“I’m dreadfully sorry,” McKitterick said. “We’re quite fond of Sir Nigel. The British Museum wouldn’t have those delightful Syrian artifacts without him. We owe him a debt of gratitude.”
She swallowed. “What happened?”
“The consulate in Sofia will have more details. I assumed you’d want to get to your uncle straightaway. I’m sending a driver to your flat. He’ll have your tickets and itinerary, of course, but I’d like to go over it quickly.” He paused. “Are you still there, Miss Clifford?”
“Barely.”
“You’ve got a seven thirty-five flight out of Heathrow. You’ll arrive in Sofia before noon. Someone from the consulate will drive you to the station and make sure you get on the correct train to Kardzhali. You’ll be staying at the Hotel Ustra. Is this all right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I can’t talk. I—” She hung up, then fell face first against the bed and burst into tears. Last spring, she had hurt Uncle Nigel horribly when she’d dropped out of King’s College to become a tour guide—an odd career path for a Ph.D. candidate in medieval history, but she’d leaped at the chance to leave her uncle’s stone house in Oxford. All her friends were either engaged or married, and some had babies on the way.
Caro had desperately wanted to be on her own for a while, but when Uncle Nigel had learned of her plans, he’d developed chest pains. She’d slipped a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue and blamed her decision on yet another disastrous romance—which was true, but not exactly surprising, considering she couldn’t keep a boyfriend longer than two seconds. After much cajoling, her uncle had arranged for her to move into a Covent Garden flat, saddling her with a roommate who lived on sunflower seeds and indulged in biweekly seaweed wraps at a salon around the corner.
Uncle Nigel had made sure Caro’s name wasn’t in the phone book or even on the mailbox. Even her friends had trouble finding her. During her weekly visits to her uncle’s house, he’d claim that Dinah the cat was pining herself into an early grave over Caro’s absence, and then he’d lift the corpulent feline, grunting with the effort, and say, “Nothing but fur and bones.”
He can’t be dead, she thought, dabbing her eyes on the pillowcase. She slid off the bed and began digging through her closet. The few clothes she owned had been bought at the secondhand store. What was the temperature in southern Bulgaria? Cold. It would be icy and cold. She pulled her plaid duffel bag from the shelf and started packing. She’d just slipped into tattered jeans and a striped purple sweater when her bedroom door opened and Phoebe stuck her head through the crack.
“Sorry to wake you.” Caro bit her lip. “I was going to leave a note.”
“Why? What’s happened?” Phoebe frowned at the duffel bag.
“Uncle Nigel. He—” Caro couldn’t say the words. Three impossible words: He was murdered. She opened a drawer, pulled out a black sweater, and tossed it into the bag. Finally, she managed a terse, “He passed away.”
Phoebe’s tiny hand slid around Caro’s waist, and the lemony scent of Eau d’Hadrien drifted between them: Phoebe’s trademark scent. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Was it his heart?”
Before Caro could answer, the intercom buzzed in the hallway. “That’s my ride,” Caro said.
“I’ll tell him you’re on your way.” Phoebe hurried out of the room.
Caro stood on her toes and reached for the Byzantine icon that hung over her desk. It had belonged to her parents. She traced delicate art. A saint stood at the center, her dark hair streaming down the front of the burgundy robe. She held an ostrich egg in one hand, a gilt-edged book in the other. A bleeding man lay at her feet while the night sky stretched over a vineyard, a castle, and a monk in the distance. Uncle Nigel had attached rules to this relic. If she traveled outside the U.K., the icon went with her. “Keep it with you at all times,” he’d said. “No matter how inconvenient. You don’t want a hotel maid to nick it, do you?” Caro hadn’t questioned him. It was as if she were protecting her parents, keeping them with her. She wrapped the icon in a plastic dry-cleaning wrapper and slid it into the duffel bag.
“All set?” Phoebe called.
“Just about.” Caro shoved a red hat over her hair, grabbed her mittens, and slung her bag over her shoulder. Phoebe was waiting beside the front door. She straightened Caro’s hat.
“There you go. Much better. If you’d stop spinning for two minutes and fix yourself up, you’d find a boyfriend.”
Caro waved her hand. Her last boyfriend had specialized in Jack the Ripper tours and couldn’t seem to get enough of her. That is, until he was suddenly distracted by a Soho waitress. A wise move on his part, really, since everyone Caro loved ended up dead.
“Call me,” Phoebe said.
Caro hurried down the stairs and out the front door. A black Jaguar waited by the curb, its windshield wipers ticking back and forth. The door swung open and a portly driver climbed out. Rain drummed against his umbrella as he escorted Caro to the car. She had started to duck into the backseat when she heard her name being called. The sound was coming from across the street. She turned. A man with a dark ponytail stepped away from a blue Range Rover and came toward the Jaguar.
“Miss Clifford?” he called again. One good thing about tour guiding: She had perfected the art of barely glancing at a person and compiling a profile. Tall. Broad shoulders. Athletic build. Early thirties. Dimpled cheeks. Cut-glass British accent. His eyes were an unnerving shade of blue. Rain slid down his ponytail, streaming down a chocolate leather jacket.
“Yes, what is it?” Caro asked.
“Don’t talk to him, Miss Clifford,” the embassy driver cried, shielding her with the umbrella. “He’s with the paparazzi.”
“I am not,” the ponytailed guy said. “I only need a moment with Miss Clifford.”
“Off with you or I’ll ring the police,” the driver said, waving the umbrella. He guided Caro into the backseat, shut the door with a flourish, then climbed into the car. Muttering to himself, he handed Caro her tickets and itinerary. As he steered away from the curb, the Jaguar was nearly broadsided by a white Citroën van.
“Blooming punk!” Her driver hunched over the wheel and eased the car into Bow Street.
Caro glanced out the window. The guy with the ponytail stood in the middle of the road. He was a little too handsome, the type of man who usually ignored her and chased after Phoebe. Caro forced herself to look away and sank down in the seat. Uncle Nigel had just died and she was analyzing a reporter’s looks. How sick was that? Her throat tightened and she couldn’t catch her breath. She’d never had a panic attack, but this was exactly how she’d imagined one might feel. She burst into huge, racking sobs.
“You poor dear,” the driver said, and held out a box of tissues.
“Thanks.” She pulled out a sheet and blotted her eyes.
“Take the lot,” he said. “I’ve a feeling you’ll be needing them.”
The Jaguar turned onto the Strand, sped by the Charing Cross station, and looped through Trafalgar Square. She glanced down at her tickets. Today was November 29. Last week, Uncle Nigel had called from Kardzhali, Bulgaria. “I’ll be home on the twenty-eighth. Let’s have tea on November twenty-ninth.”
“I have to work,” she’d said. She felt lucky to have a job after the Waterloo debacle.
“It’s rather important or I wouldn’t ask,” he’d said. “I want you to meet a chap from Switzerland. If it’s all right, he’ll stop by your flat and bring you to Oxford. Say about two-ish?”
“You’re matchmaking,” she’d cried, instantly suspicious.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He’d chuckled. “It’s not a romantic conspiracy.”
Right, she’d thought, smiling. He’d thrived on code breaking and conspiracies.
Surely the ponytailed man wasn’t the man Uncle Nigel had mentioned. No, not likely. The fellow wouldn’t have shown up at five A.M. for a two o’clock date. Besides, he’d spoken with a British accent.
Caro
pressed her forehead against the glass and imagined her uncle cutting through Green Park, hurrying to St. James Place. She saw the wind tugging his tweed coat as he dashed into the Athenaeum Club. He was everywhere and nowhere, striding ahead of her, just out of reach.
CHAPTER 2
Moose Tipper parked the white Citroën at the end of Bow Street. He turned off his mobile phone and tossed it into the glove compartment. Then he leaned back in his seat and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, matching the rhythm to a U2 song that was playing on the radio.
He smiled into the rearview mirror. “Hello, love,” he told himself. His teeth were the color of slate shingles. He started picking at them when a man with a ponytail walked past the van and climbed into a blue Range Rover. It had a Heathrow sticker, a hired car.
Moose pushed his face against the window for a better look, but the car blasted down the road and turned the corner. With a great sigh, he pulled away from the curb, did a U-turn, and steered the van into a parking slot in front of a redbrick Edwardian. Light pooled down from a fourth-story bay window. The bird’s window. She was still awake, most likely from his phone calls.
He exhaled, his breath barely frosting the glass, and studied the building. No security cameras. No doorman. A bit unusual for a posh neighborhood. He loathed how the rich congregated in ritzy-fitzy buildings, insulating themselves from people like himself. This building was close to the theater district, the flats occupied by toffee noses. He’d like to throw the lot of them into the Thames. After he’d drained their blood, of course.
It was time to kidnap the bird. He shut off the engine, reached for his burglar bag, and uncoiled from the van. He huddled on the porch as the rain battered the canvas awning. Mr. Underwood, the head of security at Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals, had told him to chloroform the bird and take her to the laboratory in Hammersmith. If witnesses were about and he couldn’t kidnap the bird, he’d have to collect the DNA samples right there in her flat.
“You want a blood or saliva test?” Moose had asked.
“Neither,” Underwood said. “You’ll need to perform a bone marrow aspiration.”
“That’s a bit over the top for a DNA test.” Moose frowned.
“Just do it,” Underwood snapped. “The girl might be Mr. Wilkerson’s daughter.”
“Crikey.” Moose licked each fingertip, as if sending a Morse code message to himself. Harry Wilkerson was the big boss, the owner and CEO of his family’s pharmaceutical company; the man had zero interpersonal skills, yet he’d made billions, mainly by eliminating fiscal waste—and his competition, too, but what the hell. So why did old Harry want a bone marrow aspiration when a simple paternity test would suffice? Before Moose had become one of Wilkerson’s operatives, he’d worked briefly in the Hammersmith lab as a phlebotomist, so he knew about hematology and all that rubbish. Then again, what the bloody hell did it matter? As long as Moose received his paycheck and daily transfusions, he shouldn’t complain.
“Anything else, guv’nor?” he’d asked Underwood.
“Don’t kill her,” the little man said. “And don’t drink her blood.”
“No problem.” Moose shrugged. Like he’d want to feed from Wilkerson’s offspring. That would be a poisoned well, wouldn’t it, mate? Underwood gave him a snapshot of the girl, but it had slipped out of Moose’s pocket. He remembered she was blond and pretty. Just his type.
Now he studied the brass nameplates beside the massive black door. The plates were lined up in two rows and each one had a corresponding buzzer. He couldn’t find one with the bird’s name, so he pushed the lot, hoping one or more of the wankers would buzz him in.
They didn’t.
Moose jimmied the door with a penknife and swaggered into the lobby. It smelled sweet, with rusty undertones. He pulled disposable booties over his shoes and hurried up the stairs. Each floor had the same dark wooden walls and crystal sconces. He took the steps two at a time. His satchel banged against his right leg, and he pressed his wide palm against it to silence the rattling. The bird would have to live on the top floor, but the rich went for rooftop gardens and sweeping views, didn’t they?
Number 4-D stood at the end of a long paneled hall. The black door had a peephole. He moved toward it, pausing beside the sconces to unscrew the hot lightbulbs.
Burned fingertips weren’t part of his job description. Many things weren’t. He didn’t like to burgle; his talents lay elsewhere: kidnappings, tracking, extortion, and assassinations. Danger gave him an adrenaline rush that made him feel alive. Moose thought of himself as a BBBS: a brilliant body bag specialist. Not to brag. It was the truth. Even with a bloody obsessive-compulsive disorder, he was top notch—better than the Zuba brothers.
Outside 4-D, he opened his satchel and pulled on a surgical cap, tucking his wavy red hair inside. Next, he pulled on latex gloves and a paper scrub suit. Wilkerson had a “leave no DNA behind” policy. If you didn’t leave it, you weren’t there. Moose whistled under his breath as he uncapped a black pen and inked over the peephole. Then he leaned close to the door and meowed. This was his most brilliant talent: He could mimic any voice, but he excelled at cats and crying babies. Rich birds were pushovers for mewling kittens.
Before he had time to put the marker away, the girl opened the door and let out a squeak. Clearly she’d expected to find a cat, not a large man in surgical attire. But oh, she was lovely, a wee, wispy thing with golden hair. She didn’t resemble Wilkerson, not in the least. So maybe she wasn’t his daughter, after all.
She glared at Moose, tugging on the edges of her pink flannel jim-jams. “I heard a kitty,” she said.
He meowed. She started to slam the door, but he lunged into the flat. His satchel banged to the floor as he clamped his hand over her mouth. With his other hand, he steered her down the narrow hall. Her muffled screams annoyed him.
“Shut your cake hole. I won’t hurt you,” he said.
She screamed louder and flailed upward. Her nails scraped down the surgical gown. She twisted, and the pink jim-jams showed her ribs. He dragged her into the living room. No flatmate. No lover. Just him and her. Maybe he could tie her to the bed and slip her a length. As long as he didn’t kill her or drink her blood, he could do as he pleased. He’d brought a condom, just in case.
Her eyes bulged, the lids quivering. She reminded him of his mother-in-law, little and toothy. “You’re a cheeky one,” he said, and she screamed into his hand. He smelled her terror. Something pattered against the carpet, and he saw a damp stain spread on her pajama bottoms. A stench rose up.
“Blinking hell, darling. You’ve pissed yourself.”
Keeping one hand over her foghorn mouth, he dragged her toward the bedroom. She kicked over a lamp, then knocked the phone off the hook. Her sharp little teeth sank through his gloved hand, into his fleshy palm. He winced. Crikey, he hadn’t been bitten in a while. Human bites were germy. You could lose your arm to a human bite. But at least she hadn’t drawn blood. She needed a good seeing-to. The chloroform was in the satchel and the satchel was beside the door and he’d left the bloody door wide open.
The moment he released her, she scrambled away. He jerked her back. Her teeth caught his thumb and clamped down. One of her hands flapped up, a wren trying to escape the hawk, and her claws lodged in his hair. He heard a ripping sound, felt a wrenching ache. Stupid little bird. Now he’d have to spend the rest of the night hoovering. He couldn’t leave his DNA or he’d be in the clink.
One thing at a time, mate. First, make her stop biting.
He slid his other thumb into the side of her mouth, feeling around her molars for an empty space. This was what he did with fighting dogs. It made them quit biting, although sometimes it broke their jaws.
She grabbed another handful of his hair and yanked it out. A scalding pain ran through his skull, searing vessels and nerves, and pooled behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his elbow against her chin. The bone made a crackling noise, as if he’d dropped a porcelain bowl.
Her fingers opened and wiry, red filaments floated between them, each strand bearing a chunk of Moose’s scalp.
He spread her body on the floor and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Her pupils were dilating, the irises filling with black. She wasn’t breathing, either.
“Stone the crows,” he muttered. He’d broken her flipping neck. Now what? Should he call Mr. Underwood? Here it was, the worst-case scenario. He supposed it didn’t matter now whether he tasted her.
Moose strode into the hall, gathered his satchel, and slammed the door. He hurried back to the bird and hunkered beside her body. He peeled up the jim-jam top. The movement set her creamy breasts to quivering. He’d seen better. Not that it mattered. Not now. As his gaze moved up to her throat, his mouth watered. He pushed his teeth into her carotid artery. Just a little sip, that’s all, a sip. The blood was still warm, but it wasn’t pumping.
A while later, he remembered the bone marrow test.
The needle was sharp and hollow, roughly the size of a lead pencil. He fit it onto a syringe, aimed it between the girl’s breasts, and pressed down. It was like pushing a screwdriver into soft wood. He pulled back on the plunger, but nothing came out. It was easy to go through the bone, so he retracted the needle a millimeter. The syringe filled with dark, venous blood, swirling like dark burgundy with bits of floating cork. Moose studied the white specks. Marrow. Each piece was no bigger than a grain of kosher salt.
He squirted a little fluid onto his tongue. AB negative, the rarest of the rare, with a hint of copper. He capped the needle and eyed the bird. What a pity to let all this blood go to waste—it wasn’t like she needed it, did she? He grabbed a handful of syringes and bent closer to the girl. While he drained her, he couldn’t decide if he should sell the blood or add it to his private collection.
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 2
