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chest.
    Organ music filled the hollow guts of the Abbey, somber, soul-shaking tones of a powerful, cathedral-sized organ. Stage lighting went on around the large instrument.
    He realized he had stumbled over a control box for God’s Voice, the German organ on display from Cologne. He had seen the damn box earlier when he was playing tourist. Now the sounds of Beethoven’s “Funeral March” boomed in the cathedral like a big foghorn on a small puddle, making enough noise to wake the dead and alert every guard station for miles.
    He ran for the tombs in the chapel, crouching beside the Virgin Queen’s crypt, peeping back out between the wooden bars for the guards that he expected at any moment. He backed away from the grille, on his hands and knees. His foot hit something— holy shit, he’d bumped into someone.
    He let out a yell and spun around, fist cocked, ready to swing. Enough light came from the organ spotlights to reveal someone sitting in the throne chair on display in the crypt. He saw the legs and clothing first, a man in a Tudor-era dress.
    It appeared to be a life-sized wax dummy, the sort of thing he’d seen at Madame Tussaud’s. As his eyes focused he realized that there was something on the man’s lap.
    A head. The head of a woman.
    He heard a drip.
    Dark liquid was dripping off the chair the figure was sitting on.
    Blood.

6
    Westminster Abbey
    Rotten luck, Dutton thought. He would have preferred getting chopped up by a serial killer than falling into the hands of Inspector Bram Archer of the Metropolitan Police—Scotland Yard—Homicide Division.
    Archer was in the crypt examining the body—and the head in its lap—and had posted Dutton on a bench in an anteroom with one of the Abbey guards who had come running when Dutton began screaming. It was past two in the morning and the guard, an elderly pensioner doing light duty after retiring from a clerical job with the Ministry of Housing, was nodding off beside Dutton.
    Dutton tried to think of all the reasons Archer hated him and it really boiled down to one: a story Dutton wrote when he was still a respectable award-winning journalist, an exposé on excessive force in arrests involving minorities. He reported a case in which Archer had broken both arms of a nineteen-year-old small-time Jamaican drug dealer. Something to do with the guy spitting on Archer.
    Dutton was trying to think of other reasons the homicide detective would have to hate him when Archer’s partner came out of the crypt area.
    Dutton smiled with false cheer at Sergeant Lois Kramer. Kramer was a well-nourished blonde with a healthy bustline and a lovely well-rounded ass. “Good to see you, Lois. How are things?”
    “We’re going to hang you on this one, you rotten, slimy son-of-a-bitch.”
    “Lois—”
    “I’m surprised you can remember my name. You kissed up to me to get information, then dumped me.”
    “I—”
    “I turned down a date with a real man to meet you, only to spend the evening twiddling my thumbs in a pub because you never showed up.” She leaned down so they were face-to-face. “And what really pisses me off is the guy I stood up won the lottery and married some tart I can’t stand.”
    “That was two years ago.”
    “And how many times have you called me since then? Archer’s going to burn your ass on this one and I want to be around to throw jet fuel on the fire.”
    Archer came out of the room, looking smugger than Dutton had ever seen him. The police inspector was short, about five-seven, but he was barrel-shaped and had about the same girth as height. Built like an artillery shell, he was probably the meanest little bastard on the school grounds when he was a kid. He had grown up to be a mean big bastard.
    Archer wanted to get in his face, too, and came close enough to breathe down at him. Dutton kept his features neutral, still wondering if there was any way he would be able to weasel out of charges of illegally entering the Abbey. Not to