The Baker Street Translation (7 page)

“Yes, sir. Pretty much for the entire week.” She giggled slightly, then stifled it.

“And the other preparations?”

“Everything is set up. The caterer will return at the top of the hour.”

“Brilliant.”

Reggie went into his chambers and closed the door behind him. He looked about at the advance preparations—the small round dining table, the white linen, the silver service. Yes, it would do.

He sat down behind his desk and reviewed the plan one more time: Transfer the ring from his mac into his suit pocket. Done. Office rearranged. Done. The best caterer in all of London delivering an early lunch at the top of the hour. Done.

Everything was ready.

Now he had a quarter of an hour before Laura would arrive. Nothing on his calendar. Nothing to do.

He picked up the phone and rang Lois.

“Did I get a message back from Mr. Liu?”

“No, sir. Do you want me to try his hotel?”

“No, no. Not now. We'll try him again later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reggie hung up the phone. He still had several minutes before Laura was due to arrive. He took the ring box out of his pocket and opened it on his desk to take another look.

And then—sooner than expected—there was a distinctive knock on the chambers door: Laura's knock.

Reggie scrambled to get the ring back in the box and into his pocket.

“Come in,” he said. He was still behind his desk; there wasn't time to come around to meet her.

The door opened. Laura stepped just inside and hovered, Bacall-like, in the entryway, tall and slender.

Reggie caught a slight scent of coconut and oranges; either she had adopted a new perfume or she had come directly from the airport and hadn't yet washed off all the sunscreen. She had picked up only a little sun, just enough to darken the freckles that had already been visible and highlight a tan line in the front. That was good. Reggie liked tan lines; they were the major thoroughfares that led to the freckled side streets, which led, pale and enticing, to interesting places to visit.

Laura paused, looking first at Reggie and then at the fancy dining arrangements he had imported into the chambers.

She raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth tweaked up.

“When you said brunch at chambers,” said Laura, “I quite thought you meant tandoori takeaway.”

“It turned out that my calendar is open this afternoon. So we have time for more than one course. Perhaps even three of four.”

“I'm surprised,” said Laura, clearly pleased. “Everyone says clients are quite charging through your doors.

“Yes,” said Reggie. “Ever since the Black Cab case, I have become known as the barrister who did not, in fact, kill his client. Who knew that by itself would constitute a positive recommendation?”

Laura smiled and sat down. “Or that appearing in the
Daily Sun
could actually be a good thing?”

“Yes, that, too,” said Reggie. “How was the location shoot? Was it, as they say, a wrap?”

What Reggie wanted to hear was that the far-off location shoots for this particular film were, in fact, now done, and that Lord Robert Buxton hadn't been dropping in on her on the slightest pretext, as he had managed to do on the first round.

“The weather got a bit sticky,” said Laura. “And little orange-and-black beetles kept getting through the mesh on my tent and popping up in the oddest places. But everyone else tells me the shoot itself was boffo. I've been so looking forward to using that word. And yes, I do believe this wrapped it up.”

“Word of a sequel?”

Laura laughed. “There's some sort of a publicity do tonight that I'm supposed to attend. Along with Robert as the principal financer. Perhaps he'll hint at something.”

“Ah,” said Reggie very carefully, with no inflection whatsoever. But bloody hell, he thought. Would the man never go away?

Laura continued. “I need to talk with him anyway, and he's been difficult to reach the last couple of days.”

Now that sounded better. But Reggie resolved to make sure the name Buxton did not come up in the conversation again at all.

“Why do you keep putting your hand in your coat pocket?” Laura asked.

“No reason,” said Reggie. He smiled slyly, or at least hoped it was sly. He let go of the ring box—just for the moment—and put both hands back on the table.

“I expect the main course will be arriving any moment,” he said. “And for dessert, I understand they do something very special with chocolate and raspberries.”

Reggie saw her eyes light up. Perfect. According to plan.

And now his desk phone rang. That would be the caterer, arriving with the first course.

Reggie felt very much in command. He punched the speakerphone button to let Laura hear the caterer announce the menu directly.

But it wasn't the caterer.

“I'm glad I caught you, Heath,” said a male voice over the phone.

It was Inspector Wembley.

“I was just about to have lunch,” said Reggie.

“Bring it with you,” said Wembley. “I need a word. You can eat it on the way. Or after you get here, if your stomach is cast iron.”

“What I meant,” said Reggie, “is that I have an appointment for lunch.”

“Heath, courts are not back in session until two, and the thing I've got here takes priority over any business lunch you have scheduled.”

“It's not a business appointment,” said Reggie. “It's social.”

“You don't have a bloody thing of social importance in your life, Heath.”

“Hello, Inspector,” said Laura now, quite cordially, through the speakerphone. “How are you today? You sound tense.”

There was a pause. Then: “I'm quite well, Miss Rankin. Thanks for asking. And sorry to interrupt. But Heath, I'm in an alley in Soho, looking down at a freshly dead body—and the only thing the recently deceased has on him that would explain his presence here in London is your business card. That and a playbill for
The Mousetrap.
”

Reggie made no immediate response. He remembered the recommendation he had made to the old man the night before, and his diaphragm tightened in apprehension of what else Wembley might have to say.

“It is a very popular play,” said Laura into the phone, covering Reggie's silence.

“Agreed,” said Wembley. “But I wouldn't come here all the way from Taiwan for it.”

“Bloody hell,” said Reggie.

He looked across at Laura.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Perhaps I'll go with—” began Laura.

“Heath only,” commanded Wembley through the phone. “No disrespect, Miss Rankin, but this is not for civilians and you have no stake in it.”

She smiled slightly, nodded, and sat back down.

“As you wish, Inspector,” said Laura. “I'll just stay and have both Reggie's lunch and my own.”

“Cheers,” said Wembley.

Reggie was still clutching the ring box in his pocket, and for a brief moment he thought about bringing it out right then and there.

But surely he could time it better than to propose on his way to a murder scene.

Reggie let go of the ring and stood.

A look of disappointment flashed across Laura's face. Reggie assumed it was because of Wembley's refusal to let her ride along to the crime scene. After all, she had no idea what he'd been up to with the lunch.

“Very sorry,” said Reggie. “I hope you don't mind. I'll be back as soon as possible.”

“I hope you don't mind,” said Laura as Reggie picked up his mac. “I'm going to eat your dessert while you're gone.”

11

The moment after Reggie exited the chambers, Laura took out her list.

She had written it down during the flight from her South Seas location shoot. It had been a long flight, but it was a short list.

Item one: “Say yes to Reggie.”

Well. She could hardly cross that one off now.

She had been quite expecting the proposal to happen as soon as she returned; even before she flew out for the shoot weeks ago, she had been sure it was coming. Her best guess had been that it would be at dinner on the weekend.

But then had come the lunch invitation, and Reggie's unwillingness to specify in advance just exactly what the lunch would be. “I'll surprise you,” he had said. And then she thought she knew.

And when she saw all the expensive white linen and silver set up in Reggie's chambers—well, then, she really did very much know.

And now the whole thing was on hold—for hours at least, probably for another day. She would have to wait.

She sighed and looked at the next item on the list.

Item two: “Tell Robert.”

Now, in fact, she had been trying to tell Robert for several days now.

Friends had advised her that he was a hard man to say no to. She didn't think they meant he would simply make himself unavailable.

She had rung him before she got on the plane. But no answer.

She had rung him again when the plane touched down at Heathrow. Still nothing.

She had rung both his private mobile line—the number that he said he shared with no one but her, the prime minister, one cabinet member in each of the major political parties, and the king of Bahrain—and the private office number, which he shared with only his immediate staff and the directors of each of his major holdings—and still no answer.

So item two was still on her list, as well. But she could take care of it now, and she was about to pick up the phone.

But then Lois knocked and stuck her head in. “The caterer is here,” said Lois. “And it smells delicious.”

“Does it?” said Laura. “Then you'll share it with me, of course.”

Lois hesitated. “I should be at my desk.…”

“Then that's where we'll have it,” said Laura.

“Lovely,” said Lois.

Moments later they started in on sole soufflé Francine at Lois's open office station.

Lois first had to push aside what looked like about half a dozen tabloids and newspapers.

“What's all this?” she asked.

“Oh, it's just a hobby of mine,” said Lois. “I never do it when there's work, of course, but it's very quiet today.”

“I noticed that,” said Laura.

“Yes, Reggie cleared his calendar so that … well, I'm not supposed to say what for, but anyway, when it's quiet and I have time, as it is today, I like to read the newspapers, like Sherlock Holmes would do.”

“And what way is that?”

“You read the paper,” said Lois. “And you solve a crime. Or recover a missing diamond. Or save a lady's reputation from scandal. You don't even have to get out and about anywhere. You just do it from your chair.”

“Sounds fun,” said Laura. “Had any luck at it?”

“Well … no, not yet, at least not so far. But I keep trying. For instance—”

“Yes, go right ahead.”

Lois picked up the
Daily Telegraph
and read from it.

“Today we have ‘IRA Peace Talks Continue'; ‘Pedestrian Fatally Injured at King's Cross Station'; ‘Lady Ashton-Tate Birthday Bash to Support Red Squirrels.'”

“Surely that last one's not a crime, is it? I have friends who'll be in jail if it is.”

“Oh no, but it's not just crimes you should pay attention to. It's everything. Except the things that don't matter.”

“And which are those?”

“For the life of me, I don't know, and that's what makes it such a challenge.”

“I see. So do you see any solutions to crimes in any of those?”

“No,” said Lois. “I can't think of a thing to say about any of them.”

“Nor can I,” said Laura. “What a couple of dunces we must be. We aren't Sherlock Holmes at all. Although, between you and me, I'm not sure the fellow really ever did have any fun. So you know what I think we should do instead?”

“No.”

“Eat dessert. You can have Reggie's portion.”

“Lovely,” said Lois.

Moments later, the chocolate raspberry tart having been demolished, Laura left Lois with her newspapers and returned to Reggie's chambers. She shut the door behind her.

She picked up Reggie's desk phone and tried Buxton's private number once more.

It rang half a dozen times, and then—to her surprise—someone finally picked up.

“Who is this?” said the male voice—not Buxton's—with no preliminaries at all.

Laura was just a little put off.

“Well, who are you, then?” she said. “I was expecting Lord Robert Buxton.”

“You might as well tell us who you are first,” said the man on the phone. “We'll have your number in a moment.”

“You'll have it wrong, then, because I'm not calling from my own phone.”

“Well, this is a private line. So someone's in trouble, either way.”

“Perhaps it will be you,” said Laura. “I suggest you let me speak with Robert.”

Now there were a couple of other voices in the background.

“One moment,” said the man on the phone.

For a moment there was silence, with Laura on hold, and then the man came back.

“Are you Laura Rankin?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Please come to Lord Buxton's headquarters,” said the man, somewhat friendlier now. “We would like to speak with you. I'll tell the security station to let you in.”

“They always do anyway,” said Laura.

“Not anymore,” said the man.

This sounded ominous, and Laura was about to ask for clarification, but the man had already hung up.

Laura rang Lois on the interior line.

“If Reggie returns while you are still here and complains about missing the dessert, tell him it's his own fault,” said Laura. “Also, tell him I've gone over to Buxton's—well, let's not put it that way exactly. Tell him where I've gone, but not to worry.”