Murderers and Other Friends

I have a small white scar over the fifth rib on my left side. It was put there by a friend who tried to kill me; a dagger through the heart being her impulsive preference. I didn't do anything about it afterwards, not that I was used to having people attempt my murder, but her intentions had been good. In many ways, it was my fault as it was I who had insisted she accompany me to look at a flat.

###

I was the recently-appointed Deputy Director in a special government think-tank based in Whitehall. Our little department had various names, none of them terribly respectful and at least one my mother would never hear. Not that it really mattered. I worked under the auspices of Sir David Bonneville, an amazing man, who had held his role for a number of years but now in his early seventies, had decided the time was approaching for him to retire. For this, he required a successor able to perform the same mental and intellectual legerdemain for which the department had become legend, and he had chosen me. Though not a physically large man, his shoes would be enormously difficult to fill, a fact I was already discovering.

It was now mid-June and I'd been working in London since January, finding my way around the place in every sense of the word. I had been given the use of an apartment in a government-owned building just off Pall Mall, though it was like no government property one might ordinarily expect. It was a wonderful flat, close to my usual place of work, large, serviced and discreet. It had everything a single man might desire of a town residence. The one thing that rankled early on and continued to do so, was that I could not realistically expect any true sense of privacy. It had become quite the thing recently for people to leave items or papers at my flat during the evening for me to bring into the office the next morning. This had ranged from some confidential papers in a neat attaché case, to a replacement encryptable fax machine which weighed a bloody ton. You might consider such expectations of me to be minor and, in the larger picture, they probably were. But I was becoming less and less happy about complete strangers being able to access my dwelling as if by right. By the beginning of June, five months after I had moved in, I was seriously looking for a way to move out. There were, however, certain proscriptions upon my choice of residence.

The first issue was proximity to Whitehall. Bonneville had made it clear at the outset that my presence would very likely be needed in the office at all hours and he had not lied. In my very first week, I spent almost three days living in his office while he required a brief stay in hospital. Fortunately, not even a minor heart-attack could keep the man down and he relieved me from my post by the third evening. It was good to live only a matter of minutes away as I was almost dead on my feet before I arrived home. After a proper night's rest, I returned to the office and persuaded Bonneville to go home and recuperate for at least another week. We agreed that I would work at his desk during the day as I had been doing, returning to my flat in the evening, and he would keep one of the new mobile phones with him at all times. The arrangement was gratifyingly productive for both of us, and worked well. It would not have worked so well had I been resident in Wood Green or even Richmond.

The second concern was that of suitability. I was a young, single, Civil Servant in a position of quite some responsibility. I rarely knew with whom I might be meeting on any given day since the function of Sir David's office, and by default, my office, was unique and never routine. Already, I was handling a number of delicate political negotiations with several deputy Heads of State and, on one occasion, the Norwegian Prime Minister. His Excellency was concerned at first by my youth, but this ended once I began discussing the problems surrounding current relations with Sweden. As a lawyer, the Prime Minister immediately went on the defensive and all concerns over my age vanished like mist in the hot sun. Given that I was never sure what occasion might be demanded of me, I had taken a leaf from Sir David's impeccable style and was now the satisfied owner of several irreproachable bespoke suits. I would not wish these rather expensive racehorses of male couture to be stabled in anything less than perfect conditions.

Next on the list was the fact that I lacked any inclination to find a 'doer-upper'. My parents might have fallen upon a low-priced gem with inarticulate cries of joy, but frankly, there was nothing about putty and undercoats of paint that had me enthralled. I had no interest in robbing tradespeople of their livelihood, nor did I have the time to fret over swatches of curtain fabric or bedlinens or light-fittings. My new job paid me very handsomely and I was fully prepared to take on substantial financial responsibility if it would give me what I wanted.

Which brought me to the final concern; that of money. London had never been the cheapest place to purchase a property but I was determined to do so; renting, and all the lack of true privacy that went with such an arrangement, was not for me if it could be avoided. There were two things standing in my favour here. Even before I came to London, I had a relatively substantial sum in cash; monies willingly paid to me in return for a few pages of neatly-written study notes at Oxford. The amounts offered for such scribbles had been excessive but I had long believed in the freedom of the laissez faire marketplace and was entirely happy to charge all that market would bear. Consequentially, I had close on fifteen thousand in the bank before I boarded the London train from Oxford. Additionally, since that time, living rent-free in a government flat while being paid an unexpectedly high remuneration, I had managed, even with my new clothes and other expenses, to squirrel away a further twenty-thousand pounds. This, plus a small inheritance I'd received from an elderly uncle less than a year before, meant I had just over forty-thousand to my name. A substantial amount in 1990; it would have entirely paid for a large house in some areas of Greater London. But I wanted to live in central London, in Westminster if I possibly could, and I had no real desire for a house with all the upkeep that entailed; a nice flat would be much more suitable.

And this then, was the final issue. Flats, even small ones, in the geographical area of my preference were already fetching astronomical amounts. For the type of residence I sought, I was going to have to shell out upwards of one-hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds. This was a not inconsiderable sum and I had decided not to mention this to the parents just yet as I was certain Mummy would have a blue fit.

However, I was moderately determined on my course of action and had taken to looking in the windows of several local real-estate businesses. There were a number of houses for sale in the region of Piccadilly and Leicester Square, but I really had my sights set on something in the same area in which I was currently living; somewhere in or near Pall Mall. It was on the Monday of a new week that several interesting incidents eventuated.

The first of these occurrences took place during my morning walk to the office as I passed one particular estate agent not far from the Old Clarence pub on the corner of Great Scotland Yard Road. According to a window poster that had not been there the previous evening, there was an entire building comprising of four, completely self-contained, three-bedroom flats newly on the market. The top floor possessed a roof garden and an excellent view. It was less than four minutes on foot from the flat where I currently lived. Without a second thought, I stepped into the just-opened office and walked up to the wall containing larger pictures of the property.

There was a rather lovely old front entrance with a Victorian revolving door, all brass and black lead paint. The small ground-floor foyer had been laid out and tiled in the Art Deco period, placing the original build somewhere around the 1920s; the black-and white floor tiles as crisp and elegant as they were seventy years before. There was a concierge at a reception desk and a small lift. So far, everything seemed most germane to my needs.

"May I assist you, sir?" the estate agent himself stood beside me. I saw his gaze light on my suit, glossy shoes and umbrella before it hit my face. He knew before I opened my mouth that I wasn't simply browsing.

"Forty-Two Pall Mall," I nodded at the large colour photographs. "Tell me about the properties there please."

"Indeed, sir," the man didn't quite fall into a Dickensian grovel, but it was a close thing. "A new properly just come on the market yesterday. Something for our most discerning clients, I believe, though I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing you in here before, Mr ...?"

"Holmes," I said, my eyes still on the photographs. "Are there any floor plans available?"

He scurried off to fetch several photocopied sheets, one for each of the four flats. The lower three were fairly similar in size and layout, the only difference being in the size of the bedrooms. Naturally, I wouldn't need three bedrooms, though I would need an office. It might be pleasant to have one with a window in it too, given that I spent so many hours at my desk these days. The top floor was, of course, the most expensive, but then it did boast some spectacular views towards St James's Park. However, I was not terribly interested in views, though I was very much interested in the flat on the third floor.

The main bedroom possessed an ensuite, something I'd rather grown to appreciate since living in my current billet. Of the two remaining bedrooms, the larger was at the rear of the property and thus away from the bustle of the main road at the front of the building. It would be both more private and quiet, yet it would still have a window with daylight and occasional sunshine. The rest of the flat seemed to be perfect. A large, open-plan lounge and dining area; a neat kitchen and laundry and a separate bathroom. The asking price printed neatly and discreetly on the bottom of the page suggested the discerning buyer would expect to invest an amount in the region of one-hundred and seventy thousand pounds for such a magnificent property. It would do.

"I'd like to see this one, please," I held out the floorplan for the third-floor flat. "As soon as possible."

"But of course, Mr Holmes," the man's version of Uriah Heep was both uncanny and vaguely repellent. "Would later today suit?" he checked the large wall clock. "My senior assistant would be free to escort you around the property any time after eleven this morning, if that might be satisfactory?"

I had no crucial meetings pencilled in my diary for this morning, though that state of affairs was often subject to change without notice. I had to verify my situation with Bonneville first.

"My office is in Whitehall; I will ensure I'm free later this morning, but I'd prefer to check before I commit to anything. You have a card?"

As soon as he heard 'Whitehall', the man barely restrained himself from tugging a non-existent forelock. A black-and-gold embossed card was produced with all haste as I handed him my own less ornate version.

"I shall be hearing from you shortly then, Mr Holmes?" the man whose card revealed him to be both the owner and proprietor of the agency, managed not to grin. Had my head not been filled with thoughts of privacy and ownership, I would have noticed the slyness of it.

###

"Precipitous?" Sir David sipped his mid-morning tea and favoured me with a single raised eyebrow.

"Hardly," I said nothing else but smiled behind my teacup. It had become a little game for us; to see how much information might be inferred from the minimum amount of detail supplied. Today was turning out to be unexpectedly quiet and we had time to continue my education.

"Financially sound?" Sir David was clearly concerned that either my desire for such a high-value asset, or the deal itself might be a step too far. If anyone knew the cost of property in London, it was he. In addition to assisting the British Government with the detangling and maintenance of its endless operational dilemmas, he was also something of a property whiz, snapping up parcels of land in such outlying boroughs as Bromley and Enfield, though why anyone would want to live that far out in the country was a mystery, it was all fields.

"Naturally," I risked a Rich Tea biscuit.

"Mortgage?" Bonneville nibbled the edge of his digestive and looked at me beneath lowered eyelids.

Trust Sir David to hit upon the one nagging flaw in my plan. Of course, I understood the essential technicalities of obtaining a mortgage but simply had not gotten around to going through the motions. And if I liked the flat I was going to view immediately upon finishing my tea, I would need to be able to make an offer swiftly; despite the price, places such as these did not hang around for long in central London. The other thing that might be an issue was my lack of a credit history which, in addition with my comparative youth was not the most auspicious combination at a time when mortgages were hard to get and interest rates as high as fifteen percent. Even with my generous pay, it would take a sizable chunk from my monthly salary, though I would still be able to afford the lifestyle to which I was rapidly becoming accustomed. I could only hope the banks would look upon me with favour.

As if reading my thoughts, and I am fairly confident by this time that Bonneville actually could, he pointed half a biscuit at me and closed one eye. "Solicitor?"

I frowned at the realisation I would also need a legal representative to work through the machinations of the British conveyancing system. Other than one or two of my fellow graduates at Oxford and the few colleagues in the office I knew to have a legal background, I had no connection to any qualified legal person.

Sir David began to laugh. "Mycroft, you are transparent," he finished his tea, turned to his desk, opening the wide central drawer. Fishing out an elegant business card with fine black print, he skimmed it across the table to me. Metro Mortgage Brokers. "A small financial organisation with whom I occasionally conduct business for my own private concerns," he said generally. "Mention I sent you and they may be able to organise something that meets your needs."

By this stage in our relationship, I had developed an unshakable trust in Bonneville's business acumen, not to mention the man's vast network of contacts, that any thought of talking to the banks vanished almost instantly. If he used such an organisation himself, then I knew without question it was trustworthy, discreet and did not lack for lendable funds.

"And as for your requiring a solicitor to complete the various property searches, draw up the contract and arrange the transfer of funds, did you never stop to consider what it was I actually studied at Merton all those long years ago?" I felt a weight slide from my shoulders, of course; Bonneville had read Law.

"Did you sit the bar?"

"I did, for my trouble," Sir David lit a cigarette. "Complete waste of time, of course," he blinked slowly. "Felt I should complete the thing after all the study, not that it ever did me any good."

"You are legally qualified to practice?" I wondered how many other qualifications my mentor had secreted away.

"Never took up a Pupillage, but am a legitimate solicitor," Bonneville leaned over towards me, a faint smile on his lips. "And it would provide me with the greatest amusement to convey your new acquisition for you," there was a light in his eyes. "To make use of the blasted knowledge at least once after all these years would vindicate some of the effort ... what do you say, eh?"

Sir David, a qualified barrister, was offering to act as my solicitor? I could hardly refuse. There was only one thing left for me to do.

"Would you like to come and see the place?" the invitation was thrown airily into the conversation without expectation. "I'd planned to have a look at it this morning."

The advent of these new compact mobile phones were changing the way everyone worked and neither of us needed to be chained to our desks any more. Bonneville tapped the intercom to his Executive assistant who had her own office on the opposite side of Sir David's office to my own.

"Just popping out for a while, Victoria," he stood, extinguishing the cigarette. "Call me if needed. Mycroft and I have some legal matters to discuss."

"Certainly, Sir David," the woman's quiet efficiency was reflected in her voice. "Will you return before lunch?"

"Possibly not," Bonneville looked rather cheerful. "The sun is shining and it's a lovely day. We won't be needing the car."

The day was indeed turning out to be very pleasant and a stroll along Whitehall's wide Yorkstone pavements was not an intolerable activity. Within five minutes, we had reached the real estate agents and for a moment the both of us stared into the wide shining windows and the great shining icons of conspicuous consumption.

"This one," I pointed to the large photograph that had caught my attention earlier. I felt a small thrill tingle down my spine as I re-contemplated my first venture into property.

"Seems suitable," Bonneville sniffed and stepped into the shop.

Uriah Heep, masquerading under the commercial nom de plume of William Smith & Son, was no less sycophantic on this second visit, though now there were the two of us around which to fawn. Clearly the notion of a major commission was a temptation not even the strongest of self-dignities could withstand. Fortunately, Bonneville would not tolerate Smith's toadying

"This," turning to face Smith, Sir David wasted no time as he tapped the photograph on the wall. "Is an excessive price for such a property, even in the locale," he said, peering at the estate agent through narrowed eyes. "As Mr Holme's legal representative, I warn you, I shall leave no stone unturned in my efforts to discover any and all encumbrances upon the property, including a brine and drainage search, a coal-mining search, conservation, easement, subsidence and Land registry investigations, and any wayleave agreements that may be in place at this time," he glowered faintly at the agent who had stopped trying to ingratiate himself and had begun to look genuinely worried. Even though Sir David was not physically large, his approach to all potential problems was simply enormous. Managing to maintain a deadly straight face, I watched the Maestro at work. Even his diction was magnificent.

"It is a fair price," Smith valiantly attempted to regroup.

"It is a unconscionable and unprincipled price," Bonneville was warming up. "Given the usurious interest rates currently darkening our green and pleasant land, such inexcusable inflation of the selling-price advises me to pay extremely close attention to all deeds, covenants and contracts pertinent to the building," Sir David's voice dropped in volume as he leaned in closer to the agent. "The entire building," he warned softly. Clearly something was happening here beyond my understanding, but the agent, his eyes wide, his gaze shuttling between Bonneville and I, swallowed hard.

"I'm sure some understanding might be reached with the, ah, vendor," William Smith wasn't actually wringing his hands yet but he was definitely twitching.

"I'm positive of it," Sir David smiled regally, holding out a palm. "The keys, if you please."

"If you can wait only a few minutes more, sir," Smith's eyes grew wary. "I'll have my senior assistant take you both there himself and show you the third floor flat directly."

"We wish to see the complete building and do not require a guide, a Sherpa or a chaperone," Bonneville's eyes narrowed again as he produced his card. "I shall return the keys as soon as my client and I have satisfied ourselves as to the particulars of the property and not a moment before," he looked pointedly at his empty hand then back to the agent.

Whether it was Bonneville's presence, pompousness or the sheer balls of his attitude, Smith's shoulders dropped and he nodded, walking over to his desk in the corner and returning with a well-stocked key ring.

"I shall be needing them back as soon as possible," Smith rallied himself, showing a little backbone. "I have other parties wishing to assess the properties later this afternoon."

Offering the man a small, tight smile, Sir David inclined his head before spinning on his heel and leaving the office. I didn't applaud, though it was tempting. We walked on in silence for several yards.

"Bit theatrical, do you think?" Sir David lit a cigarette and stared directly ahead.

"Not at all," I smiled. "Though it was quite the performance. I especially enjoyed the part about our green and pleasant land."

"Just so," he nodded in cheery satisfaction as we continued our late-morning stroll in the warmth of a June day.

Taking a short cut past Carlton House Terrace and my current residence in Carlton Gardens, we turned the corner into Pall Mall itself. The traffic was busier here, but the substantial buildings were all of Portland stone and bore themselves like ancient monuments. It would be peaceful inside, I knew this from the experience of my current flat.

And suddenly, we stood outside a black-painted Art Deco archway on the building's front entrance. It was more imposing than had seemed in the photograph; heftier and more substantial. There was something about it that satisfied some deep need in me for history and permanence. Of course, the place was entirely locked up but with uncanny precision, Sir David selected the correct key and had us inside in a matter of seconds.

The tiled foyer was everything I had imagined it to be. Clean lines and an unfussy presence. The uninhabited concierge's desk was over towards the left wall while the small lift and marble staircase were on the right.

"I think we can dismiss the flats on the first two floors, don't you?" Bonneville peered at me over the rims of a small pair of reading-glasses he'd pulled on, all the better to read the details of the floor plans.

"Because the first floor is too easy a target for intruders and the second has none of the benefits of either the higher or the lower flats?" I questioned, moderately sure of my reasoning.

"Because both of them have their main bedrooms facing directly across the street towards a small dance studio," Sir David raised an eyebrow. "You need to go higher."

"It's actually the third floor that interests me," I said, pressing the lift button, pleased when it opened with a low, melodic ding.

Examining the photocopied plan of the third floor flat, Bonneville hummed softly to himself, no doubt considering a great many things that had yet to occur to me.

"It has everything I need," I offered. "The location is perfect, it's of a sufficient size and I can afford the mortgage repayments. I have approximately forty-thousand I can put down as a deposit, though I realise the lack of any credit history or long-term savings is against me," I frowned, wondering if it would be enough. Given the precarious state of mortgage funds in the country, London mortgages were not easy to get.

"Hmm?" Bonneville looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows. "These are not the immediate issues you should be considering, Mycroft," he advised cryptically.

Then what was I supposed to be considering?

The lift stopped at the third floor and we exited into a small private foyer. As there was no window in this internal space, it was dimly lit, though I was sure a brighter light could easily be installed. Handing me the keys from the agent, Sir David waved me towards the front door of the apartment.

As the key entered the lock for the first time, I confess to experiencing a small thrill. This might possibly become my first owned home. The door opened and a flood of bright sunshine lit my way into the flat. Immediately more cheerful, I could see that the main door opened almost directly into the living room, with a clear line of sight into both the kitchen and the dining area. The high ceilings and generous dimensions of the equally high windows were instantly satisfying. The period features of geometric plaster patterns on the ceiling, the wide skirting boards and the gloriously polished wood floors with a darker wood design around the walls. There was a wonderful authentic deco fireplace converted to gas and with every additional detail I felt more and more at home.

Sir David returned from examining the kitchen with its highly polished cabinets, though his expression was unhelpful. He walked out into the small hallway without comment, apparently intent on seeing the rest of the accommodation. I followed, heading to the main bedroom at the front of the property. As Bonneville had warned, there was indeed a dance studio in the building across the road. If they ran at night, the noise might be enough to irritate anyone living on the lower floors.

The main bedroom was acceptable; not as large as the one in my current borrowed flat, but it would be sufficient. I was about to walk down to the other end to see where I'd thought to have my office when Sir David came striding back, a faint frown between his eyes.

"This will not do at all, Mycroft," he shook his head. "You will need a much larger room for your office and this flat certainly does not afford you that necessity. Upwards!" he pointed dramatically towards the ceiling. "We must ascend!"

About to point out that if I barely had the funds for this, significantly less expensive apartment, I had hell's own chance of affording the penthouse suite, but I followed my mentor anyway. The lift dinged and we stepped out into a similar foyer as the one below, though the experience this time was entirely different. Natural brightness from a cleverly positioned skylight picked out the intriguingly octagonal shape of the small space, showing off both the decorative cornice and the beautifully tiled floor to excellent advantage. The head of the marble staircase was immediately to the right of the lift, with broad Corinthian columns in a deco rendering, topped with thick Carrara marble plinths. The door looked different from the one downstairs; this one having more character, displaying a fine and complex border and a shining octagonal silver handle, the doorway itself topped with a geometric sunburst pattern. It was altogether of a higher quality and we hadn't even entered the flat yet. Locating the appropriately numbered key, I swung the door inwards and stopped short at the vision of stylishness before me.

The first thing that struck me was sheer amount of space and light. As it was on the top floor, there was unobstructed light coming in from windows and skylights at both front and rear. The apartment's central passageway was broad, blending into the living room and dining area with a sweep of fantastically polished wooden floorboards of some dark grained timber. Each of the tall narrow windows had the same geometric half-sun above them embossed into the white plaster so that the effect was one of subtlety rather than ornamentation. The kitchen was larger than I had expected, with twinned deep white sinks and the recurring sunburst motif above the windows. The two largest bedrooms were side-by-side at the front of the dwelling overlooking Pall Mall itself, with partial views down to St. James's Park. This high up, the sounds from the street were attenuated and distant; audible but untroubling.

Stepping into the master bedroom, the first thing I saw was the heavy sliding wall of glass separating the room from the world outside. A long but narrow balcony, just sufficiently wide for a café table and a couple of chairs, sat waiting. I immediately imagined myself having tea out there on a fine summer's morning with the paper ... Frowning, I stopped the images. I could not afford this and it would not do at all to pretend otherwise. Perhaps it was another of Bonneville's little tests of which he was so fond; throw Mycroft into a strange situation and see how he reacts.

There was a classically-styled ensuite in the same white Carrara marble as in the foyer; the well-appointed bathroom gleaming in chrome and white stone and shining tiles. I saw the same high standard of finish throughout, but stepped into the adjacent bedroom just to rub the impossibility of it, like salt, deeper into my skin. This room, ostensibly a bedroom, was almost as large as the master suite though lacking a bathroom. It too had a wall of glass dividing it from the word beyond though the view from this window was more of the London skyline. Still airy and light but less distracting. It would have been perfect for my office.

There was another bathroom, somewhat more central in the apartment, which continued the theme of chrome and marble, followed by a third bedroom at the rear of the property, smaller but not impossibly so. There was also a tiny separate laundry with an external door leading out onto an equally tiny roofed-in, hidden balcony, scarcely more than four feet wide, running the entire breadth of the apartment. There were several drying lines and built-in storage cabinets.

"Well, this is all very pleasant," my voice sounded vinegary even to my own ears. "And it has certainly been an education, but as I simply cannot afford this much money ..." I stopped short as Sir David held up a peremptory hand.

"My dear boy, you don't think for one moment I'd bring you up here if I wasn't utterly positive I could negotiate an arrangement suitable to all parties?"

"The flat downstairs is as much as I can realistically afford, and this one ..." I looked around at the elegant wonders of a golden time long past. "This has to be a significantly greater investment."

"Leave all that to me," Bonneville waved an airy hand. "The key question is, do you like the place?"

Did I like it? It was something far beyond anything I had expected or looked for. It was a habitat I found superbly comfortable and stylish and which could supply me with everything I had considered I might want. In short, it was perfect.

"I like it very much," I nodded slowly. "It's magnificent."

"Then as your legal representative, I ask you to leave negotiations in my hands and I will bend my not-inconsiderable will into achieving a mutually agreeable solution for everyone, at which point you will be able to return your concentration to the appropriate place."

Though these last words were spoken without heat, I felt their weight. Had I been guilty of losing my focus? I hadn't thought so, but I was not the most objective judge. I supposed I hadn't been terribly subtle about wanting to find a place of my own. I would need to work harder in future to keep my private desires exactly that; if Bonneville could see I was distracted, then so could others. Keeping my own counsel, I followed Sir David back into the lift and down to the ground floor where we exited, locked the place up and began retracing our steps to the real estate agent's office.

"There is one more thing I am going to ask you to do, Mycroft," Bonneville maintained a steady stride. "I'm going to introduce you to Nari Kim, a young woman from South Korea. Ms Kim is an expert in interior design and happens to have recently been involved in the restoration of one of London's most important Art Deco buildings, Eltham Palace in Greenwich."

I held my peace, knowing there was more.

"Ms Kim needs additional experience in the domestic market in order to establish herself as a consultant in this country and you would be doing both of us a sizable favour by allowing the lady to assist you in furnishing and decorating your new flat once you have moved in."

There was still something else. Bonneville dearly enjoyed his little subterfuges.

"Ms Kim is in London to work as an interior designer?"

Sir David turned to face me, smiling deliberately and tilting his head as if I was being particularly slow.

"Of course not," he said. "Ms Nari Kim is a North Korean spy and is undoubtedly in London to entice selected individuals into her network. I want her to seduce you, Mycroft."