Chapter One: September

Gregory Lestrade never really knew how his life had suddenly become so bloody complicated. One minute, he was your average, run-of-the mill divorcé; unmarried, unloved, unhappy but not completely broke. The next ... well, it was a long story, and he had a pretty good idea Mike Stamford was to blame. Best to start at the beginning, really.

The final separation and inevitable divorce from Cathy happened in a surprisingly short period of time. They'd been arguing about the situation since forever, but he hadn't really thought either of them would reach the point where the angry words would become something more; where threats and warnings turned into packed suitcases and slammed doors. After that, of course, it was all down to solicitors and sending documents by registered mail; estate agents' phone calls and ultimately, a long depressing silence. It wasn't that he'd fought terribly hard to save his marriage which, in hindsight, had been describing a downwards curve for the last five years or more. No, it wasn't the marriage itself Greg found himself missing, but rather, the lack of being married, of having a place to be, of having some shape and form to his life. He'd been married for so long that he couldn't even remember what kind of a person he'd been before he'd put that plain gold ring on his wedding finger.

The house sale went through with dramatic swiftness and profit thanks to London's spiralling residential demand and rising house prices. The bland, three-bedroomed terraced house he and Cath had bought more than twenty years before in Camden for just under two-hundred grand, had, according to their Estate Agent, magicked itself into a beautifully appointed Victorian house with an abundance of period features and two new bathrooms. No mention of all the weekends he and Cathy had spent doing up an old dump of a house into something that, though he said it himself, wasn't half bad. Especially not when the final offer they accepted on the place was well over a million pounds. Greg had never ever thought he'd have that much cash to his name, free and clear and with no fear of the Professional Standard Directorate checking over his bank balance suspecting some very funny business. Naturally, after all the bills had been paid and the various professionals had each taken their cut, the final amount was a fair bit smaller, but still left both he and Cath, his now ex-wife, with a little over five-hundred thousand each in the bank.

Not that that kind of spending money went anywhere in London, these days. Even a half-decent, one-bedroom flat near the middle of town cost a hell of a lot more than that. The Ex had gone off with her PE teacher and were now probably booking all sorts of cruises and long-distance travel arrangements with the money earned by all those lost weekends. Yes, he could move further out, maybe to somewhere like Sevenoaks. Apparently, you could find yourself a half-decent semi out there with half-a-mil in your pocket. But ... Sevenoaks? For someone who'd spent his entire adult life working and living in Central London, a place like Sevenoaks was on the dark side of the Moon. A nice place for sure, but it wasn't him. It just wasn't.

Which sort of left Greg in a bit of a bind. Yes, he could rent, and with a chunk of cash that big, he could probably rent somewhere pretty damn good for the rest of his natural, if he invested the money carefully and if that was what he wanted to do. But it was hard to go back to renting and the lack of real privacy and absence of red tape that went with it when you'd been your own master for the last twenty years. Renting was a definite possibility but it wasn't high up on Greg's list of preferred options. Next, he could see if he might be able to find a really small flat closer to the centre of town and use the half-mil as a deposit. It was certainly doable. He was a DI, standing in good stead with his employer and was on a pretty good wicket. His pay and London allowance meant he brought home a decent wage. Not only that, most of the major lenders knew a copper was a good bet when it came to lending money for a mortgage and, often as not, something of a sweetheart deal might be arranged. However, he didn't much fancy taking on another big mortgage only a few years after he'd finished paying off the first one. Besides which, he wasn't getting any younger; the banks might not want to lend him the kind of sum he'd need.

Greg sighed as he thought his way through this; he'd met a few people in the mortgage business over the years and there was a reasonable chance he might be able to swing a fair interest rate for one of London's Finest. Even though he knew he'd be stretching everything to the absolute limit, Greg felt happier with that idea than the one about going off and finding some posh rented flat somewhere in Islington or even closer in. The only real drawback was that when he and Cath had bought the place in Rousden Street back in the mid-Nineties, they had both been a lot younger and a hell of a lot more enthusiastic about lugging buckets of cement and tins of paint around at the weekends. Not only did he not have the same energy now as he did then, but he had a lot less spare time. He sighed again. This was probably one of the reasons he and Cath had hung on as long as they had; it took a lot of effort to even think about starting again and neither of them was what you might call a spring chicken. He sniffed moodily. Not that that had seemed to stop Cath from gathering her nuts in May. Ah well.

In the meantime, he needed to find some digs, reasonably cheap, until he was able to make longer-term plans. It didn't matter what sort of place he got for a few weeks; as soon as he'd got all the finances worked out and had looked around to see what he fancied in terms of real-estate, Greg was confident he'd have himself properly set up within, oh, a few months at most. Of course, that was before he started looking for an new place to call his own.

Looking for a place to live is a miserable occupation when your heart isn't really in the task. Still, Greg knew he didn't have much of a choice in the matter and began spending increasing chunks of his scant free time online, chasing down one potential sale after the next, only to find he was too late, too poor, too fussy or simply too jaded to be charmed by the estate agents' increasingly flamboyant claims for their properties. He had no interest at all in tiny, one-bed flats with a great view of a brick wall ten feet away from the window. Nor was he particularly keen on the crumbling end-of terrace in Poplar where the rats could be heard in the walls and the stink of decaying wood made him step outside for a breath of fresh air. What he wanted, what he really wanted ...

Somewhere central and easy for work. That was essential for someone in his line of business. He needed to be able to get to a crime scene within minutes, not hours. He also wanted the city around him, but not anywhere so badly damaged by neglect and gang-crime that the roof was in danger of landing on his head in the middle of the night. Greg realised he wanted a place that had a bit of age to it, something recognisably London rather than any of this Modernist crap with flat roofs, flat windows and a total absence of charm. He didn't necessarily expect to find a place as good as the house in Camden, but he liked some of the leafier roads and found himself driving around the nicer streets after work simply to prove to himself that such places still existed.

After the fourth month passed and he was no further forward than he had been at the start, Greg couldn't deny the fact that he was starting to feel somewhat disillusioned about the whole song and dance of buying a property in London. Everything was too hard and took too much time and was just plain too disappointing at the end of it all. He was royally fed up and, bumping into Mike Stamford at Bart's after chasing Molly for a swift word one a recent Thames drowning, the idea of a pint or three sounded exactly what he needed.

"But everything's either the size of a small hamster cage, with literally everything in the one room, including the bloody toilet," Greg waved his arms indignantly over his head. "Or it's out in the middle of nowhere, where the locals drink seventeen different kinds of cider and are unnaturally serious about seasonal weather patterns. And if it's neither of those, it's in a nice spot and costs more than I'd ever make in a million years." Greg quaffed his bitter and sighed gloomily into the half-empty glass. "It's all a bit much," he added, grimly. "I may have no choice but to find a place to rent until someone dies and leaves me a hamster cage in their will."

Mike laughed. It was easy to make light of another's misery when it was so obviously self-inflicted. But then, he remembered a conversation he'd had the previous weekend and he stood, holding his glass motionless as his brain replayed the event. It probably wouldn't be worth the effort of mentioning anything ... but he'd been right about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, hadn't he? Was it even possible that ...

"What?" Greg observed the pregnant pause and the fact his drinking partner had ceased involvement in one of those crucial elements. "What?," he asked again, turning to assess the doctor's fixed facial expression. There was usually only one reason people stopped talking and looked like that. "You've had an idea, haven't you?" there was an accusatory tone in Greg's words. "Come on then ... out with it, man."

Mike shook his head and sipped his beer. It wasn't even a fully-fledged consideration, more a fragment of reflection where two unlikely people could make something work. "Not really an idea," he shook his head again. "Just an odd thought."

"Significant enough to stop you drinking and talking," Greg pointed out. "I'm not a copper for nothing, y'know," he looked arch and tapped a finger against his glass. "Spill."

Shrugging and examining the remains of his pint, Mike wrinkled his nose. "I have a friend," he said, apropos of nothing in particular.

"And?" Greg raised his eyebrows.

"And this friend is looking for someone with a bit of spare cash to invest in a small property development here in London," Mike finished his ale, fishing in a jacket pocket for his wallet. Opening the folded leather, he hunted for a few seconds before extracting a worn business card bearing the image of a single fern strand above three simple words.

Freddy Kerr. Gardener.

"Your mate's a gardener?" Greg frowned down at the battered bit of card in his fingers as he knocked back the last of his beer. "It's your round, anyway," he added, gesturing towards Mike's still-open wallet.

"Yes, a gardener and a posh one too," Mike plonked a fresh beer in front of Lestrade as he retook his seat. "And not only that, but a bloody good one; lots of clients in Kensington and some of the big houses in the Home Counties."

Greg sat back and thought. "So this mate of yours wants someone to go in with him on a small development ... I'm thinking this would be some kind of house refurbish?"

"I think so," Mike screwed up his face, trying to remember the exact details. "Might be best if you had a word with Freddy to find out what's what," he added. There were a couple of things Mike felt best not to mention until Greg and Freddy made contact ... assuming they ever did, of course. Freddy was, well, Freddy was a bit different from other people.

"Yeah well, I'm not that desperate yet that I've entirely given up on the house-buying scene," Greg waved the card away as he swigged down the chilled beer. "I'm bound to find something that suits me if I keep at it a bit longer, but thanks for the thought."

###

Three weeks later, Greg called Mike back. "That friend of yours still looking for a partner in their house refurb?" he asked. "Frankly, I'm open to almost any suggestion right now that doesn't involve entire bathrooms smaller than an aeroplane toilet, or sheds masquerading as a three-bedroom house."

"Want me to set up a meet?" Mike sounded amused. "At the pub?"

"Is he the kind of bloke who comes to normal pubs?" Greg wondered if maybe a wine bar might not be a better place.

"Freddy's good with pubs, have no fear," Mike laughed. "I'll make a call and organise something. I'll text," he added, ending the call.

The text arrived the following evening, just as Greg was about to sink down into the cheap and lumpy settee in his massively expensive rented bedsit. He hoped to Christ he could get some kind of arrangement off the ground; if he spent too much time in a dump like this one, he'd lose whatever sense of normality he had. Bedsit living was great for students, but he'd come to appreciate something with a little more substance and comfort. He really was too old for this.

The meeting was arranged for eight o'clock at the White Ferry House in Pimlico; an old Victorian drinking hole which now sported cheap accommodation for backpackers and visiting students. Consequently, the pub was pretty packed by the early evening. Undaunted, Mike guided Greg through the long main bar towards the back of the big saloon where a series of neatly upholstered booths were already occupied. Pointing out the biggest nook in the corner, Mike indicated Greg should take a seat. As he approached, Greg saw someone was already there; a pair of hands rested on the table. He slid into the opposite leather bench before looking up and freezing.

"Oh God, sorry," he was already half standing again in preparation for leaving the booth to its solitary occupant. "My mistake. I was supposed to meet someone here ... sorry," he smiled, resting a hand on the table top as he angled his legs out from between the bench-seat. Mike stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.

"Greg, meet Freddy Kerr," he said smiling broadly. "Freddy, this is the old friend I was telling you about the other night. Greg's got a bit of cash but can't find the right kind of property to buy. I thought the two of you might be able to work something out. Sit," he said to Greg, pushing him back towards the seat. "I'll get the drinks in." He was off to the bar before any resistance could be offered.

Taking the hint, Greg did what was expected and slid into the long seat. "I'm Greg," he said, reaching a hand across the table.

"I'm Freddy." A woman in her late thirties shook his hand. "Mike speaks highly of you," she added, sitting back and folding her arms. "He says you're very trustworthy."

"Yeah, well," Greg shrugged, sitting. Part of him was already regretting coming here tonight. Getting involved in a property deal was one thing, but with a woman? He'd need to be well convinced before things went any further. "We sometimes end up working in the same line of business."

"You're a doctor?" the woman smiled as Mike slid a pint glass in front of each of them, placing a third on the table as he sat. "You look more like you'd be in banking or perhaps government."

"You're not far off there," Greg smiled politely. "Met Police."

"Police?" Freddy Kerr raised a very direct gaze to Mike sitting opposite and drinking his beer. "Mike didn't say."

Greg blinked down at his glass. "There were a couple of things he neglected to tell me about too," he smiled, taking a good look at Freddy Kerr, Gardener.

Mid-height, the woman was dressed in boxy dark clothing that disguised her shape but by the narrowness of her wrists and neck, she was thin to the point of being wiry. Her nails were short, clean and unvarnished. She wore little makeup; a touch of lipstick and mascara as a nod to the social niceties. Her skin was tanned and there was a bridge of freckles across her narrow nose. She had short, almost ragged dark hair with threads of silvery-grey already making themselves at home in the heavy sweep that tucked itself away behind her right ear. Tiny gold studs in her freckled earlobes and a man's heavy signet ring was all the jewellery she wore. A black t-shirt under a loose dark grey jacket hid everything else from inspection. Not that he was inspecting her, of course.

Her eyes were dark hazel and acutely intelligent. Greg felt the heat of embarrassment rise as he realised the woman had been observing him observing her.

"Seen everything you want?" she asked, sipping her lager.

"Sorry," Greg owned up manfully. "Not only am I a copper, but I don't meet women called Freddy every day, is all," he swallowed more beer. "You don't look like a gardener, for starters," he added. "More like a doctor, maybe?"

Freddy shrugged inside her shapeless clothes. "I was one of Mike's students briefly," she said. "It's how we met."

"But not a doctor now?" Greg was curious. Few people with the ability to become a doctor changed their vocation. Certainly not to that of gardening. Not unless there was a reason. A serious reason. Greg narrowed his eyes uncertainly as he looked across the table.

"In case you're wondering, Freddy gave up the medical profession because she found the emotional side of things a bit ... difficult," Mike knew what Greg's expression meant. "You've got to be pretty tough in the ..."

"Yes, well," the woman interrupted. "Ancient history and all that."

"Freddy?" Greg sipped his beer some more. "Odd name for a girl."

"Far better than Frederica," she grimaced. "Among others. Greg ... Gregory Lestrade?"

"My parents nearly called me Godfrey," Greg grinned at the awful memory. "Old French, but they saw the error of their ways in the nick of time," he lifted his glass again, shaking his head at the close call. "The things parents do to innocent children."

"Tell me about it," Freddy rolled her eyes.

"So tell Greg about the place on Sussex Street," Mike prompted. "It sounds to me that you need a trustworthy partner with a bit of liquid cash."

"True," Freddy sucked down some of the frothy beer and nodded sharply. "Though the situation's slightly more complicated that just money."

"I'm listening," Greg felt he might as well hear the proposition while he was here. He doubted it would be anything he'd really want to get involved with, but hey, you never knew these days.

"I inherited an old house with a bit of a garden, at the corner of Sussex Street and Westmoreland Place," Freddy arched her eyebrows and heaved a sigh. "The building itself is structurally sound though the house is in significant disrepair," she paused, sipping her lager. "My problem is threefold," she continued. "The land alone is worth millions, but if I demolish the house try and sell the plot as vacant land, I'll lose the majority of it to Capital gains tax, old death duties and other fees, which does me no good at all. The other problem is the bequest states that if I attempt to sell the house without living in it for at least a year, all profits revert to an old family trust and I'll not see a penny of it. The other part of the problem, of course, is that to do the house up to anywhere near a liveable standard is going to cost in the hundreds of thousands of pounds; money I simply don't have."

"The banks won't lend you the money with the house as collateral?" Mike sounded curious.

"Mike, I'm a gardener, a freelance gardener," Freddy sounded weary. "Even with collateral, no bank is going to risk half-a-mil on me if I can't demonstrate at least some kind of steady income and an ability to make regular loan repayments."

"Which is where you need a financial partner," Greg nodded thoughtfully. "So, what's the plan?"

"Well," leaning forward on the table, Freddy's expression became genuinely animated for the first time. "It's a large house, with three big floors and a full-size cellar. I can get planning permission to remodel it into three decent-sized apartments. I want to keep the ground floor and most of the garden for myself, offer one of the other two apartments to my partner and sell the third, splitting the money equally between us," she fixed her eyes on Greg's face. "Does that sound like something you'd be interested in doing?"

Greg felt the air whoosh out of him. Invest in a redevelopment scheme and end up with both a decent place to live and a reasonable financial return? It sounded a little too good to be true. "What's the catch?" There had to be a catch.

"The bequest also states that whoever is to live in the house for the year has to be personally involved in its upkeep and improvement," Freddy looked unsure. "It means that we'd have to at least get our hands dirty with the renovations to a certain degree," she said. "Of course, I'm happy to take the garden on, and I can scrub and wield a paintbrush with the best of them, but I know nothing about plumbing or electrical stuff. Do you?"

"A bit," Greg made a face. "But not to the point that I'd trust myself to do more than rewire a plug. I know you need to get any major plumbing and electrical work signed off before you can onward sell a developed property, so I can't see that would invalidate your bequest or trust or whatever," he rested his chin on a hand. "Depends on the exact wording of the inheritance, I suppose."

"I've got a solicitor looking at the details right now. I hope to have a clearer picture by tomorrow at the latest."

"It would be good to actually see the place," Greg stroked a fingertip down the cold surface of his empty glass, keeping his tone vague and neutral, even though something inside him tingled at the idea. It might be exactly what he needed to get himself out of his rut.

Freddy grinned cheerfully. "Which is why I suggested we meet at this pub," she laughed. "The house is less than five minutes' walk away."

"But won't the place be locked up? Don't you need a key to get in?" Greg sat back, keen despite himself.

Grinning again, Freddy pulled an old fashioned big brass key from her coat pocket and waved it in the air. "I came prepared."

"It's getting a bit dark out," Mike glanced through the window as the dusk gathered.

"I said I came prepared," Freddy laughed again as she pulled a small torch from her other pocket. "Shall we go?"

###

The streets were fairly wide and in good order, and the pavement was well tended, Greg looked around with his policeman's eye as he and Mike walked briskly along behind a very spritely Freddy. Now he could see all of her, Greg confirmed his earlier estimations. He was an inch shy of six feet and Freddy was at least six inches shorter than him. She also had small feet to match her narrow wrists, though she moved with long strides and was very light on her pins. Her accent was educated London and her voice was well-modulated; he could definitely see her as a doctor. Greg wondered what it was she'd cut Mike off from saying back in the pub. Something she'd rather not dwell on, obviously. He wondered at her odd haircut and baggy clothing; you'd think a woman with her education and individual style would take more care in her personal appearance. He shrugged mentally; different people, different ways. If Mike said she was OK, then his word was good enough.

"There," Freddy stopped them at the edge of the pavement and pointed across the road. A high wall, at least fifteen feet tall, enclosed the entire triangular-shaped junction where Sussex Street joined into Westmoreland Place. Scanning the approximate dimensions of the old red-brick boundary, Greg realised he was looking at a massive and completely enclosed space. A walled garden in Pimlico. There weren't many old houses left in London with a walled garden; people made a hell of a lot more money by simply knocking the things down, selling off the bricks to a recycler and turning the house and garden inside into a tall block of flats. Even if the house inside was a wreck, the site had to be worth a mint. He remembered Freddy had said the land alone was worth millions. In this area, he wasn't surprised.

"The main gates are over on this side," Freddy jogged across the road, pulling the heavy old key from her trouser pocket. Mike puffed a bit as he joined them.

"Too old and fat to keep up with you lot," he said, leaning against the wall. "I'll just come inside but I'll leave you two do the exploring."

"There's a garden seat near the front, Mike," Freddy wrestled the key into the lock. It was stiff and wouldn't turn.

"Let me," Greg rattled the solid oak and iron gate a few times, banging off any loose debris inside the lock. The key turned then, though slowly and reluctantly. Pushing the heavy gate inwards, he pushed high creeping weeds aside with his shoe, opening the gate wide enough that they could all come inside before he closed it to. Focused on shutting the gate, Greg heard Mike's low whistle and soft swearing, but it was only when he turned around that he saw for himself what all the fuss was about.

Firstly, the place was enormous. The garden inside the tall walls, and which ran around three sides of the house, was at least an acre or more. It was simply huge. The old Victorian house stood squarely with its front facing south, surrounded by overgrown jungle. For some reason, it felt a lot warmer inside the walls, even though it was starting to get dark. Freddy flicked her torch on, not that it was really necessary just yet, but the pale light picked out the borders of a long-forgotten pathway. An ancient wooden bench stood above the weeds not ten feet away. Mike tested it with his foot and, finding it as solid as a rock, gratefully sat down.

"Off you go, you two," he waved them away. "I'll stay here and guard the gate."

"Let me show you around the outside of the house to give you an idea of the scale of the place," Freddy touched his arm, pointing Greg towards a slightly less weeded area closer to the building. "It's probably best that we don't go inside tonight as the electricity isn't on and it gets a bit dark, but this should give you an idea of the size of the project."

Greg was already fairly clear on the project's scope. It was going to be huge. The garden alone was an enormous undertaking, though he appreciated it would be a labour of love for a professional gardener. He looked up at the highest windows as they approached the front of the house.

The place had good bones and classic lines. In the plethora of his recent house hunts, Greg has seen just about every type of dwelling it was possible to see in Greater London. He had seen classic Georgian buildings bastardised into pokey little flats and solid Victorian conversions stripped of all their high ceilings and period features until all that remained were expressionless little boxes. But this house, this house, was magnificent. Even in the dimming light of the day, he could see how untouched and special it was, and there was no reason to suspect the interior was any different. A great love of old London buildings and the light of challenge entered his heart and he already knew what he wanted to do.

"I want to come back tomorrow during the day to have a look inside, if I can," he turned to Freddy who had been watching his expression. "I would also like to see the designs up for Council's planning consideration and any other drawings you might have drawn up for the house and surrounds," Greg turned and scanned the open garden space once more. "This place is brilliant," he murmured, knowing he'd be happy to put his nest-egg to good use here. "I already like it."

"Yes, it has that effect on one," Freddy folded her arms and grinned up at him. "It was the garden that grabbed me first, but the house has its own special attractions too, you'll see."

"Tomorrow?" Greg pulled a business card from his wallet.

"Tomorrow," Freddy took the card and turned back to gaze at something that was a great deal more than bricks and mortar.