"Good. See that you do. I'm counting on you. Keep my office posted, will you?"

"Yes, sir, of course," said Blood, and he replaced the phone on its cradle.

He grimaced and ran a hand through his short brown hair. Well, that was that.

He'd just been appointed official scapegoat. If the Ripper wasn't brought to

justice posthaste, it would all come down on Chief Inspector Michael Blood.

At

least, at thirty, he was still young enough to look for another line of work.

His youth had always worked against nun before. He knew that many people in

the

department felt that he was much too young to be Chief Inspector, and even

with

his mustache he still looked at least five years younger than he really was.

"Youngblood." He knew that was what they called him behind his back. He was

only

too painfully aware of his position. He took great care not to be too

authoritarian, not to direct any of his subordinates to do anything he would

not

do himself. He was careful not to fraternize or flaunt his extensive

education.

He was uncomfortable about his family background, just as his family was

uncomfortable about his choosing police work, which they felt was far beneath

him. Yet it was what he'd always wanted, work that was interesting and

stimulating, with a new challenge every day. Work that was meaningful.

His father would have preferred him to be a financier, to join the family

firm,

but Michael had always wanted to be a policeman, ever since his childhood.

He'd

grown up on swashbuckling adventure stories of the Urban Police Service—the

vaunted UPS, with their dark green armored vans—London's paramilitary police

organization during the dark days of the Collapse. He could not remember ever

wanting to do anything else with his life. His older brother, Ian, could be

found in the House of Lords, and younger brother Andrew usually could be

found

in some house of ill repute, but Michael Blood kept modest bachelor lodgings

in

Soho, where he could almost never be found unless he was in bed. Alone or,

more

frequently, with a good book.

"He's a handsome, likely enough lad," his father always said of him before

shaking his head sadly and adding, "But he has no damned ambition, none

whatsoever."

That wasn't really true. Michael did have one ambition. To be the best at

what

he did. And if his father could not appreciate that, his superiors at New

Scotland Yard could and did. He was the superintendent's fair-haired boy, as

some of the senior police officials were always quick to say, and Michael

always

winced whenever he heard it, especially the telltale emphasis on the word

boy.

Still, that would not prevent the superintendent from throwing him to the

wolves

if he did not produce results. He stood with his hands clasped behind his

back,

staring out the window of his office at the city streets below.