Malice in London by Graham Thomas Page B

would live longer than he would anyway, so she could hardly begrudge him this small comfort for a few moments longer. Seconds later the train pulled into Piccadilly Circus Station.
    Powell walked along Shaftesbury Avenue then turned up Great Windmill Street into the heart of Soho, the longtime haunt of immigrants, prostitutes, and bohos. He had wasted a good part of his youth prowling the narrow streets and alleys of London’s unofficial red-light district looking for adventure, and although he tended to view life rather differently now, he still found Soho’s cosmopolitan and raffish air stimulating. There is nowhere else in London where one can find such a juxtaposition of clubs, peep shows, clip joints, foreign restaurants, delicatessens, gay bars, market stalls, and media production houses—where prostitutes and junkies rub shoulders with businessmen, theatergoers, and politicians. Louche and slightly sinister, Soho was perhaps a little blander and more sanitized than it used to be, but it still wasn’t a place to wander around alone at two in the morning.
    He crossed Brewer Street into Lexington Street where Tony Osborne lived in a basement flat in a late-eighteenth-century terraced Georgian house. He descended the steps and knocked on the door, surprised to see the colorful flower boxes under the curtained windows on either side. The door opened to reveal a bleary-eyed Osborne dressed in wrinkled khakis and a white T-shirt.
    “Morning, Tony,” Powell said cheerily. “I hope I’m not too early.”
    Osborne scowled. “Don’t just stand there, mate,” he said. “Come in.”
    The flat consisted of a small sitting room with an adjoining kitchen and dining area and a bedroom in the back. The furniture was Swedish and functional, and the walls were decorated with abstract prints. The place was surprisingly neat and tidy.
    “Have a seat,” Osborne growled. “I’ll get us some coffee.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Instant all right?” he called from the kitchen.
    Powell grimaced. “Lovely.”
    Osborne returned presently with two mugs and a tin of sweetened milk. He sat down, added half the milk to his mug, then took a prodigious gulp. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he said. “Now, then, first things first. My plane leaves at noon tomorrow.” He reached into his trouser pocket. “Here’s the key.”
    “Thanks again, Tony. I’m rather looking forward to a change of scene.”
    “Just don’t wreck the place. It cost me an arm and a leg.” He paused to drain his mug. “By the way, I checked with the Missing Persons Bureau, and no dead bodies matching Jill Burroughs’s description have turned up in the past week.”
    “No news is good news, I suppose,” Powell said soberly.
    Osborne shrugged. “You know as well as I do thatpeople go missing all the time because of domestic arguments. She’ll turn up eventually.”
    “I expect you’re right. Still, it’s been nearly a week.”
    “Look, mate, just to put your mind at ease, why not put out a news bulletin? She may not even realize that people are concerned about her.” He looked at Powell. “Given the current state of your relations with the AC, it might be best if I put in the request.”
    Powell nodded. If Merriman ever found out that it was
he
who had made an inquiry at the Missing Persons Bureau about Jill Burroughs, the Assistant Commissioner would have his head impaled on a pike and prominently displayed atop the famous revolving sign in front of New Scotland Yard.
    “Which raises a related point,” Osborne continued. “I’ve written a memo to Merriman requesting your involvement in the Morton investigation because of a possible link with the Brighton murder.” He grinned slyly. “I’ve couched it in terms of reducing duplication, better coordinating area and centralized functions, and more efficiently utilizing scarce financial and human resources. The little prig will have no choice but to agree, but it will no doubt piss him off