Chapter 9: Blood Theater on the Thames
The wet wind blowing in from the River Thames carried the scents of salt, rust, and decay. Beneath London's gray sky, an abandoned industrial-era warehouse stood like a rusting giant awaiting its end. Yellow police tape stretched around the entrance, its hinges blown out, fluttering in the bone-chilling wind.
Arthur Pendelton stepped out of the police car with an unusual calm. Beside him, Detective Miller was still wheezing, cursing the weather and the splashes of mud staining his shoes. Several yards ahead, Inspector Elena Rostova was already standing at the crime scene, wearing latex gloves and a long coat that rippled elegantly in the wind.
Valerian—now looking through Arthur's eyes—scanned the area before he even set foot inside the warehouse. His mind, accustomed to processing thousands of logistical data points from the global cartel, now examined shoeprints in the mud, van-tire scratches on the wet asphalt, and the direction of the wind.
"You wait outside, Pendelton. The Inspector and I will handle this. You'll only contaminate the crime scene with your carelessness," Miller grumbled, trying to look good in front of Elena.
Arthur turned and gave him a blank yet deadly stare that silenced Miller once again. Without saying a word, he walked into the warehouse and slowly pulled on his latex gloves.
In the middle of the dim room, illuminated by the forensic team's portable floodlights, a man's corpse was tied to an iron chair. His body was covered in bruises, his clothes were torn, and there was a neat bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Thick blood, already beginning to dry, stained the concrete floor beneath him.
Elena was crouching beside the victim, staring at the crow tattoo on his neck, its wings spread wide.
"Time of death is estimated to be between two and three this morning," the forensic team leader reported to Elena. "Close-range execution. We found no shell casing. The killer was highly professional."
"This crow tattoo..." Elena murmured, her brows drawing together. "This isn't a local gang. According to the Interpol database, it's the symbol of Corvo Nero, an executioner branch of The Syndicate's Raven Faction in Europe. But why would they go to the trouble of executing this man in London?"
Arthur stepped closer. He looked at the victim's face. Valerian's photographic memory immediately matched the unfortunate man's face with data from his own mental database. The man was Elias, one of the third-tier accountants working for Valerian's loyalist faction in Britain. Elias's job had been laundering money through local casinos in Soho. The fact that Lorenzo's men had killed him meant they were trying to cut off the loyalists' flow of funds from the bottom up.
Valerian felt no sympathy or sadness over Elias's death. To him, the man was merely a piece of business property damaged by a competitor. And Valerian hated it when anyone touched his property without permission.
"He's not a member of Corvo Nero," Arthur's voice suddenly broke the silence, heavy with absolute certainty.
Every eye, including Elena's and Miller's, turned toward the low-ranking detective. Elena stood and looked at Arthur with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.
"What do you mean, Detective Pendelton?" Elena asked, folding her arms across her chest. "That tattoo is clearly their mark."
Arthur crouched beside Elena, close enough for her to catch the faint scent of peppermint on his breath, masking the smell of alcohol that usually wafted from the detective. Arthur didn't look at Elena; his eyes remained fixed on the victim's gunshot wound.
"Look at the tattoo, Inspector." Arthur pointed with his index finger, careful not to touch the victim's skin. "It was drawn after death. The edges are uneven, and there's no inflammation in the surrounding skin. The ink was injected after this man's heart had stopped pumping blood. It's not a membership mark. It's a message."
Elena frowned and leaned closer for a more detailed look. Her eyes widened when she realized Arthur was right. "You're right. It's a fake tattoo... or more precisely, a brand placed on the victim."
"Exactly." Arthur slowly stood, slipping both hands into his coat pockets. "And look at the gunshot wound. There are no powder residues on the skin of his forehead. Forensics called it a close-range execution, but if the muzzle was less than a meter away, gunpowder would leave burns and particles in the pores of the skin. He was shot from at least three meters away, by a sniper using a makeshift suppressor that blocked the powder particles."
The forensic team exchanged awkward glances, realizing that a second-rate detective had just corrected their initial analysis with terrifying accuracy.
"This man wasn't tortured to be killed," Arthur continued, circling the victim's chair. He pointed toward the knot binding Elias's hands. "A double Clove Hitch. Often used by fishermen or marine cargo workers. They tied him up, tortured him for information, then shot him after he'd revealed what they wanted. The tattoo is a taunt aimed at this poor man's boss."
Elena stared intently at Arthur. In the file she'd read that morning, Arthur Pendelton had been described as a lazy man and gambling addict, with a case-closure rate below twenty percent. Yet the man standing before her now possessed an aura sharp as a razor, analyzing the crime scene with deductive speed equal to—or even beyond—that of MI6's finest investigators.
"Where did you learn to analyze like that, Pendelton?" Elena asked, her tone turning more guarded. "Your profile doesn't match what I'm seeing now."
Arthur met Elena's sharp gaze. Behind Arthur's brown eyes, Valerian smiled faintly. He knew he had to play this role very carefully. If he acted too stupid, he wouldn't be able to control the investigation. If he acted too smart, Elena would suspect him.
Arthur snorted softly, putting on the perfect expression of bitter exhaustion. "I've been a cop on London's filthy streets for ten years, Inspector. I spent my nights in pubs with informants, prostitutes, and low-level hitmen while my superiors read reports from behind their warm desks. I know how bastards operate because I've lived among them. Valerian Black's death in Geneva three days ago... I don't know. It made me realize that slacking off wouldn't save me from the apocalypse."
Elena fell silent, searching Arthur's face for a crack in the lie, but finding nothing except what appeared to be genuine existential exhaustion. At last, she gave a slow nod, granting him a measure of respect.
"All right. Your analysis makes sense," Elena said. "If this man was tortured for information, and the perpetrators were cargo workers or hired sailors... we have a solid starting point. Forensics, check beneath the victim's fingernails. Look for traces of sea salt or chemicals from shipping containers!"
As Elena turned to give her team further instructions, Arthur took advantage of those precious seconds. He pretended to trip over an empty wooden crate near the victim's feet. As he bent down to straighten it, his left hand, moving too quickly for the naked eye to see, slipped a small warehouse rental receipt into the fold of the victim's jacket pocket. The receipt contained information Valerian "happened" to know identified the warehouse as one of Lorenzo's mid-level operational sites in London.
"Inspector," Arthur called, using his handkerchief to pull a slip of paper that was protruding slightly from the victim's pocket. "Looks like our killer wasn't as clean as they thought. Or maybe this man hid it before he was tortured."
Elena hurried over and took the receipt with a pair of tweezers. Her eyes read the faded line of text on the thermal paper.
"Container Warehouse Number 42, Canary Wharf Dock," Elena read, her eyes lighting up at the golden lead. "Rented under the name of an Italian shipping shell company. This is it. This is their nest."
Behind Elena's back, Arthur's lips curled into a thin smile, forming a predator's grin that no one in the room could see. Good work, Inspector, Valerian thought. Now go clean house for me.