Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) (21 page)

Miranda looked at Parker.
“Everything?”

“I told her about the inscription, and…”
He sounded as if he were about to weep.

“Go on
,” Parker said gently.

At last the words came tumbling out.
“She asked about where the dagger would be stored. How it would be kept safe. She said she was worried about it. And so I explained how our security system works to her. To reassure her. And…after that she didn’t ask any more questions. I thought she had gone on to something new that had attracted her attention. She was like that, you know.”

“Yes.”
Parker’s face mirrored the pain in Sir Neville’s voice. “Is there anything else?”

There was a long pause as the poor man collected himself. “No. I just wish…I had thought of this earlier.”

“It’s all right. We know it now. Thank you. Why don’t you get some rest?”

“Yes. Yes, I should. Thank you for your help, Russell. And you, too, Miranda.”

“You’re very welcome,” she told him, meaning it with all her heart.

“Good night.” He clicked off.

They both were silent a long while. Then Miranda turned to Parker. “Surely Lady Gabrielle Eaton didn’t hang out with the likes of a gang member from a bad part of town.”

“I’d say that’s unlikely.”

“So how did that information get from her to Malcomb Shrivel?”

“Perhaps we’ll discover that at
The Winking Owl tonight.”

Would they find
Shrivel there? Maybe. Probably Toby’s sister would be there, Miranda hoped. Could they find out what they needed to know and keep the sister from harm, too? Miranda wasn’t sure. Guys like that didn’t have to wait around for a reason to use their girl’s face for a punching bag. She knew that firsthand.

Room service arrived and
Miranda’s mouth watered at the delicious odors. Coffee, a couple of thick burgers and a pile of fries. “Universal comfort food.” Relieved she’d finally have something normal to eat, she sat down and dug in.

After letting her get halfway through the meal, Parker set down his cup and regarded her steadily.

She swallowed the bite she had in her mouth. “What?”

“
Before I put him on speaker Sir Neville said he’d told Lionel about what happened. He arrived home shortly after they did and hadn’t heard anything.”

“
How’d he take it?” She snagged a fry and put it in her mouth.

“
Not well. Blames himself. Says he treated her badly.”

She
picked up her coffee cup. Couldn’t contradict that, but it didn’t make him the cause of her death. Unless…She put the cup back down. “Do you think he had anything to do with it?”

“
There isn’t anything to indicate that at this point.”

“
Or not indicate it.” They knew so little about these secretive people.

Parker let out a deep sigh. “
Sir Neville told me when Lionel went to pieces tonight, Davinia began screaming at him about the dagger. She said if it wasn’t for the dagger none of this would have happened.”

“She’s hysterical.”

“Yes.”

“
Poor Sir Neville. Poor lady.” She picked up the burger and chewed thoughtfully, imagining what it was like at Eaton House now with the endless halls echoing with grief and tears. After her afternoon with Davinia, she was beginning to like the woman. “I don’t think she and Sir Neville have a very good marriage.”

“No. It doesn’t seem so.”

“I overheard them arguing last night before dinner. And at the restaurant today Davinia told me she feels neglected.”

Parker finished his food and wiped his mouth, his face grim.
“Neville told me he thinks she’s going to leave him.”

Miranda stared at him.
“For that Sebastian guy?”

“Probably.”

She wished she’d had a chance to ask Davinia about that.

“That might change now,
” Parker offered.

“You’re right.”
Hard to plan a funeral and a divorce at the same time. Funny how life could sock you right in the gut sometimes.

She
stuffed the last bite of burger into her mouth, swallowed, and got to her feet. “We’ve got to get this guy, Parker.”

“We will.”

He paced back and forth in his n
arrow room, his head splitting.

He
rarely drank, but tonight he opened a cupboard and poured himself a glass of old English rum. Ten-year-old alcohol. One of the few vestiges of antiquity that would truly be in his possession.

He swallowed down a draught and relished the burning in his throat. He set the glass on his desk and sank down into his chair, stared at his library.

Why could he never have what he wanted? Why did things always go wrong for him? He’d planned everything so carefully. He’d thought he’d had it all under control. He’d thought he’d be happy by now.

He’d thought he could fix things but he couldn’t. He couldn’t fix anything. He leaned on the desk and put his head in his hands, guilt chewing his heart to bits. Oh, dear God. Gabrielle
Eaton. That poor young woman cut down in the prime of her life? How could he have let that happen?

He’d wanted to wound Neville but not like this.

He’d gotten in over his head. He’d been a fool. He should go to Inspector Wample. Confess it all. But how could he? He'd lose everything. What else could he do? His mind searched for possibilities. Go on as if nothing had happened? Leave the country? In the end, he could come up with only one solution that made sense. That would work. He’d thought about ending it before. Perhaps now was the time.

If he wasn’t too cowardly to do it.

The ride to Tottenham was nerve-wracking.

It was dark. It was rainy. Everything was on the wrong side of the road.

Parker drove—she wasn’t getting behind the wheel—but it still made Miranda feel uneasy sitting up front where the driver’s side should be.

T
hey sloshed their way down the narrow city streets, zigzagging through roundabouts, past shops, pedestrians and endless rows of old buildings. While the wipers kept time to Miranda’s heartbeat, in the distance Big Ben tolled nine.

Twenty-four hours. Less than that now.
And thirty minutes or so of that went by before they reached the Tottenham area.

It was a tough-looking spot
. No graffiti on the walls or trash on the sidewalks like you’d see in certain places of New York, but it had a tired, rundown look.

L
ittle groups of leather-and-chain types gathered in dark recesses along the streets, smoking and sneering at passersby. From a corner a pale young woman leered at them with a drug-induced stare. In the gutter the glint of what look like a syringe needle glittered. Miranda wondered how mild-mannered Toby Waverly had survived growing up here.

Parker pulled down a one way
lane lined on either side by a row of tidy brick houses and slowed.

“This is the street.” His voice was low and ominous.

Miranda eyed a trio of toughies perched on a brick wall that ran in front of the buildings. They eyed her right back. “Looks like the welcoming committee’s here to greet us.”

Parker’s jaw tightened. He nodded ahead. “Fourth one down. With the blue gate.”

It was hard to make out the color in the dim street lights, but the gate stood open and led to a framed entranceway of a small, two-story house. Homey lights shone through lace curtains hanging in a bay window.

“Maybe lives with his
‘mum.’”

“
Possibly.”

And maybe she could tell them whether
old Malcomb had been in Soho that afternoon.

Parker slowed as they neared
the house, about to pull over when the front door opened and a tall, lanky figure appeared.

Like the others in the area, he was in leather and chains, all black. He
had a cigarette in his mouth, its fire lighting up the face and outlining the spiked hair just enough to tell her this was the guy she’d seen in the photo in Inspector Wample’s office.

“Follow him?” she whispered as if the guy could hear her.

“Exactly.”

The car was pointing the opposite direction so Parker pulled around the block and they picked up the guy just as he
crossed the street at the end of it and headed in the opposite direction. Parker lingered back, let another car pull out in front of them while Miranda kept an eye on the dark figure moving ahead of them.

Two blocks down h
e rounded a corner. They cruised that way and when they reached it, she spotted a pub at the next light on the far corner. Had to be where he was heading.

Parker waited, followed slowly.
As they neared, she read the sign over the door. The Winking Owl.

“That’s the place Toby
Waverly told us about?” It seemed too nice for a dive.

“Yes. Apparently
Shrivel’s a regular,” Parker said as Shrivel slipped through the corner entrance.

Made
sense to be regular if he was after Toby’s sister.

The Winking Owl
was a smallish place. The Tudor frame, old-fashioned lamps, and the medieval style sign over the door told her it might have stood here for centuries. The place where factory workers of yesterdays stopped in for a pint after a sixteen-hour day.

Tonight it was lit up and crowded. Cars lined both sides of the street, but Parker found a spot down the road and pulled over to the curb.

He turned off the engine and they sat there a moment studying the patrons going in. They needed a plan.

“Maybe we should go in separately,” she said.

“Separately?”

“So nobody suspects we’re together. Once we spot
Shrivel, I can act like I’m cruising. You know, flirt with him. Dance with him.”

Parker turned his head to her and slowly raised a brow. He didn’t care for that idea
at all.

She huffed out a breath.
“You know I used to beat up guys in bars for fun.”

“
I’m sure you’re quite capable of taking care of yourself. And your idea has merit.”

“
But…?”

“
It might not be the best approach.”

She folded her arms.
“Okay, let’s hear your idea.”

“
If Shrivel is our suspect, that means he just committed murder. He’s not going to let slip any stray details about his whereabouts this afternoon to a stranger he meets in a bar.”

He had a point.
The guy couldn’t be that stupid. And it would probably take a long time and a lot of beers to get even a little bit of information out of him.

“
The better tactic might be observation.”

“You mean stay incognito and just see what he does?”

Parker nodded. “For the time being. We can close in at whatever point we feel it’s necessary.”

Sounded good. Still, if this guy was Gabrielle Eaton’s killer, she was hoping for a chan
ce to kick the shit out of him.

She reached for the door handle.
“Okay. Let’s go then.”

###

The pub was smoky and loud and packed to the gills. Polished wood covered the floor and the walls where green globe scones and posters of the local soccer team hung. In one corner a jukebox competed with a TV playing some sports station, the jukebox clearly winning. In the opposite corner a group of rowdy young men were tossing darts at a board.

There were dark booths and small tables—all full.

They sidled up to the bar and Parker ordered two bottles of a German beer Miranda didn’t recognize.

It
took awhile to get the drinks.

There were only three bartenders, each of them
dressed in green vests and bowties, each of them humping it, racing around trying to keep everyone served. A young guy with a strained look worked a tap while a dark-haired girl shoved bottles into customers’ hands and hurried around the bar to see what the four guys pounding on the table and shouting for service wanted.

Miranda lingered at the bar a moment, studying the third barkeep. Shock of red hair pulled back in a messy bun, freckles across the nose. She’d bet her
paycheck that was Winnie Waverly, Toby’s sister.

The girl turned
to set down a drink and she got a glimpse of her face. Lots of makeup. Too much, especially under one eye. It was hard to tell under the lights, but Winnie might have been hiding a bruise.

Anger boiled in Miranda’s gut
but she knew she had to keep her cool.