by Kris Langman
At the corner of London Wall and Bishopsgate they stopped to wait for the light. Over the passing traffic, Anne noticed that a construction site which had blocked the sidewalk for the past three months was now cleared. With the scaffolding gone a tiny stone church could be seen. It was barely twenty feet wide, and not much taller. Its roman-arched entrance was hung with a brand new wooden door painted bright blue. A bell tower no bigger than a toaster perched atop its slate roof. As they crossed the street and passed by the church Anne glanced at the sign posted on its door: St. Ethelberga’s, built in 1236. A gigantic shadow loomed over the miniscule building. Anne looked up. The City’s newest skyscraper, Sir Norman Foster’s project at 30 St. Mary Axe. Tiny St. Ethelberga’s looked like an ant about to be crushed underfoot. Anne could sympathize.
When they reached Chez Gerard the doctor held the door open. Lindsey gave him a grateful smile as she passed. Anne ignored him. The room they entered was corporate-cozy, with blond wood paneling and small, wobbly tables set too close together. The clientele was dominated by blue suits, with an occasional black pantsuit scattered here and there. When the maitre d’ approached them Dr. Davidson stepped forward and asked to have a look at what tables were available. Only three were empty, all about the same as far as Anne could tell, but the doctor took his time choosing one. Anne curbed an impulse to roll her eyes. When the choice had finally been made she pulled off her parka and sat down quickly, snatching up a menu. She focused on it, trying to ignore the way the doctor was helping Lindsey off with her trench coat. His hands were going places not really necessary, but Lindsey didn’t seem to mind. Anne heard a stifled giggle and ducked even lower behind her menu.
“The steaks here are very good,” said the doctor to Anne when he finally sat down. “It’s a specialty of theirs.”
“I know,” snapped Anne, feeling like a rebellious child but unable to help herself. “I’m going with the grilled chicken.”
“That sounds good. I’ll have that too,” said Lindsey, smiling at Anne.
Anne gave her a brief smile in return.
“Well, I’m sticking with my usual, the Chateaubriand,” said the doctor.
Anne surreptitiously checked prices. The Chateaubriand was the most expensive thing on the menu. Typical. A remark Lindsey had made several weeks ago, about the doctor getting most of his lunches from Pret A Manger, popped into her mind. It had seemed so out of character – getting takeaway lunches. The doctor’s persona practically screamed three martini lunch – but she hadn’t given it much thought at the time. Now it occurred to her that his eating takeaway lunches at his desk might indicate money problems. If he’d been blackmailing Jimmy Soames then that source of income had died with Jimmy. Anne wondered if the doctor was in the process of making another bid on the Soames money. Possibly from Daniel, but more likely from Lady Soames.
“Do I have something on my face? Ink? A speck of dried shaving cream perhaps?”
“What?” Anne asked with a start.
“You’ve been staring at me as if I were a particularly fascinating animal at the zoo,” said Dr. Davidson. “Or a particularly repellant one,” he added with his closed-lipped smile.
“I . . .sorry. I didn’t realize I was staring.” Anne could feel her face turning red, and was grateful that the waiter chose that moment to take their order. She pulled her chair in closer, making room for a couple who were trying to get past to their table. All the tables in the restaurant were now full and the conversational hum amped up another notch.
“I’m glad you decided to join us,” the doctor began, raising his voice slightly to compensate for the din. “Lady Soames has been asking about you, wondering if you’ve done what she requested. You’ve probably noticed that she can be a bit demanding. She’s gotten it into her head that I have some influence with you.”
“She’d be wrong,” Anne said flatly, looking up from the spot on the tablecloth she’d been studying.
The doctor smiled faintly. “I tried to tell her as much, but she’s having none of it. She is insisting that I convince you to go to the police. She’s worried about Daniel. The evidence against him is beginning to pile up.”
Lindsey frowned and glanced from Anne to the doctor. “Go to the police? What are you talking about?”
Anne hesitated while the waiter set their drinks down. The doctor took up his glass of Bordeaux, watching her over the rim as he sipped. Anne could practically smell the manipulation. He was forcing her hand, setting it up so that she had no choice but to bring Lindsey deeper into this mess. Anne made what she knew was a useless attempt at deflection.
“Lindsey, I’ve been meaning to ask you how that bid on the Halifax work is going. Do you think we’ll get the contract?”
“Don’t you change the subject Miss,” said Lindsey, waving a finger at Anne in mock anger. “What is this about going to the police?”
Anne sighed and rubbed her right eye, which was starting to twitch. “Do you remember Daniel Soames? The guy who came to see me at the office, the one you didn’t like?”
“Sure,” said Lindsey. “The cokehead.”
Dr. Davidson chuckled.
“It’s kind of complicated, but basically his brother was murdered about a month ago and the police think Daniel killed him. For reasons I can’t fathom, his mother – this Lady Soames – thinks I have some knowledge about the murder. She's concocted this story in her head about her son mixing with drug dealers, and thinks I know all about it.”
“You?” asked Lindsey in surprise. “Why would you know anything about it?”
“I don’t know anything about it. That’s my point. A point I’ve tried to make to Lady Soames, with no success.”
“Lady Soames has already spoken to the police, you know,” said Dr. Davidson with the air of a man saving the best for last. “To an Inspector Beckett. She’s given them your name and insisted that they talk to you. I believe she even threatened to call the head of Scotland Yard if they didn’t. And that’s not an idle threat. She knows him personally. He’s been a guest at their estate in Kent several times.”
“She’s mixing up her police forces,” said Anne. “Inspector Beckett works for the City of London police, not Scotland Yard.”
“That hardly matters and you know it,” said the doctor dismissively. “Lady Soames has gotten it into her head that you can be useful in getting Daniel out of this mess. I suggest you do what she wants. She’s prepared to call everyone, up to and including the Queen, in order to see that you do.”
“I wonder,” said Anne, doodling invisible lines on the tablecloth with her fork.
“Wonder what?” asked the doctor.
Anne raised her head up slowly until she was looking him in the eye. “I wonder who put the idea into Lady Soames’ head. This idea that I know something about Jimmy’s murder. It makes no sense. You know it, and I know it, yet she seems obsessed with it. The idea seems planted. By one of her friends perhaps.”
There. Lindsey was taking a sip of her Chardonnay and missed it, but Anne saw it clearly, brief though it was. A flash of anger had cracked the doctor’s mask-like face. Anne wondered how much this lunch was going to cost her.
Chapter Fifteen
Anne noticed the difference at once. The morning after their lunch at Chez Gerard she was walking to work when she saw Lindsey a few yards ahead. Lindsey’s normal gait was the energetic, confident glide of a woman who looked good and knew it. Today the black trench coat was as dashing as ever, the shoes as high and spike-heeled, but something was off. Lindsey’s usual ramrod posture was collapsed in on itself. Her head drooped, her shoulders were hunched, her feet dragged. Anne felt a tiny pit of fear open in her stomach. She hurried forward.
“Lindsey, wait.”
Lindsey turned, but didn’t flash her usual 100-watt smile.
“What’s the matter?” asked Anne, dreading the answer.
Lindsey didn’t reply. She turned away, but Anne caught the sight of tears forming. She reached out a hand a
nd awkwardly patted Lindsey on the shoulder. “Tell me.”
“Last night,” Lindsey began, sniffing slightly, “when I got home from work . . .”
“Yes?” said Anne, wishing Lindsey would hurry up and spit it out, as she was imagining all sorts of horrible things and surely the truth was less horrible than the fiction.
“The door to my flat was open. I just froze. I didn’t know what to do. I should have gone to a neighbor’s and called the police. I know that now, of course. Isn’t that always the way? The right thing to do occurs to you way after the fact, when it’s too late. Anyway, I just stood there for what seemed like half an hour, then I snuck in as if I was the thief - that’s what I thought it was - a burglary. I expected to see all my furniture overturned, my grandma’s Waterford vase smashed on the floor, my TV missing, but the place looked just like it always looks. Nothing was disturbed. I started to wonder if maybe my landlord had let himself in – maybe there’d been an emergency, a gas leak or something – when I heard the noise. My bedroom closet has a sliding door which rattles when you move it. It’s a distinctive sound, not part of the usual creaks and groans of the building. And it doesn’t happen on its own. Someone has to slide the door.”
“Oh my god Lindsey. Are you saying that someone was still in your flat?”
“I think so. No, I know so. Someone was in the bedroom closet.” Lindsey dug into her purse and pulled out a soggy Kleenex. “I ran out of there so fast, you can’t imagine. I banged on Mrs. Hudson’s door – she lives in the flat below me – but she wasn’t home. Mr. McCann lives right above me, but I would have had to go back past my front door and there was just no way, so I ran outside and tried the building next door. I’d never met the lady who answered, but she was very nice. She fed me tea and biscuits and called the police. They came pretty quickly and searched my flat and the rest of the building, but they didn’t find anyone. They did take some footprint impressions from the carpet. They said there was a set of footprints made by a man’s shoes. John – Dr. Davidson – had been over Wednesday night, but he wears a size eight and these were size sevens.”
They reached Britannic House. Lindsey stumbled on the steps, but then seemed to pull herself together. She straightened up and pushed open the heavy glass door to the lobby with some of her usual flair. Anne followed her in. They started up the stairs to the third floor.
“So what happens now?” asked Anne.
“Well, the police dusted my flat for fingerprints. They told me they would call me if they found a match. They also asked me to check with my male friends to see if any of them owned a pair of size seven loafers, but I don’t see what good that will do. I know those footprints weren’t there when I left for work yesterday morning. My carpet’s a pale grey, and footprints really show up on it. They were definitely made by the burglar. Besides, the only man that’s been inside my flat recently is John.”
“And did the police talk to him?” Anne asked as casually as she could.
“Oh yes. Poor guy. They went over to his flat and made him drag out all his shoes. I’d already told them that the size he wears is too big, but they insisted. I guess they were just being thorough.”
When they reached the entrance to the Franklin Group offices Lindsey paused to unlock the door. It was just past 8:00 a.m. and they were the first ones there. The air in the empty reception area was cold. Anne flipped the wall switch for the central heating and Lindsey disappeared into the galley kitchen in the back to start the coffeemaker.
Anne headed down the hall. She absentmindedly turned the light on in her office and sat down at her desk. She stared into space, mulling over Lindsey’s break-in. It could have been just a garden-variety burglary she supposed, but an image had flashed into her mind when Lindsey mentioned footprints. The police had found a set of footprints in front of the pier on the Soames’ estate in Kent, after someone had tried to drown her. The footprints had matched shoes belonging to Daniel Soames.
* * * *
Daniel was back in jail. It hit the newspapers that afternoon. Anne carried the office copy of the Daily Mail back to her desk.
‘Earl’s Son Arrested’ was the headline. The front page was a rehash of Jimmy’s murder. Anne turned to page eight, where the story continued. The reporter indulged in a lengthy description of the wealth of the Soames family, their various holdings in London and Kent, their close ties with the royal family and various Tory MP’s. The story then launched into a lurid detailing of the break-in at Lindsey’s flat, implying that Daniel was stalking ‘a beautiful blonde receptionist barely out of her teens’.
Anne refolded the paper. So, Daniel was again the fall guy, and Dr. Davidson was walking around free as a bird. She felt a sudden reluctance to return to her flat. What if she ran into the doctor in the hallway, or worse, in the lift?
“Hey dudette.”
Anne jumped as Nick bopped into the room, the volume on his iPod turned up so high that she could hear it pulsing. Nick gave her a little wave, then paused uncertainly and pulled off his headphones.
“Dude, you look worried. What gives?”
The concern on his face looked strange. Nick was never alarmed, never worried. Anne had never seen him get upset, not even the time he’d spilled a full cup of hot coffee on his lap (‘Dude, that was like a real eye-opener. I’m more awake now than if I’d drunk the stuff’).
“I’m okay. Really,” she added when Nick continued to look at her worriedly. “Hey, it’s quitting time. Why don’t we get out of here?”
Nick nodded and switched off his computer, grabbing his backpack off the floor. As they passed the reception desk Anne paused. Lindsey appeared to have left for the day. She wondered where Lindsey had gone. Hopefully she was staying with a friend or relative for a while. Anne hated to think of her going back to her flat, with memories of the break-in all too recent.
Nick led the way out of the lobby and they passed out into the cold evening air. As she paused to let a group of people pass by Anne noticed a dark blue Jaguar parked at the entrance to the building, its headlights illuminating the raindrops which were starting to fall. She heard the quiet whir of an automatic window being lowered.
“You’re going to get soaked if you try to walk home. Would you and your friend like a ride?” Dr. Davidson’s pale hair shone in the dark interior of the car like snow under a streetlight.
Nick paused uncertainly, but Anne quickened her pace, not looking at the Jaguar. Nick hurried to catch up.
“Who is that guy?” he asked, his head still turned back towards the parked car.
“My neighbor.”
Nick looked at her doubtfully, waiting for more details. When they weren’t forthcoming he shrugged and walked quietly along by her side. At the entrance to Moorgate tube station Anne stopped.
“Why don’t you duck in here and catch your train, before the rain gets worse? I’ll be fine by myself the rest of the way.”
Nick stared down at her, fat drops of rain carving furrows through his spiky hair. A rivulet of hair gel ran down under the neck of his t-shirt.
“No way dude. Something’s going on. I can tell. I’ve got that ESP thing. I’ll walk you home. It’s no big deal.”
Anne wanted to argue, but she had to admit to herself that she was glad of his company. As they left the shelter of the station’s awning she glanced behind her for the Jaguar. It didn’t appear, but an uneasy certainty that Dr. Davidson would be waiting for her when she went home took hold. As they got closer to her flat Anne’s steps slowed. They were passing a corner pub. Spots of amber light fell on the sidewalk from its leaded windows, laughter floated out the door. Maybe it wasn’t safety, but it was a temporary reprieve. Anne grabbed Nick’s sleeve and tugged him inside.
The red leather seat of the booth creaked as Anne settled in. She took a sip of her Diet Coke, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Nick had polished off a pint of Newcastle Brown and was now in search of any food on offer. A tempting smell of fried cod and chips wafted
toward their table. The warmth of the pub, combined with the rain pounding against the leaded windows, was hypnotic and irresistible. Anne nodded off.
The scrape of a chair against the tiled floor jerked her awake. She yawned and turned to smile at Nick, ready for her share of fish and chips.
“I’m thrilled that you’re so pleased to see me. Quite an unexpected pleasure.” The doctor tossed his cashmere overcoat onto the spot where Nick had been sitting.
Anne froze as if her veins had been injected with ice. Her eyes scanned the room, but Nick was nowhere in sight.
“He’s in the loo. Maybe it’s none of my business, but I have to say he seems a tad young for you. What is he, eighteen, nineteen?”
Anne ignored this, considering escape routes. His chair was blocking her side of the booth. She could scoot all the way around the table and exit from the other end, but it would be awkward and embarrassing. She decided to stay put. It was a public place, lots of people around, and Nick would be back any second.
“You need to leave Lindsey alone,” she blurted out. The act of speaking seemed to unfreeze her limbs. She squared her shoulders and twisted in the booth so that she was facing him.
“Do I,” replied the doctor softly. “And why is that?”
“I know you’ve been in her flat. I’ll tell the police.”
“Of course I’ve been in her flat. She’s invited me over several times. We’re dating. The last time I checked it was still legal in England. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if the Americans had outlawed it.”
Anne took a deep breath before replying. “You hid there yesterday. In the closet. It frightened Lindsey to death.” Her jaw tightened in anger. “She called the police and they found footprints on her carpet. Men’s loafers. Size seven.”
