Donovan brings him the file on the taxi driver turned serial killer. “What?” he says, because there’s a look on her face….
“Check out the next-of-kin.”
Oh god, with his luck it’ll turn out to be some over-entitled MP, or police-hating activist.
He doesn’t recognise the name. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“He’s a police officer. A DS in the Major Incidents section over in the Whitechapel area.”
Oh, hell. Lestrade had better give the man’s DI a heads up.
“Sir, he’s not just his brother.” Donovan looks concerned. “He’s his twin.”
Oh, HELL. The media are going to have a field day.
“I’d better go over there.”
The Major Incidents room is surprisingly quiet and orderly in comparison to the rest of the station. The officers are formally dressed, their desks tidy, the atmosphere is purposeful. A young officer in a three piece suit doesn’t just point him to the office at the end of the room, but escorts him.
“Sir, a DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard to see you,” the young man says.
“Thank you, Kent.” The man behind the desk rises and holds out his hand. “Joseph Chandler,” he says. Lestrade sizes him up. Surprisingly young, well-dressed and educated, if the soft voice and posh accent are anything to go by. Now he gets the three piece suit – the boy no doubt has a case of hero-worship going on. The DI is very good-looking. Lestrade lets himself appreciate the package for a moment, then firmly dismisses it. The man has a firm handshake, confident. Lestrade would expect a man like this in the boy’s club at the Yard, not slumming it like this, getting those well-manicured hands dirty.
Chandler gestures courteously to the chair in front of his desk. “To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from Scotland Yard?” he smiles, and Lestrade takes note of the ‘we’ identifier.
“You know about the Suicide Serial Killer?”
“Of course. I heard he’s been shot. By your team?”
“I wish. No, a mystery shooter.” Lestrade shrugs. He has his suspicions of course, but he’s keeping them to himself. “A man like that must have had enemies.”
“No doubt.” Chandler fiddles with his silver pen. “If you’ll forgive my asking, what has this to do with me?”
“Not you. Your Sergeant.”
A crease appears between Chandler’s brows. “Miles?”
“DS Miles is listed as his next-of-kin.”
“I see. Do you know what their relationship is?”
“There’s no good way to say this. According to the records the killer was your Sergeant’s identical twin brother.”
Chandler looks shocked, naturally, but it’s followed swiftly by a look of concern. He stands up and goes to the door.
“Kent, find Miles for me, would you?” he calls, and sits down again. There’s an awkward pause. Chandler offers him a cuppa while they wait. Lestrade declines. Chandler’s hands twitch, as though itching to get back to work.
Then a short, grey-haired man sticks his head through the doorway. “What’s up, Boss?” the man says cheerfully. Lestrade stares, despite himself. He’d seen this man, not hours before, lying dead on the floor.
“Ah, Miles, come in.” Chandler says calmly. “I think you’d better shut the door.”