Skylark (6 page)

She gave a damp sniff. "I'm scared."

"I am, too."

"It's not your fault, Lark. As soon as I put the originals in my handbag, as soon as poor
Milos was stabbed, this was in the cards. They didn't find the papers tonight, so they'll guess the
police have them. I reckon that means we're out of danger."

"But if they'd found the copies..." I leaned against the wall. If they'd found the copies
they would have assumed we knew what was in them. "I'm glad you made me get rid of them."
That was an understatement. I was also glad Ann was still capable of reasoning. I was too tired to
think. "What do we do now?"

She took a shaky breath. "Wait. Explain about this afternoon. I don't see why we have to
mention the photocopies. The thief was after the originals."

"Probably."

"All the same, I wish you'd tell me why you copied them." Her voice was plaintive.

More guilt. God knew she deserved an explanation. I tried to formulate a dignified
rationale for my impulse and gave up. My brain felt like wet sludge. "It was just curiosity," I
admitted. "I guessed that the papers had to do with the stabbing. If so, they're important to
somebody besides Milos, someone unscrupulous. I wanted to know why, and what I'd got myself
mixed up in. Then there's Milos."

"I'm going to the hospital first thing tomorrow."

"I'll go with you. Do you trust Milos?"

She cocked her head and thought then gave a single, decisive nod.

I sighed. "I do, too. He's a decent man. The police were bound to confiscate those papers
as soon as we mentioned them, and I knew we had to mention them. I started to wonder when
Milos would see them again. Evidence can gather dust for years. If we're wrong, and the papers
aren't connected with the stabbing, then they're probably something Milos is working on, maybe
even his translation of
Macbeth
. I don't think he should have to wait around for the
police to release his work."

Ann was smiling a little. "Won't your daddy be surprised."

I groaned. I would have to call my parents--and Jay. But there were five hours between
London and New York and eight between London and California, and what times should I call
them? My head spun, though addition and subtraction are not ordinarily beyond me.

Within minutes Constable Ryan arrived, followed by Miss Beale with the Worths and
Rollo in tow. Rollo took exception to Ryan, and a minor scene ensued. Miss Beale wrung her
hands. Daphne departed into the gale with the poodle in the lead, and our second interrogation of
the day began.

Trevor hung around looking distressed and ornamental. When the evidence crew, the
Scene of the Crime team in British usage, appeared and began sifting through the mess, Miss
Beale sent her nephew home. He made a token protest, but he was yawning.

Daphne returned sans Rollo, whom she had taken upstairs. The ladies left at midnight,
Miss Beale still emitting anguished chirps and Daphne still scowling. Inspector Thorne, who
looked as if he had pulled a sweater and trousers over his pajamas, arrived ten minutes later.

Sgt. Wilberforce did not appear at all.

At half-past six that morning I went running.

Our session with the police had lasted until nearly 2:00 a.m. When it was over at last,
Ann and I cleared off our beds--my room had been trashed, too--and collapsed.

I was so tired I thought I'd sleep around the clock, but I came wide awake at a quarter of
six and knew at once there was no hope of going back to sleep. I stared at the smooth plaster
ceiling for a few minutes, thinking about Milos, Milos's papers, and the trouble they had
caused.

Then I got up, used the loo, and changed into warm-ups. They were the most
comfortable clothes I owned. I had no intention of doing anything strenuous. I needed comfort.
My body ached all over, and my right elbow had turned purple where I'd cracked it falling under
Milos.

I thought of brewing a pot of coffee, but Ann was making deep noises, not quite snores,
that suggested she would sleep for the next six hours if undisturbed. I am not a dog in the
manger. I found my key to the flat, zipped it and my coin purse into the pocket of my jacket, and
let myself out the door.

It was chilly out but clear. The storm had blown the usual pall of smog away. London
has filthy air, almost as bad as Los Angeles, and I had decided to avoid running while I was
there. Sucking in all that carbon monoxide had to be dangerous. Still, that morning the air was
like crystal.

I took in the blue sky and the sleep-sodden neighborhood in one comprehensive glance.
The English are not early risers. Sight of the phone booth on the corner reminded me that I had to
call my husband. It was six o'clock. Subtracting eight hours made it 10:00 p.m. at home. Jay
would be at the house and wide awake.

I got through without delay by dialing the AT&T operator in New York and
charging the call to my credit number. The phone rang twice, and Jay picked it up before the
third ring.

"Hello?" He sounded tired. I could hear instrumental jazz playing in the
background.

"Hello, darling. Evening class?"

His voice warmed. "I just got home from the last session. Do you mind if I tape
you?"

"What?"

"I miss your voice, Lark. Next time we do something insane like traveling separately,
I'm going to make you tape me a bedtime story. I don't sleep worth a damn without you."

"Oh God, Jay." I gulped. Trevor Worth's unreal image went pop and disappeared. "I
miss you, too. Can't you just get on the next plane and come?" That was a mere wish. Jay runs
the law enforcement training program at the junior college. I knew he had to wind down classes,
turn in grades, and do other tedious end-of-semester chores, so I took a deep breath and launched
into an account of the previous day's events.

Jay had spent ten years in the LAPD and two as head of the Monte County CID, but I've
never heard him grill anybody. He's the best listener I know. Telling him what had happened
helped me clarify my perceptions. I didn't leave anything out--not the Mormon missionary, not
Rollo the dog, not Trevor Worth's gold hair and plummy voice.

When I ran out of steam, he said, "You sent the papers to your father? I wonder how
long they'll take to get to New York."

"A week at least, probably longer. I've heard horror stories of airmail deliveries taking
up to a month."

"Shall I call him for you?"

"Yes. Please. I didn't explain much in my note. Aren't you going to ask me why I
meddled with the evidence?"

"You didn't know it was evidence at the time, and I don't see what harm you've done the
originals, apart from adding to what are probably hundreds of fingerprints. I don't like the sound
of that break-in, though. Move to a hotel."

"We can't toss away two weeks' rent. Besides, I like the flat. You will, too. It's central,
only two blocks from the Underground station, and the landlady is friendly. Ann can't afford a
decent hotel."

He sighed. "I suppose you're right. I wish I could talk to the man in charge...what's his
name, Thorne?"

"Cyril Thorne. He was thorough. I liked him." I hesitated. "What about that friend of
yours in Leicester, couldn't he call Inspector Thorne?" Jay had corresponded with the chief of
detectives for Leicestershire for several years. They were going to attend a weekend conference
on DNA fingerprinting.

"I should've thought of that. What time is it there?"

"Six-fifteen."

"In the morning? Ouch. I'll wait a couple of hours and call Harry at home. I wish you
had a phone in that flat."

"Me, too. There's no place to plug one in, even. I asked. Miss Beale was nice about the
burglary. She said nothing was missing but the one figurine." The small but very heavy Inuit
soapstone carving had vanished from the flat.

"That and your twenty pounds."

Ann's money, safely in her purse, had escaped the thief, but the few bills I stashed in a
drawer for safety's sake had vanished. "I'll have to go to the American Express office as soon as
they open. The thief didn't take my travelers' checks or credit cards." The police had concluded
there was only one burglar.

"Or your passport, or the radio or the toaster. It sounds phony, Lark."

"The carving was worth ?200."

"I still smell fish. He was after the papers."

"Yes."

"They think he was a pro?"

"They seemed pretty sure of it, more so after Thorne showed up. The burglar picked the
front door lock and left through the window in the bedroom. Oops, somebody else wants to use
the phone. I have to go, Jay."

A man had materialized behind me at some point in the conversation. I gave him a
placatory smile. He looked at his watch. He wore a business suit and a gold Rolex. I wondered
why he didn't have his own phone. "Goodbye, darling. I love you."

"I love you, too. Call me tomorrow."

"Okay." I made kissing noises and hung up. "Sorry," I said in my best bored-British
voice and walked off with as much dignity as I could muster.

Nothing was open. No convenience stores, no coffee shops, no newsstands. So I went
running.

I jogged a couple of blocks then crossed on a zebra to the impassive brick presence of
the French Institute and the Lycée Charles de Gaulle. Another long block took me in front
of the Yemeni embassy, very seedy, with its spy cameras tracking my progress, and across the
Cromwell Road to the Natural History Museum. I trotted along Queen's Gate, past the complex
of museums and colleges that stretches to the Albert Hall and the entrance to Kensington
Gardens.

The park gate wasn't open yet, so I jogged at the edge of the vast open area formed by
Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. By the time I reached the next gate, the keepers were
opening it. I dodged through and began running. I was conscious of my aches, so I didn't push
myself. I just loped along, thinking in small disconnected bursts and avoiding doggie spoor.

I headed west, skirting people up early to walk their pets, clusters of chattering
schoolchildren, and the trim businessmen striding alone or in pairs toward the City. I left
Kensington Gardens at the main gate and jogged in place until the light turned green. The traffic
had thickened by then, along with the sweet scent of exhaust fumes.

Slowing to a walk, I retraced my path. My favorite sidewalk cafe had opened. Also the
news agent next door. Elbow deep in uniformed school children buying sweets, I waded over to
the spread of newspapers and chose a tabloid at random--the
Daily Mail
. Also copies of
the
Independent
and the
Times
. Ann liked to read about royalty.

I bought cafe latté and a croissant with the last of my change and settled down at
a small white table just outside the door. A pleasant babble of French rose from a clutch of
young matrons at the next table, two with babies in carriers. I sipped until the caffeine
jump-started my brain, then I started looking for word of Milos's accident or our break-in or both.

There was nothing on the burglary. The
Independent
gave Milos a paragraph on
page three, a bare summary of fact: Passenger Assaulted on Underground. The
Daily
Mail
was less restrained. Commuter Stabbed! it shouted. Terror on the Tube! and, in smaller
type, MP Calls for Guards on Public Transport. No One Safe In Thatcher's London Says Liberal
Spokesman.

I read the
Daily Mail
item through twice. The prose was purple, the writer had
embroidered, and the story boiled down to the same facts the
Independent
had reported.
I deduced that the police had made a statement. There was no mention of my name or Ann's, but
the
Daily Mail
investigator had tracked down Bert Hoskins, who said colorful things
about foreigners. His wife must have been unhappy when he showed up late.

At eight I walked back to the flat. When I entered the hall, Ann made an interrogatory
noise so I answered her, low-voiced, and slipped into the bathroom. I was in dire need of a
shower, but the flat didn't have a shower. There was a Victorian tub. It had separate taps for hot
and cold water, so it wasn't even possible to attach a rubber hose with a showerhead. Baths are
for meditation. I had already meditated my way past the tulip beds in Hyde Park. Sighing, I
turned on the taps.

I rummaged through the shambles of my bedroom and found black tailored pants, a grey
blazer, and a fuchsia blouse that didn't look too crumpled.

While I bathed I did an inventory of chores. I would have to take my raincoat to the
dry-cleaning shop by the Tube station. And tidy the flat. And cash travelers' checks, and go to the
police station to sign my two statements, and visit Milos--where was St. Botolph's? I was leaning
back in the tub trying to remember the cross street when I found myself drifting off to sleep. I sat
up with a start, climbed from the tub, and almost blacked out from the effect of the steaming
water. A shower would not have done that to me.

Cross and groggy, I dried off and dressed. My face looked pallid in the fogged mirror. I
dabbed on some lipstick, gave my hair a last damp fluff and went out. Ann was sitting at the
table in her pink robe, staring at the coffee pot.

"Good morning."

"Lark, honey, will you press the damned lid down? Pouring hot water into that little old
pot took all my strength."

I obliged, grinning. "I hope I didn't wake you."

She blinked. "You may have or you may not. Who knows? I had to face the day sooner
or later."

I poured two cups. "I brought you a copy of the
Times
."

She looked around, still blinking.

"I left it in the bedroom. Don't move. I'll get it for you. Drink your coffee."

When I returned she had drunk half a cup and was half-focused.

"Do you want me to find your glasses for you?"

"I'm near-sighted, Lark. I don't need glasses to read." She raised the
Times
between us in the universal don't-talk-now signal, so I picked up my
Independent
and
began to read the other news stories, the ones I had skipped over in the cafe.