the final hours of Nikolai Kerensky, their murder victim. So here he was, theoretically lying on the kitchen floor of the big house at 113 Bishops Avenue, with no feet. And one hand. Blood gushing everywhere. The killer was – what? – looming over him with a gun, or another knife, some sort of weapon? The blood would have been everywhere.
    Why slide from the kitchen into the sitting room? Fully sixty yards? In deep agony? Slowly bleeding to death?
    Maybe the killer fled, therefore allowing Kerensky to make a desperate bid to reach a phone.
    Ibsen glanced up at the kitchen window of their small terraced house. Weak winter sunlight was shining through the bottle of Tesco’s lemon-scented washing up liquid poised on the kitchen window sill.
    He tried to imagine his kitchen as five times the size, with big French windows flung open to a massive garden, windows through which the killer had presumably made his ingress and egress. But how did the murderer do that without leaving any signs