Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (14 page)

“An ice pack will help.” He grabbed the plastic bucket and stepped into the hall.

She sat down on the bed and rummaged in her bag for Mr. Velikov's phone number. No, he might not believe her version of Teo's accident. Better to ring Mr. Hughes. His secretary put Caro through right away.

“Miss Clifford!” he cried. “Everyone is looking for you, my dear. Where are you?”

“I'm—” she broke off when she heard a muffled noise from his end of the phone, as if he'd covered the receiver with his hand, and then she heard him whisper, “It's her.”

Her?
A spider ran up her backbone, and she shivered.
Stop it, Caro. He didn't mean you
.

“Mr. Hughes, I've called to say good-bye. I'm leaving Kardzhali.”

“No, you mustn't go. Firstly, there's been a dreadful incident at the Kardzhali morgue. Your uncle's body is missing.”

“You mean, like, misplaced?” Her throat narrowed to a pinpoint, but she managed to suck in a breath.

“Stolen.” Mr. Hughes paused. “Miss Clifford, I don't wish to alarm you, but a field agent from MI5 is in the building. He needs a word with you, too.”

“Why?” She couldn't breathe. The spiders had burrowed under her skin, weaving taut strands around her ribs. MI5 wanted to speak to her?

“I'm not privy to the details,” Mr. Hughes said. “But I'm afraid there's more bad news. A fax from the Kardzhali police just came across my desk. A man was killed on Bulgarian Boulevard. An eyewitness claims that a woman fitting your description pushed the victim into the path of an oncoming lorry. Another witness gave the police your name. Normally the embassy doesn't get involved in criminal investigations, but considering the ambassador knew your uncle . . .”

“Wait—a man gave the police my name? No one in Kardzhali knows my name. Except for . . .”

“Except for whom, my dear?”

“It's a long story.”

“I'm sure it is. However, the police also faxed a rather grainy photograph of you. Some chap took it at the crime scene with his mobile phone. Now, I'm sure you can explain—”

“I didn't murder anyone, it was self-defense. See, these two awful men kidnapped me.”

There was a thrumming silence. Finally he said, “I
see
.”

“I know it sounds far-fetched,” she said, “but you had warned me about the dangers in Bulgaria, hadn't you?”

“Yes, but—”

“I was on my way to the bus station when two men grabbed me. I'm pretty sure they're the ones who ransacked my hotel room.”

“Er, when did the alleged kidnapping happen?”

“There's nothing alleged about it.” She paused, wondering if she should mention the dreadful news about Phoebe. She decided against it and plowed on. “I'm sure you can find lots of witnesses because it happened less than an hour ago on Bulgarian Boulevard. The fiends locked me in the trunk, Mr. Hughes. A dead woman was in there, too.”

Mr. Hughes released an explosive sigh. “
Dead
, you say?”

“Quite. But I escaped. One of the men chased me into traffic. He caught up with me. We struggled.”
And I stabbed him with a ballpoint pen.
“He somehow lost his balance, and a truck ran over him.”

She winced. Even to her own ears, she sounded crazy, like a twenty-five-year-old nincompoop tour guide instead of a methodical, reasonable ex-scholar.

“Yes, very well. Stay where you are, Miss Clifford. A car will be there momentarily.”

“But . . .” She hadn't said where she was. Or had she? The whole afternoon was gummed together, hanging in sticky webs. Jude stepped into the room. He set down the bucket and frowned. In three long strides, he crossed to the bed and pulled the receiver from her hand. Then he jerked the cord from the wall. It made a loud crack. “I thought you understood,” he cried. “You mustn't ring anyone.”

“I was only talking to Mr. Hughes at the embassy.”

“Right. Only the embassy. I'm sure the police are on their way. We've got to leave.” Jude lifted her bag, hooked the strap over her shoulder, and steered her out of the room.

“I'm not five years old,” she snapped. “I can walk.”

He released her elbow and stepped back, a pulse leaping under his jaw.

She lifted her hand. “Don't take this the wrong way, but we should go in separate directions. MI5 wants to talk to me. And I want to talk to them. I suppose it's about my uncle. His body is missing.”

“Yes, I went to the morgue this morning, and—”

Caro's stomach tightened and her hand fell limply to her side. “You what?”

“Don't get your knickers in a twist. I went for information. When I arrived, the morgue was in an uproar.”

“But why did you go to the morgue? Why are you poking into my business?”

“I'll explain later. Because I'm sure your friend at the embassy has alerted the police to pick us up. They'll be here any minute.” He touched her arm.

She shrugged him off.

“We're wasting time.” He gripped her shoulder and directed her down the stairs. The desk clerk waved as they headed out the door.

Jude looked up at the sky. It was streaked with purple, and stars were starting to shine. “Night's falling. We shouldn't linger.”

“We shouldn't be together,” she said. “You haven't done anything wrong. I'm the little criminal. Let
me
go to the embassy, and you can drive away.”

“I'm not leaving you.” He flung open the passenger door. “Now, hop inside before you stir up any more trouble.”

Ilya Velikov steered his car onto Bulgarian Boulevard, his headlights moving over the pedestrians. He didn't normally respond to traffic accidents, but he'd made an exception after he'd heard that apparently witnesses had seen a British national, a woman, push a bystander into the path of a truck.

According to the dispatcher, the British woman had long, fuzzy blond hair and she'd been carrying a red plaid duffel bag. Impossible. He had just spoken to Caroline Clifford. She'd seemed sweet and quite genuine, but very, very young. And the young were often impulsive and unwise.

He climbed out of his car and pushed through the pedestrians, flashing his badge.

“Interior Ministry,” he kept repeating. “Step aside, please.”

Straight ahead, the ambulance blocked two lanes, with police cars parked on either side. The chilly night air snapped his coat as he walked toward the ambulance. Blue lights wheeled over the crowd, sweeping across trees and dingy buildings that lined the wide street. Abandoned vehicles clogged the lanes, their headlights cutting through the dusk. Some of the drivers stood on their cars to gawk.

The crowd parted, and Velikov saw yellow barricades surrounding a white truck. A mangled corpse was wedged beneath the rear tires. Rescue workers knelt around it, arguing about the best way to extract the body. An officer interrogated a man in a black sweater, taking copious notes.

Velikov stepped around them, toward a dark puddle that led to the truck. The undercarriage and doors were splattered with flesh and bone fragments. The body lay under the rear tires. One eyeball stared out of the crushed skull; the other eye dangled from the socket, resting against the corpse's stubby nose.

“Has the victim been identified?” Velikov asked a smooth-faced officer. The young man was impeccably dressed, his navy shirt tucked into his trousers, and the trouser legs were stuffed into Doc Marten bovver boots, the same kind Velikov himself had worn when he'd been in the militia.

“No, Comrade Inspector,” the officer said.

Velikov smiled. He hadn't been called that since Bulgaria was part of the Eastern Bloc. The officer looked too young to have remembered the Communist regime, and Velikov was impressed. He started to say something, but a policewoman with dark red hair held out plastic gloves.

“You will need these, Commander,” she said.

The young policeman gestured at the man in the black sweater. “Comrade Inspector, this man witnessed the murder,” he said. “He took a picture of the woman. I've already sent it to headquarters.”

“Let me see.” Velikov tilted his head.

The man in the sweater held up his phone. The picture showed a bushy-haired blonde with startled gray eyes. The policeman cleared his throat. “The woman in the photograph is a British national. Miss Caroline Clifford. The witness claims she pushed the victim into the path of the truck.”

“She pushed hard,” said the man in the black sweater. “The victim fell into the road. I grabbed the woman. Then a man punched me.”

“Can you describe him?” Velikov pushed his hands into the gloves.

“Dark hair. Ponytail. Blue eyes. He and the woman ran toward the bus station.”

Velikov pushed back his hat and watched the emergency team jack up the truck.

“Careful!” yelled one of the emergency workers as the crew started to lift the victim. Velikov heard a crack, and watched in horror as the victim's pelvis caved in, folding in half. A black crocodile wallet fell out of the jogging suit's pocket and hit the pavement. One of the workers picked it up, flicking off tissue, and handed it up to the policewoman. She opened it. Inside, it was packed with euros. She searched the side pockets and began removing cards.

“Teo Stamboliev of Sofia,” said the woman, holding up an ID card that showed a grim-faced man with prominent ears and thick brown hair. Velikov's eyebrows shot up when he saw a card bearing the official seal of the Interior Ministry. Teo Stamboliev had been a member of the Special Forces Unit at the IVth Police Station in Sofia, but it had disbanded years ago because of allegations of corruption.

The policewoman whistled as she shuffled the cards—Barclay Platinum, Capital One, Virgin Money, MBNA Platinum.

“May I see those, please?” Velikov held out his hand, and the woman passed them over.

A shiver ran up his neck as he shuffled through the cards. The same name was stamped on each one: SIR  NIGEL CLIFFORD.

 

Balkan folk music etched over the radio while Jude drove along the Vurbista River. Caro's head throbbed, and she couldn't string two thoughts together. How hard had the Bulgarian man hit her? As the dark landscape sped by, she kept seeing the dead woman in the trunk. Then she pictured her uncle's empty mortuary slab, and her stomach lurched.

“Stop the car,” she said.

Jude glanced away from the road. “What's wrong?”

“I'm going to be sick.”

He swerved, and gravel flew up around the tires. She flung open the door and retched. She felt his cool hand brush against her neck, and then he lifted her hair out of the way.

“Hang in there. We'll be in Momchilgrad soon,” he said.

“Is that where we're going?” She wiped her mouth on her sweater. “You can drive now. I'm okay.”

She leaned against the window as he angled onto the highway.
Breathe, Caro. Focus on the sound of the tires. Ignore the gooseflesh and spidery shivers. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

She felt calmer when they drove into downtown Momchilgrad. The town square was empty, except for two men hanging back in the shadows, watching a girl ride a bicycle down the sidewalk. Caro tucked her hair behind her ears and sat up.

“I've been here with my uncle,” she said, switching automatically into tour guide mode. “You can feel the Ottoman influence everywhere—the language, cuisine, architecture.”

Jude nodded.

“Am I talking too much?” she asked.

“No.” He looked surprised. “Why?”

“I tend to talk when I'm nervous.”

He patted her shoulder. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, some.” She tried to remember if Momchilgrad had been this sparsely populated when she and Uncle Nigel had passed through. In the distance she saw a tall, modern building. A neon sign blinked HOTEL KONAK.

Jude drove up to the hotel, turned into the lot, and parked at the bottom of the hill. “Can I trust you to sit here while I check in?” he asked.

“Why? You think I'll run back to Kardzhali?”

“I'm not sure what you'll do. But if you stay here, you'll be safe.”

“From what?”

“Just keep the doors locked.”

“You're scaring me.” She reached for her bag. “I'm coming with you.”

“You'd better not. The hotel might want your passport.”

“The other place didn't.”

His eyebrows angled up. “Do you want to take that chance?”

“You'll have to give them your passport. What if the police tracked your license tag?”

“It's stolen.”

“I thought you'd rented a car in Sofia.”

“The tag's stolen, not the car. Don't look so worried. I'll get rid of both soon enough.” He shrugged off his leather jacket. “You're shivering.”

After he walked to the hotel, she folded the coat over her legs and tried to remember the scanty information in her uncle's letters. Jude had published one research paper and dropped out of sight. All this time she'd searched for a link between the two men, but now that she'd found one—severed tendons—she was more confused than ever. What was the common denominator between a biochemist and an archaeologist?

A few minutes later, Jude came down the hill, his hands jammed into his pockets. “Sorry I took so long, but it took forever to find a clerk. The hotel was deserted. They must be running a skeleton crew tonight.”