London was unusually quiet that evening.
Rain clouds covered the sky as Murphy Lawden sat alone in his study, surrounded by old police reports, newspapers, and a single photograph of his father. The room was silent except for the ticking of the wall clock.
For years, the case had remained unsolved.
His father's death had been recorded as a simple murder with no confirmed suspect, but Murphy had never believed that explanation.
Dr. Alexander entered the room and noticed that Murphy had been staring at the same file for several minutes.
A folded paper lay between the pages of the old report. It had not been there before.
Murphy opened it carefully.
Only four words were written on it:
River Street. 11:47 PM.
Without wasting time, the two left immediately.
By nightfall they arrived at River Street, where an abandoned warehouse stood at the end of the road. The building looked empty, but Murphy noticed fresh footprints in the dust near the entrance.
Someone had entered recently.
Inside, the air smelled of rust and damp wood. Broken machinery lay scattered across the floor.
Then Murphy saw a black crow symbol painted on the wall.
He stopped.
That symbol belonged to an old underground group connected to several hidden crimes in London many years ago.
Before Dr. Alexander could speak, a metallic sound came from upstairs.
Murphy moved instantly.
He ran up the stairs and caught a man trying to escape through a side window. The stranger wore a dark mask, but Murphy pulled it off and forced him against the wall.
The man looked terrified.
Murphy's voice remained cold.
"Where were you twelve years ago on the night my father died?"
The man tried to remain silent, but Murphy kept staring at him without moving.
Finally, the man broke.
"I drove the car," he whispered.
Murphy did not release him.
"Who gave the order?"
The answer came after a long pause.
"Victor Hale."
Dr. Alexander froze.
Victor Hale had officially been declared dead years ago.
Murphy's eyes narrowed.
Dead records did not always mean dead men.
Suddenly the man reached into his pocket, attempting to grab something.
Murphy caught his hand before he could move further.
A poison capsule fell to the floor.
The man had intended to silence himself.
Murphy pushed the capsule away and searched the room.
Behind several wooden crates he found a locked metal box.
He broke it open.
Inside were old documents, secret financial records, and one photograph.
The photograph showed Murphy's father standing beside Victor Hale.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
He knew the truth.
For several seconds Murphy said nothing.
Rain began striking the broken windows.
He folded the photograph carefully and placed it inside his coat.
For the first time in twelve years, the path toward his father's killer had become clear.
And Murphy understood one thing:
This was only the beginning.