Mrs. John Doe (19 page)

The doorbell rang, a sudden, shrill noise in the quiet house. Nora froze, staring over at the front door ten feet away, beyond Vivian's body. They couldn't have come back, not so soon. Why would they? As far as they knew, they'd killed everyone in the—

The bell rang again, followed by a soft knocking. Then came a tiny voice through the wood. “Missus? Missus Bellini? 'Ello? It's Shine Gahs'n f'm t'mahkit. 'Ello?”

Shane Garson from the market. With the cream. Dear God! She couldn't open the door, couldn't let him see her, couldn't let him see Vivian lying there in plain sight. But the lights were on, and he'd wonder. More to the point, his mother would wonder a few minutes from now, when the boy returned to the grocery store with the undelivered package. An anxious phone call to Claudia's number, then Vivian's number, and then the woman—Bessie?—would come here herself. When she saw the lights and received no answer at the door…

The ringing and knocking continued for a few more moments, then abruptly stopped. He was going away now, back to the shop. Nora figured that she had ten, maybe fifteen minutes before this house, this street, this entire neighborhood would be swarming with police.

A last glance at her friend, dear Vivian, and she was off down the hall, through the swinging door, past the faceless body in the dark, wet kitchen, and out into the rainy night. She bundled the gun back into the shawl and dropped it into her bag, then fished around for the foldaway umbrella and popped it open, but it did little to shield her from the downpour. The patio, the lawn, the back gate. She was weeping now, the hot tears mingling with the icy drops that lashed at her face, blinding her. The martini glass was discarded in a trash can a few doors down, shattered beyond recognition. She hurried away down the long, dark service road, soaking wet and freezing, half running, half staggering, lurching toward the distant lights, biting back sobs as she listened for the imminent shriek of approaching sirens.

Nora didn't know where she was anymore. She'd never been familiar with this part of London, and the rain and her advancing shock only added to her awful sense of disorientation. She was running east, in the direction from which she'd arrived earlier in the taxi, but the immaculate streets and well-appointed houses that rushed by her might as well have been on some alien planet, all abstract shadows and wet streaks of light. Now a large main thoroughfare appeared up ahead, and she remembered it from the cab ride. Was it called Park Road? Something like that.

She emerged from a side street into St. John's Wood Road, and there was a junction on her left. Yes, that was Park Road, over there. And here, miraculously, was a big black cab, pulling over at an awning and discharging an elderly couple into the capable hands of their doorman, waiting at the curb with an oversize umbrella. Nora hurried over and threw herself into the vacated backseat. The doorman shut the door for her and led his tenants away. Nora leaned back against the seat and shut her eyes, thinking furiously.

“Whiteleys,” she finally managed to say, and the cab glided forward into the storm. Some deep instinct—and a hundred old spy movies—told her not to give the cab driver the exact address where she was going. He
looked
like a classic London cabbie—Caucasian, sixtyish, florid, and graying, in a navy coat and tweed cap—and his medallion displayed his photo and the name
C
ARSTAIRS,
P
ATRICK
S
.,
but she wasn't taking chances. Whiteleys shopping center was in the vicinity of Craig's building on Queensway, and she could find her way from there. She'd shopped at Whiteleys a few times with Vivian.

Vivian. Oh God, Vivian was
dead
! Sweet, silly Vivian, who'd never harmed anyone in her life. Vivian had been her friend, a good friend. Bill had always been nice to her too, but Bill had worked in a dangerous profession—Jeff's profession—and he'd known the constant risks. Now, for the first time, those risks were also Nora's.

The world outside the taxi windows rushed by in a rainy blur, just like the streets she'd run through in her escape from the murder house.
Murder house
—God, what a melodramatic phrase! And yet, that was precisely what it was. Bill Howard slumped in the chair, Vivian in the foyer, and Claudia on the kitchen floor, the tendrils of spaghetti mingling with the tendrils of gray hair around her ruined face…

Before Nora was aware of it, a low, keening moan had escaped her. The cabbie glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She shook the image from her mind and smiled weakly at the eyes in the mirror, then looked out at the lights and the hurrying umbrellas on the sidewalks. She felt damp, and not merely from the rain. The cold clamminess on her face and hands had nothing to do with precipitation. It was fear, plain and simple.

This French traitor, Maurice Dolin, was playing for very high stakes. What had Bill said?
I don't think a hundred million pounds would be out of the question.
For that sort of payoff, Dolin clearly had no qualms about eliminating the families of his perceived enemies—or anyone else who happened to be nearby. His henchmen, Yussuf and Andy Gilbert, were scouring London, looking for her, and she had no illusions about what they'd do to her when they found her. She'd just seen their handiwork.

She tried to remember Maurice Dolin's face from the television, but it was difficult. He'd looked so bland, so perfectly ordinary: a heavyset, balding, middle-aged businessman with a thick mustache and thick glasses. Nora passed a hundred such people on the street every day, graying men in gray suits. But the actor in her knew that the most outrageous personalities could lurk behind the most unassuming façades. That paunchy, jowly Frenchman had just murdered his British equivalent, and he was holding Nora's husband.

The car slowed as it turned into the bustling thoroughfare in Bayswater, and the enormous indoor shopping mall gleamed cheerfully in the rain before them.

“Right here is fine,” Nora said to the driver, and he pulled over to the curb. She fumbled with the British money in her wallet, adding a tip that was nearly as much as the fare, which garnered her a heartfelt “Cheers!” from the front seat. By the time she emerged from the cab, three laughing young women in sparkling minidresses under their raincoats were politely pushing past her and tumbling into it.

Nora smiled perfunctorily at the women, thinking, Normal life. The real world. They'd just had a girls-only dinner, no doubt, and now they were off to a party or a dance club, whereas she must make contact with a secret agent, tell him about the
stiffs
in St. John's Wood, then figure out how to find someone named Laura so the
fuzz
could close in for the
collar.
If it weren't so macabre, it would be funny.

She checked the addresses on the nearest buildings to see which way the numbers ran, then walked along the busy sidewalk, bent forward under her umbrella, acutely aware of the wet, huddled bodies barging past her. Everyone was hurrying to get out of the downpour, everyone but her; she was hurrying for another reason. His building wouldn't be much farther now—

She halted at the corner near the entrance to the Queensway Underground station, peering through the rain at the scene before her, halfway down the next block: flashing blue lights and a gathering crowd in front of a seven-story apartment building. She stared, waiting impatiently for the light at the crosswalk, feeling the first thrill of anxiety. Was that Craig's building? It might be. The light changed, and she ran across the street, wincing as a loud siren wail approached from behind her.

An ambulance sped past her and skidded to a stop near the clutch of police cars. A lone bobby stood in the intersection she'd just crossed, stopping all vehicular traffic with sharp blasts of his whistle and rerouting it away down a side street. As Nora neared the building, three blue-clad paramedics burst out of the ambulance and ran inside, wheeling a gurney between them. She arrived at the back edge of the crowd that stood, gaping and chattering excitedly, on the sidewalk.

Two women were beside her in the throng, huddled together under their umbrellas, staring with the others. One of them pointed at the activity and turned to her companion.

“I asked the officer why we couldn't go inside, and he said they had to remove the body first.
Body!
Dear Lord, Tim and I have lived here eight years now and never anything like this in the building! They say it's flat three on the first floor—you know him, Beryl, that nice young man, Mr. Elder, the dishy chap what's always pleasant and saying ‘Good day.' Oh dear, what a shame if it's him!”

“Calm yourself, Flo,” her companion said. “We don't know what's happened yet. They'll let us in directly, and then we can find out what's really—”

Nora took a step back from the clutch of people. She stared at the entrance to the building another moment, then turned and retraced her steps to the intersection. So, they'd found Craig Elder, and in the thirty minutes or so since she'd spoken to him on the phone. They'd lain in wait for him, caught him at home as he returned with his takeout dinner. Craig Elder, that kind young man, her last hope.

Her first, overwhelming instinct was to get out of here, and the Underground entrance across the street was her best bet. But where could she go? Not her husband's place, and not the Byron Hotel. Yussuf had people watching it.

She paused at the corner, thinking. The Byron Hotel. Lonny Tindall. If she could get in touch with him, perhaps he could help her. Yes, Lonny would think of something, somewhere for her to go; he was so clever and resourceful. She crossed the street and hurried toward the subway entrance.

She didn't make it. She was a few yards from the doorway when her arm was seized from behind in a powerful grip. She gasped and whirled around. When she saw who had grabbed her, she nearly fainted, first in surprise and then in relief.

It was Craig Elder, back from the dead. And he didn't look happy about it.

“Craig!”
Nora cried. She dropped her umbrella on the sidewalk and threw her arms around his neck. “I thought you were—”

“No,” he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace and bending down to pick up her umbrella. “It wasn't me. Come on, we have to get out of here. Someone could see us.”

He grasped her hand and pulled her away from the bright lights at the Underground entrance, around the corner, and down a side street. She hurried along beside him, straining to keep up, the rain stinging her skin as they moved. He was wearing a dark raincoat with the collar up and a black watchman's cap pulled low over his brow. She could barely see his face, only his stricken eyes and scowling lips.

“In here,” he said, stopping abruptly on the sidewalk. “We can talk here.” He led her through a doorway into a pub.

Nora looked around the room, checking for enemies. It was quiet and warm with dim lighting, a long bar, and several tables and booths crowded into the snug space. Not many people here on this rainy evening: a lone drinker at the bar, a young couple necking at one table, and two middle-aged men with pints at another. An older woman with bleached blond hair and too much makeup lounged behind the counter, staring up at the flat-screen television on the wall above her. An announcer's face filled the screen above the legend:
W
IMBLEDON
R
AIN
D
ELAY
.

Craig led her over to a booth in the farthest, darkest corner and then went up to the bar. Nora took off her coat and slid into the booth, facing the room, shaking the rain from her hair. She fished for her compact and inspected her face, unsurprised to see the dazed expression in her eyes. The house, the bodies, running through the night, the taxi, the police cars, the ambulance, the stretcher—and then Craig, dead but not dead, materializing from nowhere and grabbing her arm. She took in several breaths and exhaled slowly, willing herself to relax. By the time Craig returned with two brandy snifters, her heartbeat had slowed to something like normal.

“Drink this,” he said. “You look like you could use it. She's bringing us tea.” He removed the coat and hat and slid in across from her. “I've never been in here before, and I don't see anyone from my building. We should be okay for a while.”

Nora sipped, then coughed as the strong liquor seared her throat. Craig downed his in one gulp and fell back against the banquette. She was surprised to see tears in his eyes.

“They killed Wendy,” he said. “They killed my girl. I went out to get some food, Japanese takeaway, just down the road. I was only gone for—” He broke off, slamming a fist down on the scarred wood table.

Nora reached over to cover his fist with her hand. “Who? Who did this, do you know?”

He shook his head. “I only copped bits and pieces from the crowd in the street. They said a neighbor—old Mrs. Selby, in the flat across from mine—heard a commotion, a man shouting, and Wendy screamed. Mrs. Selby is in her eighties; she doesn't move very fast. She finally got to her door and peeked out into the hall. The door to my flat was wide open, and she saw—she saw Wendy lying there on the floor, and she called the police. I was in the restaurant—I talked to you while they made up my order—and when I got back onto the street, I saw the crowds and the police cars. The people were saying— The word was going round that it must be the boyfriend, the man who lives in the flat.
Me!
I—I got the hell out of there before one of my neighbors saw me.” Another shake of his head, then a shrug. “Someone's going to find a bag of sushi there on the walk—I must have dropped it when I took off…”

“Oh, Craig!” Nora said. “Why did you run? Why didn't you tell the police what you were—”

“Tell them
what
?” he cried. He glanced around the pub and lowered his voice. “Don't you see, Nora? I can't tell them anything. My girl was killed by terrorists? I work in national security? Who's going to believe me? Everything we're doing, everything we've
been
doing—none of it is official. The only person on earth who can vouch for me is Bill Howard, and unless I mistook your message on the phone, Bill Howard is dead. Is that right, Nora? Did they kill
him
too?”

Nora couldn't bear the look in his eyes. She turned away, gazing off across the dark room. The lovers were still at it, but everyone else in the pub was clearly impatient for the matches to begin again on the television. The rain delay banner was still on the screen; they were showing highlights of earlier games to fill the void in the interim.

“Yes,” she whispered at last, and she began to weep again. “Bill is dead, and Vivian, and Claudia. They killed all of them. The blood was—it was horrible.”

Craig leaned forward, studying her face. “Where were you, Nora? I mean, why are you—” He broke off there, apparently unwilling to say it aloud:
Why are you still alive?

She told him everything as quickly and succinctly as she could, using a napkin to wipe her tears away as she spoke. She began with the events of the afternoon, the conversation she'd overheard in Leicester Square and her trip to her husband's flat. Then she took him through the entire incident at Vivian's house. He already knew about Maurice Dolin's disappearance and what it probably meant, and he wasn't surprised by it. He'd had his suspicions about Dolin for a while, he said, but he'd been unwilling to share them with Bill Howard because the two men were such old friends. When she got to the part where the doorbell rang as she was about to leave the house, he raised a hand to stop her.

“Okay,” he said. “Does anyone else know about all this?”

“No,” Nora assured him. “But it's just a matter of time now. That little boy, Shane Garson, must have told his mother that no one answered his ring. She's a friend of Claudia's. She'll certainly be suspicious and—”

He held up his hand again. “We can't worry about that now, because we can't do anything about it. If she calls the police, then they'll know. We have bigger worries now. Whoever killed Wendy was there looking for me, and judging from the timing, it could be the same person who was at the Howards' house. They came to me from there, which means they're still after me. And they're definitely after you too. We have to get somewhere safe, now, someplace where we can rest awhile. Then we can try to figure out what to do about—”

“ 'Ere you are, luv!” A heavy tray was suddenly plunked down on the table between them, bearing a teapot, cups, and a plate of shortbread cookies. The barmaid stood above them, grinning down. They both looked up at her, and Nora forced a smile to her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“C'n I get you anythin' else?” The woman seemed eager to please, taking special care with her few customers on this wet night.

“No, thank you, this is fine,” Nora said. With a smile and a nod, the woman bustled away. Nora poured tea for both of them, and Craig drained his cup and asked for more. She was pouring it for him when she glanced over at the room. At the television. The teapot clattered down on the table.

“Look!” she whispered.

Now, above the Wimbledon rain delay banner, the screen was filled with the legend,
B
REAKING
N
EWS:
M
URDER IN
B
AYSWATER
. The legend was replaced by footage of the activity in front of the apartment building. The woman who'd just served them was watching it too.

“Cor, that's just round the corner f'm 'ere!” she cried, and everyone in the bar turned to see. The woman picked up a remote from the counter and aimed. The newscaster's voice filled the room.

“—haven't yet disclosed the identity of the victim of the strangling, a young woman, but they are interested in speaking with the resident of the flat, a man named Craig Elder.”

The photo that appeared on the screen was an old one, perhaps from his high school days. Craig had long hair, nearly to his shoulders, and a thick mustache. He was grinning self-consciously into the camera. Nora looked from the image on the screen to the man across from her, assessing him. He looked quite different now, with his buzz cut and clean-shaven face. Older, of course, and much more self-assured than the callow young man in the picture. No, she definitely wouldn't connect the two faces in her mind. She held her breath, hoping that the barmaid wasn't preternaturally observant.

Apparently not. As the breaking story ended and the tennis footage returned, the woman shook her head, crossed herself, switched off the sound of the TV, and began pouring fresh pints for the two older men. Even so, Nora thought as she gulped down her tea, it was best not to stick around here.

Craig clearly agreed. He was already out of his seat, reaching for his coat. She stood and did the same.

“I need you to fetch the car,” he said. “The brown Focus. It's parked in the street, a few doors past my building.” He pulled a key ring from his pocket and handed it to her. “This key is for the Focus, the other is for my car, but that's in a garage and they might be watching it. And we'd best not chance taxis or buses or the Underground; the drivers will all have my snap by now. I'll wait here till you pull round.”

“Right,” Nora said. She shouldered her bag and headed for the door while Craig paid the hostess. The news report had shaken her, and not merely for the obvious reasons. It had reminded her of the television in the dining room at the French guesthouse yesterday morning, with the security camera photo of her in the cemetery in Pinède. It also reminded her of the scene earlier this evening, at Vivian's house, watching the newscast about Maurice Dolin with her friends. Minutes later, her friends had been shot at point-blank range while she was upstairs, mere yards away from the assassin. Three times in two days, now, bad news had arrived by television, as if it were some modern, electronic version of the running messengers in those Greek plays she'd studied in drama school.
My lords, the king is dead, and Thebes is fallen
…

Outside the pub, the rain was coming down harder than before, and she couldn't control the trembling in her hands. She'd have to drive the car back here in a near-blinding downpour. She was under the awning, tying a scarf over her hair and fumbling with her umbrella, when it occurred to her that she'd never driven in England before. The steering wheel was on the right, and she'd have to stay on the left side of the street. Everything would be backward. Dear God…

Bracing herself, she set off toward the main road. She rounded the corner onto Queensway and walked toward Craig's building, peering through the rain at the spot where the crowds had been. The ambulance was gone, but two police cars were still there, double-parked, blue lights flashing. The officers and detectives would be in Craig's flat upstairs, gathering evidence at what was now a crime scene. Only three or four curious onlookers remained in a cluster near the doorway, huddled under umbrellas, watching the comings and goings of the officials. She was walking past them, directly in front of the building, when she saw one face she recognized. He stood apart from the others, no more than eight feet away from her, and he wasn't looking into the lobby like everyone else. He was glancing up and down the street as though he was waiting for someone, and Nora had no doubt whom that someone was.

Andy Gilbert, all six and a half feet and two hundred fifty pounds of him, was waiting for Craig Elder to come home so he could finish the job he'd been sent here to do.

Nora turned her face away from him, looking out into the street, grateful that she'd stopped long enough to cover her head with the scarf. She moved more quickly as she escaped down the sidewalk, searching for the brown Ford Focus. Get to the car, she told herself; get to the car and drive away before he notices me. There's the Focus, just ahead in the row of vehicles parked at the curb. Get to the car and—

She aimed the key ring and clicked it, then opened the door and got inside. She pulled off the scarf and dropped it in her bag. The steering column was at the other end of the dashboard, of course, so she clambered across into the driver's seat. As she turned the key in the ignition, she looked out through the rainy windshield to see Andy Gilbert looking in her direction, and she saw his eyes widen in recognition as he spotted her.

Then he was running toward her.