A Murder of Magpies (31 page)

I nodded, but couldn't look her in the eye. I couldn't say I was scared to be alone, but I was. I'd had nightmares about Davies earlier, and now I was afraid to go back to sleep.

Helena knew. She always knew everything. “I'll stay tonight, if you like.”

I felt tears prick behind my eyelids. I knew it was the last thing she wanted to do, and also that she would do it in a heartbeat. I knew, too, that, scared as I was, I didn't want her there. Helena is a tower of strength, but towers aren't very comforting. “I'm fine, thanks. I'll see you in the morning.”

She stared at me quietly, waiting, then when I said nothing else, nodded. I could see her thinking,
You are going to have to deal with this sometime, so it might as well be now.

I made one last attempt to keep them. “One thing.” They turned. I looked at Conway. “You lent me your plane.”

He was puzzled.

“Why? I mean, what did you want from me?”

He was as guileless as a toddler. “I wanted you at that meeting, and you wanted to get to Galway. It was quid pro quo.” He smiled. “Also, you were so pissed off in Paris. No one ever loses their temper with me. You have balls.” He looked at me as though he'd just paid me a compliment. Of course, in his mind, he had. I'd just never wanted balls. Silly me.

But he meant well, so I let them go without commenting. Conway made a great drama out of helping Helena into her coat and ushering her out the door, his hand on the small of her back. I looked speculatively at the door. Well, well, well.

I was still considering the possibility of Conway and Helena—which, the more I thought about it, the more suitable it seemed—when the nurse came in and took my temperature and blood pressure, and inscribed both on my chart with all the solemnity of a temple acolyte performing a sacred rite. God, I hated hospitals. Just as she was leaving, Jake reappeared, together with a porter pushing a cot bed. She nodded. It didn't surprise her. It surprised hell out of me. “I'm staying here tonight,” Jake announced, without preamble.

I sat up. “Why? What's—? Where's Davies? Did he get out on bail?” I asked accusingly. If he had, my tone said, I was holding Jake Field responsible for the failures of the entire criminal justice system.

He made shushing gestures. “No, it's fine. He's in jail, and awaiting psychiatric evaluation. He won't be out before his trial. I just don't think you're ready to be alone.”

“But it's uncomfortable. You're exhausted. You don't want…” I trailed off.

He looked disgusted. “Thanks, Jake,” he said and then answered himself, “Oh, not at all, no problem.”

I was ashamed. “Thanks, Jake,” I echoed meekly.

“Oh, not at all, no problem,” he parroted back. “Now shut up and go to sleep.” He turned off the light.

I waited. He didn't speak, but he wasn't asleep, either. “Tiffanie?” I said neutrally into the dark.

“Go to
sleep,
” he snarled. So I did.

*   *   *

I spent the next day becoming increasingly bored, teasing the nurses, and generally making a nuisance of myself. Helena didn't reappear, which I thought un-maternal. Jake didn't either, which was even worse.

I was eating the sludge that passed for dinner when the two of them showed up together. “Have a nice day?” I said snottily, spooning up what appeared to be library paste.

“Nell,” said Jake. So he was back to “Nell.” Did that mean we weren't sleeping together anymore?

I turned to her. For the first time in my life I saw her completely dazed, as though one of her own files had got up and told her how to organize a defense. She just shook her head.

“Hello? Is someone going to tell me what is going on, or do you just plan to wander in from time to time, look puzzled, and leave me to my glue?”

“We've arrested Tiffanie Harris,” said Jake finally.

I considered this for a moment, carefully building a moat from the mush in my dinner tray. No one said anything, so finally, “Tiffanie Harris,” I echoed, concentrating on my plate.

Jake was staring at me accusingly. I hadn't looked up, but I didn't have to to know that he was. “She was laundering money. And she arranged for the courier to be hit. And, we assume, the break-in at your flat, although we're holding off on that for the moment.”

I nodded sadly. I have no idea why knowing about Tiffanie was making me feel guilty, but it was.

Jake's tone agreed. This was all my fault. “Yes,” he said, as if I'd been contradicting him for hours. “Yes, it was her handwriting, OK? Wright made a deal with the Crown Prosecution Service, and is trading his evidence for immunity.”

“So the two of them—” I ventured, finally meeting his eyes.

A lifted eyebrow said,
So, you don't know everything.
Everything? I couldn't even recognize a comic novel when I'd acquired one.

I didn't bother to protest, however, and he went on, talking to the wall rather than to me. “Not the two of them. Harris was running the laundered money through Wright's account to make it look like Wright's deal. She was blackmailing him with the fact that no one would believe it was her, since it was his office, and his account. Cooper's had begun to worry about the number of aborted deals, which said ‘money laundering' to them, but they couldn't find any evidence—unsurprising, since he wasn't doing anything. All the same, they were nervous enough to get rid of him. It was only then, or so he claims, that he decided to cut himself in on the deal. In return for taking Harris with him to his new office, he made her kick back a percentage.” He finally looked at me. “How did you know? The handwriting in the diary I get, but how did you make the leap?”

I considered. How had I known? I thought of the three men standing over me the night before. They all knew I was a perfectly intelligent human being, but the moment I was unable to articulate, they were united without a word spoken, no benefit of doubt entered their minds. So, “She was a woman. And she was in a subordinate position.” I tried not to sound accusing. “Men don't pay attention to women. They rarely wonder what women do, and they never wonder at all what they think. If you're a secretary…” I shrugged. “Cooper's didn't believe Wright even though they must have known he was a—” I thought back to my single encounter with the man—“a dim-bulb blowhard. I never met Tiffanie Harris, but it's clear now she is very intelligent. But she is a secretary, and she spells her name with an ‘ie.'” I carefully didn't look at Helena. “When it was a choice between the two, everyone automatically assumed the man was in charge. Was smarter, was the one who would be running a successful money-laundering scheme.”

I thought about it some more. “And then there was Wright phoning the courier company. He just wouldn't have. That's what men like him have wives and secretaries for—to do the boring jobs men think are beneath them. Wright doesn't pick up his dry-cleaning, or buy his own loo paper, he doesn't book couriers. Men like him don't.”

Jake nodded. “They were both women. We've got the contact in Vernet, too, and it was Alemán's assistant, Devora Vargas. The two of them were running it together, and when Alemán came to see Wright, they knew that the fraud had been uncovered, and arranged for him to be killed. Vargas's brother is in jail in Marseille, and that's the most likely how they found a contract killer. All seemed fine, then, until Kit's book came along. Harris was afraid the information it contained would put NCIS back on the trail, and so she arranged for someone to hold up the courier. That was all she'd planned, but the courier's bike skidded in the rain. That's what she told Wright, anyway. And now Wright is petrified, and is telling us everything he knows.”

We sat silently for a few minutes.

“How old is she?” I asked suddenly.

“Late thirties, early forties. Your age, give or take.” His mouth quirked, but he didn't add anything else.

Neither did I. I didn't think he'd missed the point. Not too much. Or he wouldn't too often. Probably.

 

Epilogue

I'd been back at home for a few days. I'd read, and dozed. I wasn't ready to go into the office yet, and deal with the curiosity of my colleagues. Mr. Rudiger made me meals, which he brought downstairs with all the pride of a child taking its first steps. After his trip to the hospital he had not gone outside again, but my flat was now apparently an extension of his domain upstairs, and thus safe to visit. I was grateful. He was a good cook, and I welcomed the company. It meant I didn't have to think too much.

It was late afternoon. I was lying on the sofa, reading my favorite book in the whole world,
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,
for probably the twentieth time. Comfort reading, mashed potatoes for the mind. Bim was playing in the garden with Kay, and his squeals of pleased laughter blew in the window with the spring-like weather. I was as close to calm as I'd managed to achieve for a while.

It was all superficial. The doorbell rang, and I jumped so violently my book flew across the room. Kay was in the garden, and it was too embarrassing to run up and tell Mr. Rudiger I was afraid. I had to answer it, and my palms were starting to sweat. I sat waiting, but the bell went on and on. By the time I got to the front door I was pretty sure who was on the other side. No one else in the world rang a doorbell that aggressively. But I couldn't risk opening the door. I stood frozen on the mat.

The bell kept ringing. I had to do something. My first attempt was useless. My voice had completely vanished. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes?” I called through the door.

“Stop being silly, Sam, and open up.” I was right. Kit.

I opened the door and we stood looking at each other. I'd seen him briefly in hospital, but he had gone home sooner than I had. He'd had a week more of Davies' ministrations, but it had cleaned itself out of his system much faster than it had from mine.

“You've lost a lot of weight,” I ventured.

“The newest spa treatment: Get a wacko to abduct you.” He was preening, really quite pleased with himself.

We went in, and I made coffee. When I brought it in to the sitting room, Kit took his cup and said cheerfully, “Now, I'm here because I want to talk to you about something serious.”

I nodded.

“Being abducted is one thing, but being unconscious for a week just makes me feel foolish.”

I nodded some more. I had no idea where Kit was headed.

“So,” he said, clapping his hands together briskly. “I'm going to tell everyone that Davies was a crazed sex attacker, and I can't say what happened during that week only because it was too perverted for public consumption.”

I stared at him. Then, “Are you serious?”

He smiled benevolently at me.

“You are. You're serious. You're going to make this into a comic turn.” I hadn't laughed for a week, but I couldn't stop now. I was heading toward hysteria. Kit began to get worried, and went into the kitchen to get me some water. By the time he came back, I was more or less under control, but still shaken by giggles. “A crazed sex attacker.” Just saying it set me off again.

“Sam. Pay attention.”

With an effort I straightened my face. “I am. You weren't unconscious, you were the recipient of kinky sex, your stalker's deviant lust object.”

He looked pleased. “That's it. OK, hon, I've got to run. Talk to you later.”

He was gone, and I sat smiling at nothing, feeling better than I had in weeks.

 

About the Author

Judith Flanders
is the international bestselling author of
The Invention of Murder
and one of the foremost social historians of the Victorian era. She is a contributor to
The Daily Telegraph, The Guardian, The Spectator,
and
The Times Literary Supplement
. Before turning her hand to writing, Judith worked as an editor for various publishing houses, including the publications department of the National Portrait Gallery, London. She lives in London. Visit her online at
www.judithflanders.co.uk
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