Page 2 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

R ain slicked the lane behind the Savoy, the air sharp with smoke and scorched timber.

WPC Eleanor Harcourt stepped into the red-tinged gloom, distant shouts from the fire at the docks drifting on the night breeze, faint but urgent.

On the drive over they had passed firemen battling blazes, the streets a tangle of hoses and debris.

She picked her way along the dark lane between the soot-streaked walls, tucking a stray blonde lock behind her ear as she clutched her police notebook.

Above, the last searchlights had died, leaving London vulnerable, washed in silver.

A white sheet covered most of the body, but not enough to hide the spreading pool of blood or the gaping wound at his throat.

Ellie forced herself to breathe, staying a few paces behind Detective Inspector William Calloway.

A police lantern stood next to the victim, its dim light throwing wavering shadows across the alley walls.

‘Official-looking fellow isn’t he?’ murmured Calloway, crouching beside the body, his sharp features etched deeper by fatigue. She noted the perpetual shadow of stubble, as if he had been too busy solving cases to shave. ‘Expensive suit. Not your usual alleyway fare.’

The dead man lay with his face turned towards the lane, eyes wide in shock.

His well-tailored coat was soaked through, the left cuff torn from what must have been a brief, futile struggle.

Even the Homburg floating in the puddle had cost more than Ellie's monthly salary. She glanced towards the Thames, where the sky glowed red. The Savoy had been spared – this time. London was a city surviving on the edge, every street a testament to war’s reach, whether struck or narrowly avoided.

She narrowed her eyes, gaze sweeping the shadows.

The raid had ended less than an hour ago.

The killer probably used it to their advantage, to flee amidst the noise, the darkness, the crowds dashing to the shelters.

Before she could speak, Calloway’s voice cut through the damp air. ‘Harcourt.’

His bark made her jump while his glare could have stripped paint; the same look he reserved for paperwork, overtime and women who dared wear police uniforms.

‘What did I tell you? Stay. In. The. Damn. Car.’

‘I feel much safer here than alone in a dark street, sir.’

Calloway rubbed his face. ‘A driver, they said. Blooming war. World’s gone mad. I was all for driving myself. Instead, I get you, Harcourt. A woman driver. And at the rate you’re going you’ll drive me round the bleeding bend.’

His last word ended on a high, strained note, causing PC Whitaker to snort. Ellie ignored him.

Calloway grumbled, stepping closer. ‘You don’t follow orders. That’s too good for the likes of you. Instead, you follow me round like a shadow, Harcourt. A bloomin’ shadow.’

Ellie straightened her shoulders. ‘Better a shadow than a ghost, sir.’ Despite the blackout, she noted how his face darkened from its usual pasty pallor.

Puce, a shade she knew well. He reserved that particular colour for her.

His eyes narrowed, but after a beat he jerked his chin towards the body.

‘You want to be useful? Fine. Let’s see what you’re made of. ’

Ellie stepped forward, resisting the urge to smile as she slipped on some gloves.

At last, a real case. She knelt by the body, torchlight flickering, the open murder bag nearby glinting with forceps, vials and other forensic essentials.

Her hands moved carefully through the dead man’s pockets, searching for identification.

No wallet. No ID. Just a silver cigarette case and an untouched watch.

‘The body’s been placed against the wall,’ she said, voice calm but firm.

‘No arterial spray here, which means he was likely positioned after death or as he lay dying. And his pockets are turned out. Someone was searching for something.’ Behind her, PC Whitaker snorted.

‘Well done, Sherlock,’ he muttered to DC Dawson.

Ellie ignored it. Let them scoff. She wasn’t here to impress them. She was here to find the truth.

Calloway stepped away from the body, shining his torch low across the road, narrowing the beam on a dark patch near the kerb.

Crouching, he took the magnifier from the murder bag and gave it a quick glance.

‘Dawson, swab that. Could be blood. Rain’s washed some of it away, but not all.

’ He straightened. ‘Could’ve been a mugging gone wrong. ’

Ellie tilted her head, studying the victim’s torn coat. ‘Possibly, sir. But if it was, why leave the briefcase and his watch? A thief would have taken those, wouldn’t they?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Clever girl,’ he muttered, almost begrudgingly.

She bit back a smirk. ‘Judging by his torn overcoat, I’d guess he put up a fight.

’ She scanned the alley, which was too clean aside from the usual stench of urine.

A man in Savile Row tailoring wouldn’t choose this route willingly.

There was no obvious motor car, though she deduced he might have taken a taxi.

But still, how did he wind up here? Perhaps he’d stepped out of the hotel for a moment.

Perhaps his attacker forced him into the lane, out of sight.

As various scenarios played through her mind, she was certain of one thing.

He’d been followed. Ellie was sure of it, and she was certain the killer hadn’t struck at random.

What had this unfortunate chap been carrying?

His briefcase was untouched, so either they hadn’t found it, or they’d missed it.

Which meant it had to be hidden elsewhere.

Calloway stepped back. ‘Well, whatever they were after, it was bad enough to kill for.’

Ellie glanced at the road, wondering if the killer had dragged the victim, leaving a blood trail now washed thin by rain. She studied the scene again, the dim glow of a torch playing over the man’s twisted collar, his coat rumpled from the struggle.

Whitaker sighed, struck a match with exaggerated weariness, and lit a cigarette. ‘Likely some desperate blighter looking for a few quid, guv’nor.’

Ellie arched a brow, biting back the first retort that sprang to mind.

Of course. The official verdict, handed down by the man with the uniform and a pocketful of smokes.

She’d seen more insight from her aunt’s terrier.

She pressed her lips thin, shifting her damp wool skirt away from the pool of blood.

A robbery indeed. As if men bled out in alleys with their coats buttoned and their valuables left untouched. Idiot.

She clicked on her own torch and swept it over the body.

The beam snagged on a rough patch of the sateen lining.

Small. Easy to miss. A rough line of stitches barely visible.

She honed her gaze on the spot. Sloppy work.

Did he do that himself ? Her pulse quickened as she pressed the fabric.

It rustled like paper. She glanced up, half-expecting Calloway’s gaze, but he’d drifted to the far side of the lane, deep in conversation with Dawson.

Her fingers traced the shape again. Yes, definitely a hidden layer, tucked into the lining like a secret worth dying for.

‘Sir, there’s a slip of paper stitched inside the coat,’ she said quietly. ‘I need to cut it open.’

Calloway stopped talking and moved towards her. ‘Probably a bally patch,’ he muttered. ‘Come on, let’s see what’s got you fussing.’ He flicked his torch on for extra light, pointing it at the victim.

Ellie didn’t answer. She pulled a small penknife from her pocket and, with the lightest touch, eased the seam open, slipping her hand inside.

Her fingers brushed against smooth paper, and she grasped it, pulling out a folded slip.

In Calloway’s torchlight, she unfolded it carefully.

Instead of a name or address, words and Roman numerals were carefully arranged on a line – innocuous looking but deliberately placed.

Echo 7. White Hart. X. IX. Kingfisher. Merlin’s Eye.

He snatched it out of her hands, reading it for himself. ‘Makes no bally sense. A series of random words, or maybe not.’ His face contorted as if he was chewing a wasp. ‘Hmm, very cloak-and-dagger.’

Ellie swallowed. ‘It is, indeed, sir,’ she said, playing along, though she realised it could be a code of sorts.

‘Well, whatever it says, we’ll get the boffins on to it.’

Ellie watched him as he tucked the note inside his mackintosh, the words still echoing in her mind. With a frown, she imprinted the code to memory. She was good at decrypting codes and ciphers, and ideas were already forming as to how she might crack this one.

‘This isn’t a random murder, is it sir?’ She knew fine well it wasn’t, but Calloway only had so much tolerance for her, and she was lucky not to have been chased back to the car – or even the station, for that matter.

He shook his head grimly. ‘This goes deeper than robbery, Harcourt. Much deeper.’

This wasn’t the kind of case women in the force were typically handed.

And she wasn’t a fully-fledged constable either.

She was an auxiliary, a volunteer, designated to carry out administration and driving duties only.

Even the fully-fledged WPCs were given the more menial jobs, such as chasing orphans, dealing with female abuse and all other matters female-related.

For Ellie, this was probably as involved as she was likely to be.

Anything that hinted at government secrets or top-level war work was out of the Met’s hands the moment it landed. MI5 would be circling already.

The first challenge of her career had begun. If the killer had been looking for this information, they hadn’t found it. Which meant whoever killed this man would be back. Her mind swam with various ideas and scenarios, but then a car door slammed nearby, jarring her back to the present moment.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate. The uniformed constables stiffened, conversation died mid-sentence, and Calloway’s jaw clenched as he looked up, irritation flashing across his face.

Ellie turned towards Savoy Place as three men strode into view.

Even in the dim moonlight, they stood out in their suits and matching trench coats. MI5.

The man in the lead was lean, dark-haired and moved with the quiet authority of someone used to being obeyed.

The flick of his eyes across the crime scene was quick, clinical.

Beside him a broader, older chap with a stiff gait muttered under his breath.

Ellie didn’t catch his words, but she caught the tone: disdainful.

Then the two agents split apart, surveying the perimeter like hounds catching a scent.

Ellie’s gaze snagged the third figure trailing behind them.

Jack Stratton. Her stomach dropped before she could stop it.

He looked older, hollowed out by whatever he’d seen since she’d last set eyes on him.

His overcoat was damp from the drizzle, collar turned up against the cold.

When he spotted her across the crime scene, his face went carefully blank – the same expression he’d worn when he walked away from her in front of half of London society.

For a heartbeat, she was nineteen again, watching the man she’d broken disappear into the crowd.

Some wounds, it seemed, never quite healed. Just what she needed tonight.