Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (7 page)

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Authors: Piper Maitland

BOOK: Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)
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Velikov's eyes cut to her plaid duffel, but he made no comment.
“Now this creep is in Kardzhali.” She leaned forward. “At the Hotel Ustra. Don't you find that a little strange?”
“You think he followed you?” Velikov asked in a conspiratorial tone.
Caro's hands began to shake, and her heart sped up. She nodded. Then she remembered that in Bulgaria a nod means no and a head shake means yes. She shook her head.
Velikov turned around to stare, but the man in the Hawaiian shirt wasn't looking at her. Now the ministry official would think she was a kook. Uncle Nigel had sheltered her to an extreme, and she'd grown into a cautious woman—okay, paranoid. But he'd also taught her to view the world through an archaeologist's eyes, paying attention to details.
“He does not look familiar.” Velikov's eyes narrowed, and then he turned back to Caro. “But I know his type, and it is not good.”
“I'll say.”
“He will not harm you.” Velikov patted Caro's hand. “I will make certain of it.”
Caro looked past Velikov. The chair was empty. She looked around for the man. When had he left? He wasn't at the bar, either. “Where did he go?” she asked.
Velikov frowned. “Most odd. I will have my men check the hotel. Also, I will alert the front desk. I will tell them to screen your calls and not to reveal your room number.”
“Thanks.” She took another sip of wine. “I'm not normally this nervous.”
Liar
, she thought.
“Your fear is justified.” Velikov paused. “Considering the brutal way your uncle was murdered.”
Brutal?
The word slammed inside her head, and she stiffened. A Bulgarian would not use this word casually. The Ottomans had slaughtered them in the fourteenth century and, even today, a good part of Kardzhali was Muslim.
“Perhaps I have spoken out of turn,” Velikov said.
“Someone needs to.” She stared into her glass. “They didn't beat him, did they?”
He nodded.
No.
“What happened?”
“The cause of death was exsanguination,” said Velikov. “That means—”
“I know the term. Uncle Nigel took a blood thinner for his heart.”
“I hesitate to continue. It is not for the faint of stomach.”
“I need to know.”
“This was more than a robbery. Your uncle was tortured. Both Achilles tendons were severed. And he was bitten.”
“Did you say
bitten
?” She abruptly set her glass on the table, and the wine swayed.
“Yes.” Velikov shook his head.
“By an animal?”
He shook his head.
Yes.
“And human.”
No. Not possible.
She rose abruptly and her knee hit the table. The wineglass tipped over, spilling Mavrud across the glossy surface, red drops pattering to the floor.
CHAPTER 8
WILKERSON PHARMACEUTICALS
EAST LONDON, ENGLAND
 
Moose Tipper sat at the far end of the mirrored conference table, its surface reflecting lights from nearby buildings. Wilkerson stood in front of the broad glass window, his hands clasped behind his back. The Thames stretched out in front of him, black and twisty.
“How did you bungle it
this
time?” Wilkerson asked.
“It went tits up,” Moose said, but he was thinking that Wilkerson was absolutely wet. And, he wasn't immortal.
“What happened?” Wilkerson turned.
“I already told you.” Moose extended his hand and pointed to the purple bite marks. “I didn't make a total bollocks of it. I got the samples. Isn't that what you wanted?”
“Have you looked at a newspaper?” Wilkerson leaned forward, his reflection moving along the mirror. “Listened to the news?”
“I don't watch the telly. It's too horrid.” Moose brought his hands together, tapping each finger, right to left, left to right. Ten times. Perfect. When he noticed that Wilkerson was staring, Moose made a fist and slammed it against the table. “I got your fucking samples.”
Wilkerson flinched.
“Didn't break it.” Moose lifted his hand. The imprint of his fist had left a smudge on the mirror. He had heard that Wilkerson was sent down from Cambridge. Disgraced his family.
“You got the tissue samples, all right.” Wilkerson paused. “From the wrong woman.”
Moose narrowed one eye. “Say what?”
“The woman you murdered wasn't Caroline Clifford. You killed her flatmate. The girl's father was Sir Edmund Dowell.”
“Never heard of him.” Moose shrugged.
“He's the Lord Speaker in the House of Lords.”
“Oh,
that
Dowell,” Moose said, trying not to roll his eyes.
“Scotland Yard is crawling all over her flat.”
“But you never said the Clifford girl had a roomie. I assumed—”
“I don't pay you to make assumptions. I pay you to complete a task. Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals is a billion-dollar corporation, and the cosmetics division will surpass that. I will not see this corporation destroyed by a blood sipper.”
“I don't sip it, mate. I'm brilliant at what I do. You know I am. The situation isn't a total cock-up. I just killed the wrong girl. Tell me where to find the right one, and I'll bring her back.” Moose clenched his fists, repressing an urge to straighten the pencils on Wilkerson's desk.
“It's too late,” Wilkerson said. “I can't risk another botched assignment.”
“I'll use chloroform this time. And I'll get your samples in half a tick.”
“Sorry, I can't trust you.”
“Sure you can.” Moose opened his fists and tapped his fingers. Right to left. Left to right.
“You don't get it, do you?” Wilkerson cried. “This murder is all over the news. I can't afford another mistake. Mistakes lead to scandals. Scandals attract journalists. My company could end up on the BBC.”
“So?” Moose's eyebrows went up. “I thought you liked publicity.”
“A scandal would wreck my company. Worse, you and I could be locked up at Her Majesty's pleasure.”
“Quit borrowing trouble, mate.” Moose's fingers moved in a blur, tapping against the mirror. Wilkerson was a chinless wonder with a knack for turning pills and face creams into money. Lots of money.
Wilkerson pressed the intercom button. “Sandra?”
“Yes, Mr. Wilkerson?” answered a woman.
“Have the Zuba brothers arrived?”
“Y-yes, sir,” the receptionist said, her voice quavering.
Moose's head jerked up. He knew about those blokes. They weren't
just
assassins; they were sadists. Their victims didn't plead for their lives, they begged for death.
The door opened and two men walked into the room. They had cropped, platinum hair and icy blue eyes. One wore a tweed jacket over a pink T-shirt; the other wore a Burberry sweater and ragged jeans.
They smiled.
Moose jumped out of his chair and backed up against the window. Stone the bloody crows, those teeth. They'd been filed.
“Take him,” Wilkerson said.
The men's reflections moved along the mirrored table. Moose grabbed the chair and shoved it through the window. The glass ruptured, clattering to the floor. He leaped through the jagged opening and plunged three stories. He landed feet first on an overhang. That was lucky for him. But it was also lucky for the Zubas.
He bolted toward the fire escape. His right foot snagged on a metal pipe and he toppled over. He heard a crack and pain exploded in his leg. He pulled up his trouser—no protruding bones—and got to his feet. He limped to the fire escape. By the time he reached the ground, his ankle was throbbing. Above him, the fire escape rattled as the Zubas climbed down.
Moose hobbled off into an alley. In the distance, he saw the Hungerford Bridge. He shambled to the Thames and jumped. The dark water clamped over his head like an iron lid. He couldn't stop, couldn't rest.
Just keep going, mate.
You had to play when you were wounded.
CHAPTER 9
HOTEL USTRA
KARDZHALI, BULGARIA
 
After the meeting, Velikov insisted upon searching Caro's room. His coat rippled as he strode to the window and flattened the curtains, presumably making sure no one was crouched behind them. He opened the closet and swept one hand over the coat hangers. His eyebrows quirked and he turned into the bathroom. Caro jumped when the shower curtain hooks scraped over the metal rod.
He stepped back into the hall. “Make sure you bolt the door tonight.”
“Why?” She crossed her arms, trying to decide if she'd brought this on with her silliness over the man in the bar or if the extra security was related to Uncle Nigel's murder.
“I have four grown daughters,” Velikov said. “And the world is wicked.”
The moment he left, Caro sat on the bed and rang Jude's room. When he didn't pick up, she felt a pinch of disappointment. She hung up and stretched bonelessly across the bed. Above her, the ceiling squeaked as someone paced back and forth, shouting in Russian.
“Zavali yebalo!”
a man yelled.
“Nyet,”
a female voice cried.
Caro slid off the bed and turned on the television. The satellite weather channel showed a smiling sun over Bulgaria. An exotic, dark-skinned woman delivered the forecast in an elegant British accent. The Balkans could expect rising temperatures and overcast skies, followed by a blast of Arctic air and snow.
Her stomach growled. She found a package of Jammie Dodgers in her bag and stuffed a biscuit into her mouth. Then she picked up Uncle Nigel's letters and returned to the bed. The first envelope bore no address or postmark. Scrawled across the front, in his distinct, boxy handwriting, was
Please Forward to Dr. J. Barrett.
25 October
Dear Dr. Barrett,
Quite by chance, I stumbled upon your article in the British Scientific Journal; I searched for companion articles but couldn't find one. You'd simply vanished from academia. I might not have found you at all, but your name sounded familiar. I'd known a John Barrett at Eton back in the early 1950s. His given name was John Fleming Dalgliesh Barrett from York. We had quite a bit in common, and not because our fathers were in the House of Lords.
We were incorrigible mischief makers. One time, we caused a ruckus at St. George's Chapel, and the Windsor guards came rushing down. We narrowly escaped. Another time we made false ID cards, took the train to Piccadilly Circus, and got positively sozzled. There are more tales, of course. What else could you expect from two teenaged softies? However, I'm digressing. I was terribly saddened to hear of Sir John's passing.
Once I made the connection, I traveled to York, to Dalgliesh Castle. Your stepmother, the Lady Patricia, wouldn't say if you were dead or alive. Considering the subject of your article, I decided she was protecting you.
In case you are alive and in hiding, please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a professor of archaeology at Oxford, with a special interest in minority cultures during the antiquities. I apologize in advance for my boldness and for my lack of knowledge about your area of study; however, I was simply gobsmacked by your research. Moreover, I was consumed with unanswered questions.
Whilst it's a rather big ask, I hope you'll contact me.
 
Sincerely,
Nigel H. Clifford, Ph.D.
Norham Gardens, Oxford
Oxfordshire, U.K. OX2 6QD
Caro smoothed the paper with the flat of her hand. Jude was a Briton, just as she'd suspected, and posh. His father had attended Eton and had known Uncle Nigel. Why had Jude's stepmother refused to say if he was alive or dead?
She mulled over the words, hunting for subtext.
Considering the subject of your article, I decided she was protecting you.
What kind of article required protection?
A controversial one. She lifted the second letter. The envelope was addressed to Dr. J. Fleming in Lucerne, Switzerland.
9 November
Dear Jude,
I was a bit puzzled when I received your letter, as I didn't recognize the name “Fleming.” Then I read your explanation regarding the pseudonym. For this reason, I'm extremely honored that you're willing to travel incognito to meet me. I applaud your bravery as I'm sure this wasn't an easy decision. I also agree that we shouldn't speak on the phone.
I have many questions about your article, and only you can answer them. I will be leaving the country for a few weeks—just a routine dig in Bulgaria—but I shall return to Oxford on 28 November. Let's have tea at my house on the afternoon of the 29th.
If you are hiring a car, I'm right off the motorway. I do hate to be presumptuous, but perhaps you could give my niece a lift to Oxford? Caro lives in London, Flat 4, 32½ Bow Street. It's out of your way if you're leaving from Heathrow. I'll be happy to reimburse you (and I'll rest easier knowing Caro is with you). During your visit to Oxford, you are welcome to lodge at my home. There's plenty of room to kick about; however, if you are allergic to cats, be forewarned: one on the premises.
Looking forward to meeting you.
 
Sincerely,
Nigel Clifford
P.S. I've added Caro's telephone number, along with her photograph—not for matchmaking purposes but clarification: Her flatmate is blond, too, but rather short and hobbit-like. They have been known to pose as each other to chase off undesirable guests. I wouldn't want you to bring the wrong girl to tea.
Hobbit-like? Caro smiled and traced a finger over his signature: the square
N
, curlicue
C
, and upswept
d
at the end of
Clifford
.

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