“What about the Swiss arrest warrant?”

“Nothing. What do you think? He some kind of spook?”

“Don’t know, but I think it’s time we find out for ourselves. Let’s pull him in for a ‘how do you do.’ Is room seven free?”

“Leave him be.”

It was a new voice. A confident mid-Atlantic baritone that brooked no exception. All heads turned toward the rear of the room.

“Let him walk,” said the American. His name was Paul Gordon, and he had come to the United Kingdom as part of the immigration assistance program run out of the United States Department of Homeland Security’s Customs and Border Protection agency.

“Let him walk?” asked the supervisor. “Why? Do you know the man?”

“Just do it.” Gordon offered a pained smile. “Please.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“All right, then.” The supervisor radioed down to the passport inspector. “No interest on our end. Let him go.”

Paul Gordon watched on the monitor as Ransom gathered up his satchel and passed into the baggage claim hall. He waited a decent interval, then left the room, descended a flight of stairs, and opened an unmarked door that led outdoors. He checked that his phone had a signal, then activated speed dial and pressed the number 1. A groggy male voice answered. “Yeah?”

“Sorry to wake you, but an old friend of yours just flew into London,” said Paul Gordon. “Who?”

“Dr. Jonathan Ransom.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Murder squad.”

Detective Chief Inspector Kate Ford of the London Metropolitan Police flashed her badge at the uniformed constable standing guard at the entrance to 1 Park Lane. “I’m looking for Detective Laxton.”

“Morning, governor,” replied the constable. “He’s inside speaking to the building concierge. I’ll ring him for you.”

“Do that.” As Kate pulled into the circular driveway, she made a quick visual of the crime scene. A half-dozen uniforms manned the perimeter, keeping pedestrians and joggers moving along smartly. Blue-and-white security tape cordoned off the north end of the driveway and the stairs leading into the building. A sheet covered the corpse, but nothing had been done to clean up the blood. That was as it should be, she thought, as she brought her car to a halt and killed the engine. Everything appeared to be under control.

It was 5:45 a.m. by the dashboard clock. Kate angled the rearview mirror toward her face and ran a five-second diagnostic. Makeup all right, hair fine, eyes clear. First day back, she told herself. Make it count.

She opened the door and stepped outside. An ambulance was parked a few meters away. Its crew lounged against the bodywork, smoking, chuckling. “This is a crime scene, not a pub on a Friday night,” she said. “A man died here. Show some respect.” She yanked a cigarette out of the fat one’s mouth and flicked it to the ground. “Get in the cab and wait till we call you.”

The driver tucked his chin into his neck. “Yes, boss.”

Katherine Elizabeth Ford was thirty-seven years old, tall and blond and rail thin. She was dressed in a navy blazer, white T, and razor-creased slacks, and as she crossed the drive she appeared to gain not only speed but purpose. Like a shark coming in for the kill, someone had once said in the squad room. Yeah, but a shark’s got a sense of humor, came the response. Her face was all right angles, her nose sharp as a ruler, jaw set against the rigors of the coming day, blue eyes narrow as gun slits. She knew that she stood too straight, walked too fast, and didn’t laugh loudly enough at the boys’ jokes. But that was her way, and damn the lot if they didn’t understand.

“Hello, there, Katie!”

A trim silver-haired man emerged from the building. In a natty gray suit and pearl tie, he was dressed too nicely for a detective pulling night duty. As he jogged down the stairs, he held a hand on his head to guard his hair against the swirling morning breeze. God help me, thought Kate as she raised her hand in greeting. It’s too early for Pretty Kenny. “Hello, Ken,” she called, forcing a smile. “Bit of a mess, eh?”

Detective Ken Laxton of the Homicide Appraisal Team shook her hand and nodded at the body. “Bugger had to land on the stairs, didn’t he? Missed a perfectly nice patch of grass three meters away.” He laughed loudly at his joke.

“Where’d he fall from?” Kate asked, not sharing his humor.

Laxton pointed to a balcony halfway up the building. “Fifth floor. I’m seeing it as a jumper, plain and simple. Apartment was locked. The alarm was on. It’s a biometric job. Needs a thumbprint plus a code. The place is the size of Buckingham Palace.”

“What about family? Wife? Kids?”

“He was a bachelor. Looks like he’d decided he’d had enough of being alone and got on with it.”

“So you’re calling it a suicide,” said Kate. “Fair enough. Did he leave a note?”

“Not that we’ve found.” Laxton shrugged off the fact. “Like I said, he was a bachelor. No wife. No kids. Just his parents.”

Kate mulled this over. The great majority of suicides left behind some kind of message. She’d learned that it didn’t really matter who they wrote to, simply that they said goodbye. “You mentioned that his father was the duke of Suffolk? He the rich one?”

“To the tune of five billion quid. Owns half of Covent Garden and the West End. Lord Russell here is the sole heir. Sorry to rouse you, but what with the title, I didn’t want there to be any cock-ups.”

As duty officer of the Homicide Assessment Team, Laxton was the first detective called to the scene of a suspicious death or suicide. It was his job to conduct a preliminary investigation and decide whether to call in the murder squad.

“No worries. You did the right thing.”

Laxton began to say something, then bit back his words. “You all healed, then?” he asked after a moment.

“Better than new.”

“You’re looking wonderful,” he said, sincerity thin as paint. “I’m sorry about what happened to Billy. We all are.”

Billy was Lieutenant William Donovan, Kate’s fiancé, as well as her superior in the Met. A month earlier, a high-profile arrest had gone bad when the suspect opened fire on the police without warning. Billy took a bullet in the chest and was dead before he hit the ground. Kate was shot twice in the lower abdomen. There was more to it than that, but she didn’t want to think about it right now.

“At least it was fast,” Laxton went on. “No suffering, I mean. Still, it must have been a surprise. One second you’re knocking on the door, certain that you’ve got your man. Collar already pinned to the wall. The next, the bloke starts shooting like it’s the O.K. Corral. Don’t beat yourself up, Katie. Nobody else knew he had any priors. Why should you have?”

Kate met Laxton’s eye. You want me to cry, you preening little peacock, she said to herself. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. “What’s this one do, then?” she asked, pointing at the body lying at her feet.

Ken Laxton frowned. “No one around here knows. He came and went at all hours. By all accounts he was a serious chap. Not one of them carousers out burning through his millions.”

“Run me through the protocol.”

Laxton consulted his notepad. “Call came in at two forty-five. One of the residents heard the body hit. Lady on the second floor. One of them Saudi princesses. Said she thought it was a bomb. Al-Qaeda come to Hyde Park. Mayfair nick sent a radio car over. It arrived on scene at two fifty-five. They found him. The doorman identified the body.”

“Anything else?”

“Doorman said Russell entered the building through the garage and went straight up to his apartment. No more than ten minutes passed before he fell from the building. He’d been out to the parents’ for Sunday dinner.”