Eleanor Marks believed in patterns. She believed in routine, in the quiet rhythm of Whitehall life. Meetings, memos, late lunches in government cafés — order was her armor.
But fate, she was learning, had a sense of humor.
It was raining hard the morning she slipped into the café on Great George Street, shaking droplets from her umbrella. The place was packed with staffers and clerks, all muttering about deadlines and ministers. She took her usual corner table, ordered her tea, and opened a file.
That was when he appeared.
Detective Inspector Harland — tall, worn, his suit slightly out of step with the polished crowd — moved through the café with the grim expression of a man who carried storms in his pockets. He glanced once at Eleanor, then stopped short.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked. His voice was gravel, but not unkind.
Eleanor blinked, her smile practiced, warm. "Of course. Please."
He dropped into the chair opposite her. For a moment, neither spoke, the hum of the café wrapping them in anonymity. Then Harland leaned back, rubbing his temple.
"Long morning," he muttered. "Cases that don't make sense. People dying, no clear suspect. The sort of thing that keeps you up at night."
Eleanor's pulse quickened. She kept her expression serene, sipping her tea. "Sounds dreadful. Are you close to solving it?"
Harland exhaled smoke from a cigarette he wasn't technically allowed to light indoors. "Closer than we were last week. Fingerprints. Toxicology. A pattern forming. Our killer's clever — methodical. But everyone slips eventually."
Her hand trembled, just slightly, against the porcelain cup. She hid it by reaching for a napkin.
"Do you think you'll catch them?" she asked lightly, her tone that of casual curiosity.
Harland studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing as though he was searching for something beneath her calm surface. Then he shrugged.
"They always think they're smarter than us," he said. "That's what makes them careless. Pride. And pride's a noose waiting to tighten."
Eleanor forced a laugh, soft, polite. "Well, I hope you do find them. London feels so unsafe these days."
Harland nodded, finishing his coffee in one long swallow. "We will. Sooner or later, they'll stand too close to the fire."
He stood, offering her a courteous nod before striding out into the rain.
Eleanor sat frozen, the sound of her heartbeat louder than the chatter around her. For the first time in years, a crack had opened in her armor. He didn't know. He couldn't know.
And yet...
Her mind reeled back to Daniel. The wine glass. The faint trace she might have left behind. Stupid, stupid. She prided herself on perfection, and now perfection had slipped.
She gathered her things calmly, smiling at the waiter as she paid, but inside, the serenity was gone. Harland's words followed her out into the storm.
Pride is a noose waiting to tighten.
As she walked back toward Whitehall, Eleanor's smile was thinner, her eyes harder. The Angel of Whitehall would not falter again. If anything, this was the moment she knew — the hunt had begun.