The inside of “the Counting House” was huge. It was still a typical British pub, with a mahogany wooden counter, only here it was placed in the center of the big space, much like in the bar they had left. The surroundings were generally made out of dark red wood: flooring, tables and chairs, and there were old style green lamps placed on several tables. Grey came to their table with two pints of cold Lager and handed one to John. They were sitting in the east corner on high stools. The place was not packed at 2:30pm, but it was still more buzzing than the posh Royal Exchange.

“They claimed to be the Police, well, they never claimed but that was the general notion… he, erm… gave me a card that says he is Police, but he never said it outright”. He dug in his coat’s pocket and produced a white business card, and placed it on the wooden table. Grey picked it up. It read ‘Inspector Moore: special investigations unit’. There was a small Met Police logo, and a phone number. Grey took out his mobile phone and dialed the number.

“Operator. State your business.” A familiar voice said from the other end of the line.

Deep in his heart Grey knew that police officers don’t leave obscure business cards, and that the City of London’s CCTV footage doesn’t erase itself… he had a hunch, and the more he thought about it the more it looked as if the service’s handprint was smeared all over this ‘incident’. Your service is rotten, it is part of it.

“Grey. Triple five – two – one – eight. Get me Finch.”

Deep in his heart he hoped the operator would be ignorant as per his request. But the all too familiar words followed:

“Please hold sir”

He got up from the table, singling to John with his finger to hold on, and walked a few paces towards an empty corner.

“Finch here.”

“it’s me”

“Are you using the informants hotline?”

“apparently…”

“Care to elaborate?”

“well, I just dialed a number on a business card left for one of the witnesses in the scene where Ephraim was killed”

“By whom!?” he was genuinely surprised.

“Check in the system an alias ‘inspector Moore. Tell me which directorate uses it”

“hold on” keyboard typing could be heard through the line. “okay got it. Finish up and come in ASAP, we’ll see if we can make any sense of it all”

Grey hung up. He went back to the table and nearly downed the rest of his pint. John sensed the anxiety that the older man felt. “Trouble in paradise mister Grey?” he took a sip from his own glass. It was an awkward question. Grey didn’t know how much the young gentleman had overheard.

“Listen kid, I don’t know who this so called inspector Moore is and what was his business there, but the guy who died there was an informant of mine. We used to work together for over ten years back in the day. So…” He sighed, “If there’s anything else you know that can help me get to the bottom of this, I… I’ll appreciate it.”

John looked into the blue eyes of the middle aged man. He looked well, even too well for his age, but his eyes reflected fatigue and exhaustion. The wrinkles on his face, on a second glance, seemed as if they are a result of miles and miles of tension and worries. Yet underneath it all, the eyes looked sincere and there was something in his face that made John trust him, almost instinctively. Years of practicing fakeness? John doubted it and yet was not sure he should share with this Grey the old man’s final words… Does indistinctive chatter, said while in flight, worth mentioning? It seemed farfetched and John decided against it.

“There’s nothing else I can think of Mr. Grey” John answered. “He mumbled something but it was incoherent, there’s nothing else.”

“I see”

“Can I trust you Mr. Grey?” John asked, as if the question shot itself straight from his heap, without getting filtered by any good manners or tact. He was like that sometimes. “I mean… from what I gather, these men, they are from the same organization as you are!” he exclaimed.

Grey nodded

“True they looked young and erm… unlike you, inexperienced, but….” He lost his line of thought.

“They were rash enough to make an eighty years old man to jump to his death” He completed the young man’s enquiry.

“Yes. Exactly”

“You can trust me Yo-ka-nan,” he struggles with the name “I will find whoever did this”

“John. Call me John. Everyone else around here does.”

“Okay John-“

“He did tell me something Grey” He was upset with himself for actually blurting this out, after already settling the matter.

“This inspector Moore?”

“No… I mean… him too, but I meant the old man.”

“What was it?”

“It will sounds silly, I don’t really know what to make of it, something about the queen standing or actually sitting, where everyone else is standing”

Grey raised his eyebrows. “some sort of code?”

“I doubt it, he sounded genuinely disoriented. Does it make any sense to you?”

“No”

“Well, that’s all I got”.

Grey stood outside at the busy crossroad of Bank of England, waiting to pull over a typical Londonian black cab. The conversation left him distraught. He gave John Daniel his mobile phone number in case he recollects anything else, but his instinct told him that the guy was telling it like it was, and that there wasn’t a single lead left for him to follow. His only hope was Finch conducting some internal inquiry that will most likely hit ‘Chinese walls’ and will be dismissed on the grounds of some bullshit excuse for secrecy.

He climbed into the back seat of a cab that pulled over, and tried to reflect on the old man’s last words, as John described them. Surely he got it wrong, Ephraim was never the one to engage in cryptography, he was a straight to the point guy and in the old days refused to encode any massage. It was simply unthought-of that in his age the old dog started learning new tricks.

“Oy! Where to?” called the taxi driver, probably for the third or fourth time.

“Sorry mate, I must have daydreamed. Right off Vauxhall Bridge, hmmm… it’s 85 Prince Albert Embankment, Babylon-upon-Thames.” The taxi soared off.

* * *

Something didn’t add up. He decided to head back to Liverpool Street Station, even though he could have easily walked through Threadneedle Street and head back to the apartment. He had no intention of going back to work today.

Walking on Old Broad Street portrayed the same old “city scenario”: busy pubs, restaurants, shoemakers that mainly mend old shoes and cut keys, dry-cleaners, Clothing shops and a “Snappy Snap” photography shop that had the queen’s portrait hung on the front door.

Where the queen is seated. The portrait, taken by David Dawson, was a famous one. Showing her majesty queen Elizabeth II with a full crown of jewels. The photographer took this picture while he was an assistant to the famous painter Lucien Freud, who was busy distorting the queen’s features for his art, painting her in a twisted macabre way – like most of his work. He increased his pace and nearly ran to the sheltered inside of the station. ‘There are pictures of The Queen everywhere in this country’ – it all became crystal clear to him.

John halted approximately where the old man bumped into him and tried to catch his breath. He started tracking back the starting point of the man’s run that ended with their collision. He walked past the big Boots pharmacy and stopped. This was the route he had taken each day, he already knew she would be there.

Exactly in a shooting distance from where people stood and looked up at the train departure board, was a gift card shop set in a glass cubicle (there were a few of these cubicles set out in this end of the station). The Portrait of The Queen was there, on the wall of the shop, gazing at the static commuters.

He managed to pretend as if he is checking some gift cards, and spotted a brown jiffy envelope stuffed right behind the card stand that was underneath the portrait. He slipped away, envelope in hand, right under the nose of the saleswoman, who was busy taking payment from the only other person there. He walked out of the station and into the cold dry afternoon.

Next Chapter: Chapter 5: Ephraim