Chapter Text
Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle.
-Lewis Carroll
Haven’t you solved it yet, Detectives? Too bad. I don’t ever give hints.
DCI Adam Dalgliesh barely resisted crumpling the letter he’d just received in the post into a ball and throwing it across the room. This was the third letter the Met had received with such a taunting message. And the third time the writer was gloating that they hadn’t been able to figure out his next move. Major Crimes rarely dealt with robberies but this one had been such an enormous amount and such a high-profile victim – the CEO of Greater Trust Bank – that he and his team had been called in to investigate the matter. Once they began digging, it had become clear that the CEO had hidden the fact he had been receiving death threats for over a month.
A curse bubbled up in him, hitting the back of his throat before he pushed it back. How were they supposed to solve this when they couldn’t even figure out the criminal’s name from his cryptic clues? This riddle and its writer were plucking his last string. He tossed the letter on the desk in front of him and DS Tarrant picked it up.
“Another one? Any luck?” the expression on the faces if his boss and the senior DS on the team, Masterson said they hadn’t. “Maybe we’ve missed something,” he said.
Dalgliesh pressed his fingers to his temple as DS Masterson paced the length of the conference room they currently occupied. The team had taken it over when they’d been assigned this case and they needed more space to work out the answers to the puzzle clues that would – might – lead to the perpetrator and the money. So far, it had only served to make them more anxious and on edge.
“Like what?” Masterson spat. “We’ve read the letter multiple times, ran it through the codebreakers we know of, tracked down the post office that processed the envelope, and even had it all dusted for fingerprints. We’ve tried everything we can do to find this wanker.”
“Well, not everything,” Tarrant ventured.
Dalgliesh opened the window in the conference room; it was getting too stuffy in here even without his suit jacket on, what with their combined frustration and the central heating being up too high. It was nearly impossible to control the radiators in this area, which was why it was rarely used in winter. “Go on,” he urged.
“Well,” the newer DS shifted in his seat. “We could get the puzzles solved.”
“Oh, that’s bloody brilliant. Never would have thought of that. So glad you left Vice and joined us at Major Crimes with your insight.” Masterson loosened his tie and was about to undo a button before he caught his DCI’s withering glare. He left the button alone and instead fanned himself with a folder.
Tarrant looked uncomfortable, but determined. “No, We’ve tried to solve it ourselves. I meant, we could get someone who knows what they’re doing to handle the puzzles, then we can put two and two together and hopefully solve the crime.”
“Who’re we supposed to get? Not like we can ring up Bletchley Park and ask them to send someone over.”
“As coarse as his delivery is, Masterson has a point,” Dalgliesh leaned against the window that looked out onto the floor of the Met. The blinds in the room were down, so no one would be able to see what they had working. “Who were you thinking we could ask? You must have someone in mind. A professor or something?”
“I don’t know. We need someone like K.T. Miskin.”
The other two men responded in stereo. “Who?”
“You know, the puzzle champion. Sets puzzle for the magazines. Wrote a few books.”
“How the bloody hell d’you know that?”
Tarrant ignored Masterson’s derisive snort. “My gran does them. They have a subscription for all those mags at the home where she stays. Get that bloke to solve it. Or at least try. We could learn something from it. Maybe.”
Silence lay in the room heavier than the heating. Then Dalgliesh spoke. “Can you get in touch with this Miskin fellow?”
“His agent was mentioned in the back of the book, I think. Had an odd name. I’m sure the agency’s number is listed. They can probably put us in touch.”
Dalgliesh nodded. “Make sure they know it’s urgent.”
They had to provide more information than usual to get Miskin’s help, and that was in the form of a volley of phone calls with his agent, John Rossingol, who presumably was in contact with the man himself. Only when possible kidnapping was mentioned did the agent agree to set up a meeting. “K.T. isn’t very social, you see, and I am tasked with keeping my clients happy. But I understand this is a… sensitive matter. Do you want to bring the letter here to my office?”
“We’d rather he come to the Met,” Masterson said, leaning over the speakerphone.
Rossingol paused. “Well, I don’t know. That’s not… Can you courier over a copy of it or something and I’ll pass it along once—”
“Time is of the essence here, sir.”
A heavy sigh. “An in-person meeting then. K.T. will be more comfortable on familiar ground. Home turf, you understand. I can give you the address. Say around half three?”
Dalgliesh pressed the hold button on the call, then caught Tarrant’s eye. “Could it be that Miskin is infirm or uses a wheelchair?” But the younger man shrugged.
“Maybe he’s old. Can’t get around, but can do the puzzles thing.” Masterson chewed a piece of gum viciously, then slurped from his coffee.
With a whiff of this being a last-ditch effort, a play made in the most dire of straits, Dalgliesh lifted his finger from the hold button. “We’ll be there.”
***
There was no need for all three of them to trounce their way into the puzzler’s home. Dalgliesh sent Masterson on an assignment to dig up information on the agent and his agency, in case there was some connection there. In addition, Masterson said he was itching to get out from behind the desk and stretch his legs, and Dalgliesh, recognizing a man chomping at the bit when he saw one, let his more senior DS off the lead to follow his own nose.
He adjusted the passenger seat of Tarrant’s Avenger estate car, given as a gift from his parents for leaving the Vice division, which they felt was too dangerous for a new husband. Since joining the team a few months ago, Tarrant always drove when they went on cases together. Dalgliesh didn’t know if his new DS wanted to adhere to the traditional way of policing with the junior partner driving the senior or if he wanted to make a good impression. Either way, he missed driving. The feel of the car responding to his will, the sense of control of what was around him. This case had well and truly worked its way under his skin. Not since losing Emma and the baby had he felt so lost for what to do.
It was then he realized it had been five years since that day, and the pain of it no longer took his breath away or sent him to his knees. And that knowledge made his guilt sharper than the time-blunted loss of his family. A sudden shocking thought: he enjoyed cases like this. Engrossing ones that allowed him to put aside his earlier pain, his now troubling loneliness. For all Tarrant wanted to adhere to the policing rituals of the prior generation, he did not invite his superior out for drinks at the pub after work or over for dinner with his wife. For that matter, neither did Masterson.
Dalgliesh understood. Times were changing and the standard was no longer the mentor taking a protégé under one’s wing. It seems everyone wanted to be able to say they were their own man. Self-made, as it were. As much as he tried to deny it to himself, he missed the companionship, the camaraderie that it brought. That he’d had with Emma. My God, five years. It unsettled him that a sliver of himself wanted that closeness again.
While Tarrant was a competent driver, Dalgliesh found it hard to settle on the hour-long drive to Gravesend where this puzzle champion resided. From the conversation with the agent, it was clear he intended to be in attendance as well. That was fine as long as the man didn’t interfere with their questioning.
“We’ll be there in a few, Sir. Any thoughts on how to approach this bloke? Er, gentleman?”
They exited the motorway, and headed down a smaller dual carriageway. “This Miskin is not a suspect at the moment, so we treat him as we would any consultant for the Met.”
At the word ‘suspect’, Tarrant made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a cough. “I didn’t think of it, but could this Miskin be our guy? He’d probably have the knowledge.”
“Since we have sought him out and not the other way around, I would doubt it.” After a pause, he added, “But let’s keep our wits about us.”
The car pulled up to a neat-looking detached home on a corner plot back from the main road in an area of Gravesend called Painters Ash. There were small but well-manicured shrubs in front of the Georgian barred windows and a detached garage down the side.
“Nice digs,” Tarrant commented.
Dalgleish didn’t reply but he agreed. This was the kind of place he wanted to return to when the time came. A good size for projects or puttering around, off the main road, quiet but not too secluded. The crisp, fresh breeze of autumn and the few scattered leaves from the nearby oak tree only solidified his appreciation of the locale. Only an hour to get to the office, he thought before he shook off idea. He had a long way to go yet before retirement. And solving this riddle-me-this case was paramount.
Tarrant led the way to the door, and rang the bell. The men straightened as the door opened to a petite woman, whose smooth light brown skin made it difficult to determine her age. It was possible she was twenty-five or she could have been ten years older. She stood inside the crack, peering out, giving them only a glimpse of her face and a colorful scarf tied around her head that did not conceal or tame her coily, dark hair. Her wide-eyed gaze moved between the two men.
“May I help you?” Her voice was soft, like she wasn’t used to making it carry over any distance, and without a distinct regional accent. It also held a note of caution, or was it suspicion?
As was usual, Tarrant introduced then. “I’m Detective Sergeant Daniel Tarrant, and this is Detective Chief Inspector Adam Dalgliesh, both of the London Metropolitan Police. We’re looking for K.T. Miskin.”
The woman inclined her head, straightening her posture. She met their gazes directly when she stepped back from the door. “I am she. Please, come in.”