The Baker Street Translation (16 page)

All that she was supposed to do—all that she could think of to do—was just to wait.

Wait for the kidnappers to call her. Or wait for Buxton's team to call her, if the kidnappers contacted them first. Or wait for Scotland Yard to arrive with sirens wailing if somehow they had found out, or, worse, if they had found out and already managed to cock it up, wait for a couple of detectives to drive up quietly and walk to her door with bad news.

She wanted to ring Reggie on his mobile and just talk to him; just to hear his voice would help. But she couldn't, and it wasn't because of how they had left things at Baker Street.

It was because she knew exactly where he was, and if she rang him and let him know she knew, he would insist on coming in, and then—well, then things would get just too bloody complicated.

She put her tea down, got up from the chair, and went to the front window again. She stood behind the opaque drapes and parted the semitransparent curtains only as much as she thought she could without being seen.

Less than twenty yards down the street, just past the second drive, was a Range Rover. She knew—or at least was reasonably certain—that it was the one that belonged to Buxton's security team. It was the largest thing on the street; none of her neighbors had such a vehicle. And although it had arrived more than two hours ago, she had yet to hear a car door slam or see anyone get out.

And another ten yards beyond that, but across the street, and slightly better hidden from her line of sight, but still not completely, was Reggie's XJS.

Laura had heard him drive by more than once since she got home. And then he had pulled up and parked just shortly after dusk. Her orange cat had jumped from the couch onto the windowsill in the way that he did when Reggie came over, and Laura had come to the window in time to see Reggie dim the lights on the Jag.

He had been there for hours; he was probably famished by now. It wouldn't do to ring him anyway; he would be cranky if hungry.

But now, jarringly, her phone rang.

This would be the kidnappers. Laura spilled just a little of her tea into the saucer, but then she took a breath and calmed herself.

She let the phone ring twice more, and then she picked up.

“Yes?” she said.

“Are you alone?”

She knew this voice.

“Reggie, of course I'm alone. Why are you calling me?” asked Laura.

“I just wanted to be sure you're all right.”

“Why wouldn't I be all right?”

“Why—well, just think about what's been happening!”

“Reggie, hasn't anyone ever told you that women don't want a man to fix things, they just want a man to listen?”

“Um … yes. You told me that. I think. If I heard correctly at the time.”

“Well, then?”

“I guess I just see it differently. Personally, I'd think it was great if someone would fix things for me.”

“Reggie, it's Robert who was kidnapped, not me. And I already promised that if the wankers call, I won't make a move without telling you, did I not?”

“Well, yes, but … even so.”

“How about this—you protect me from being tired tomorrow by letting me get a good night's sleep tonight. Would that be fair?'

“Of course.”

“All right, then. Good night.”

“Good night,” said Reggie.

Laura hung up the phone.

His voice sounded so patient when he said good night. He was trying so hard.

Oh well. It couldn't be helped.

Laura managed one gulp of the tea, and then her phone rang again.

This would be the kidnappers. One ring, two rings—she picked up.

“Yes?”

“Have they called?”

Laura knew this voice, as well. It was Alex, Buxton's chief of staff.

“No. And you shouldn't, either. And if you think I haven't seen your great big Range Rover with the tinted windows parked down the street, you are mistaken.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Rankin. We have a job to do.”

Laura paused. She wanted to tell them just how badly they'd been doing it. But she knew it wouldn't help.

“Your job,” she said instead, “at this moment, is to let me sleep. Can you manage that?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Alex.

“Thank you,” said Laura, and she hung up.

She checked the time. It was nearly eleven. She knew Reggie knew her routine. Sadly, Robert's team of security spies probably knew it, too. If they all knew what she presumed they knew, then they knew it was just a bit early for her to be going to bed. But given what had been transpiring, they certainly would not think it odd.

So she turned off the porch light. Then she went to the kitchen and turned off that light, as well.

She turned off the light in the front room and went upstairs to the bedroom. She turned that light on; then she turned the light on in the loo. She waited an appropriate amount of time, and then she turned both lights off again in the proper sequence.

There. That should hold them.

Then she walked back downstairs in the dark. She picked up her Earl Grey tea—with luck, she would be allowed now to drink it in peace—and she waited.

23

Reggie waited in his car.

And waited.

He was parked on Laura's street, just three houses down from hers, under a large walnut tree.

Just up the street was an unusually bulky Range Rover with tinted windows and what Reggie guessed had to be armor plate under the bumpers, given how they protruded. It was parked two houses down from Laura's, and across the street from Reggie. It was the surveillance spot Reggie would have chosen himself if he had not been trying to be inconspicuous.

No question. The vehicle had to belong to Buxton's surveillance team. It had the garish personality of their employer.

He had seen Laura turn on the lights in the kitchen. He had seen those lights go off, and then the upstairs lights go on. And then the upstairs lights had gone off, as well.

She had gone to bed. It was just a little early, not quite eleven, but she was no doubt tired.

Reggie was, too. He settled back in his seat to wait. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he faded.

Then suddenly, he was jolted awake. His mobile was ringing.

He checked his watch: It was almost one in the morning.

He picked up the phone. The lights were still out in Laura's house, but it might be her.

It wasn't.

“Mr. Heath?”

A woman's voice, though Reggie didn't recognize it immediately.

“This is Mrs. Winslow,” she said. “I'm very sorry to call you at this hour. I hope you weren't sleeping or … doing anything important.”

“Nothing like that,” said Reggie.

“I simply didn't know who else to call. I thought you might want to know. Or maybe you won't. I suppose it doesn't matter now that Mr. Liu is—has passed on, but … I just feel like I should tell someone.”

“Yes?”

“I'm just so sorry about it. It turns out that he did not make a mistake after all.”

“I'm not sure I follow,” said Reggie. Clearly the man had made some sort of mistake, or he would not have died suddenly in a Soho alley thousands of miles from home.

“It's a very well-known rhyme,” she said. “And the mistake—what I thought was his mistake—was so obvious. But it wasn't—I mean, it wasn't his mistake at all. It was in the original.”

Reggie tried to focus.

“You're saying that, in fact, Mr. Liu translated correctly.”

“Yes,” she said. “The error—what I thought was an error—was not a discrepancy between his translation and the source material that was sent to him. It was a discrepancy between what was sent to him and what the nursery rhyme is commonly understood to be.”

Reggie rubbed his eyes. It felt very late to be talking about this sort of thing.

“You're referring to the ‘buckle my shoe' rhyme? The duck?”

“Yes, that one, and some of the others. And I thought he had made the errors. But he had not. All of the errors were in the source material that was sent to him. I don't know how this could have happened, except that a Mr. Sandwhistle, who provided the source material, must have made an accidental change in what he sent on to Mr. Liu. I received a copy of that as well, and ever since you spoke to me earlier, I've been looking for it. I found it. And that's where the errors were—in the source, not in the translation. I've just now called both Mr. Sandwhistle and my client to inform them about their error.”

Reggie wondered why the name Sandwhistle seemed familiar. But he couldn't quite place it.

“I'm sure they appreciated that,” said Reggie. “At this hour.”

“Well, I didn't actually speak to anyone,” continued Mrs. Winslow. “I just left messages. They'll have to have both the originals and the translations redone. Or perhaps they won't; not everyone cares about quality the way they used to.”

“All right, “said Reggie. “But the point you're making to me is that Mr. Liu actually translated correctly. It was the original that was wrong.”

“Yes. And I fired him over it. I'm so very sorry. I feel so bad about it, that he came all this way, and then—what happened to him in that alley.”

The woman's remorse over the phone sounded completely sincere. Reggie felt obliged to say something.

“We don't know what happened yet in Soho,” he said, “But clearly your misunderstanding with him was not the proximate cause of his death.”

It wasn't much consolation, probably. It was the best he could do as a lawyer.

“I know,” she said. “I mean, I'm sure that must be true. Still, I wonder if you might want to meet me, and I'll show you what the source material was—and why I thought the translations were wrong.”

Reggie was inclined to say no. He was tired. Laura was on his mind; Buxton, bloody hell, was on his mind. And the missing letters. With all of that, he had actually forgotten for the past few hours about Mr. Liu.

“Please,” said the woman. “I'd feel better about it. I understand about proximate cause and all that, but I would just like the chance to show you what I found. I know these rhymes so well, and I just didn't see how I could send them on with words that were just the opposite of what they should be. ‘Unbuckle my shoe' instead of ‘buckle' it. ‘Throw down sticks' instead of pick them up. So many errors. And now to see that they weren't Mr. Liu's mistake at all—”

Reggie tried to remember the particular rhyme. ‘One, two, buckle my shoe.' He couldn't remember the others.

“Mrs. Winslow,” he said. “The rhyming lines with errors—do all of them contain a number?”

There was a pause. “Why, yes,” she said after a moment. “The lines in that rhyme certainly do. I'd have to check on the errors in the other rhymes.”

Reggie looked across at Laura's house—still dark, of course. He looked in his rearview mirror. The security team was still there in the Range Rover.

“All right,” said Reggie. “I can be at your place in ten minutes. But I won't be able to stay long.”

“No,” said the woman. “That's not where I am. I'm at the Elgar Imports warehouse, where they put all these things together. But it isn't far, just over in the Docklands. Can you meet me there?”

“All right,” said Reggie. He took down the address.

Then he got out of his own car and walked directly over to the Range Rover. He approached the driver's side.

The window was tinted too darkly to see in. But Reggie really had no doubt.

He rapped his knuckles on the window.

He waited a few seconds. No response.

He rapped again, harder.

The window rolled down.

“What do you want, Heath?” said the male driver.

Reggie hadn't met the man before, but he recognized the voice—it was the bloke named Alex, the Buxton contact he had spoken with on the phone.

“Just letting you know I'm stepping away for a moment,” said Reggie.

“You shouldn't be here at all.”

“What I said before still stands,” said Reggie. “If you try to use Laura again, I promise you will regret it.”

Alex sighed. “You can save your breath, Heath. She's already told us to bugger off. All we're trying to do now is just keep an eye on the place.”

Reggie nodded.

The window rolled back up.

Reggie walked back to his car. The kidnappers would surely not show up at Laura's house, not with Buxton's security team parked there so obviously. And he had put the security team on notice. So that should take care of things. At least for the moment.

He wasn't absolutely sure this was the smart thing to do. He was having a hard time being sure of anything. But he started the XJS and drove on.

24

Shortly after one in the morning, Reggie drove down a narrow dead-end alley off West India Dock Road.

To his right was a two-story, nineteenth-century warehouse constructed of aging brick. To his left was a concrete car park for a hotel still under construction.

There were a few energy-efficient yellow lamps positioned every thirty yards or so along the alley, but they did not illuminate much.

Reggie slowed. Even in the dark, the location should be easy to find; vertical aluminum doors had been installed in the entrances to the individual warehouse storage units, and at this hour, all he had to do was find the one that Mrs. Winslow had opened.

But he had reached the end of the alley now, and all of the doors were closed.

He backed up, peering at street numbers that had been hammered into the brick of the warehouse, but it was nearly impossible to make them out.

And then he stopped.

There were no vehicles on the street—except one. It was covered with a tarp, as if ready for storage. But someone had been in haste; the tarp had not been tied down well, and the rear bumper of a late-model compact car was visible. Reggie got out and lifted the tarp.