by Gayle Lynds
At the mirror, she rounded her shoulders and curved in her hips. With the glasses, beret, and square body shape, she looked like a timid schlump, unthreatening to anyone. But was it enough?
There was only one way to find out. She grabbed Sarah’s shoulder bag, dropped the cell inside, and left, preparing herself psychologically to begin another movie.
From the hotel lobby, she slipped into the connected restaurant, which was quiet and unoccupied. Too late for lunch; too early for dinner. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she walked purposefully through to the kitchen and gazed out the round window in the door to the alley.
She did not like what she saw: A burly man was moving garbage cans, working with little enthusiasm. She studied him. He was either lazy or surveilling for someone…the Sûreté, the CIA, the kidnappers…the killers?
She did not want to leave by the front door. The woman on the bench would spot her. There was a garage under the hotel, and she could walk out of there. But if there were surveillance here, there would be surveillance there, and she saw nothing to be gained by delaying the inevitable.
Either her disguise worked or it did not.
She composed herself, shifted her jaw back to make it look smaller, went into her schlump posture, and cracked open the door. A timid mouse, she slid out. With her peripheral vision, she saw him pause, stare.
The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to stand on end as she waited for him to call, to chase, to shoot…. And then she heard a scrape behind her. She looked back. He was moving another garbage can across the cobblestones, his interest in her ended. The disguise had held. Silently she cheered, feeling more confident. This was a decent start to getting back her chops.
As she stepped from the alley, she turned away from the intersection, passing posters slathered against a wall. She did not pause, although one caught her eye. It announced the arrival of the Cirque des Astres—the French traveling circus she and her parents had used for cover years ago. A flood of memories threatened to engulf her. She pushed them aside, saw a taxi, and rushed toward it.
“Je voudrais de Gaulle, s’il vous plaît,” she told the driver.
As she climbed in, she looked back carefully. There was no sign of the woman or of Mac. Still, she was uneasy. She settled at an angle against the seat as the taxi hurtled into traffic, watching for a tail.
Fourteen
Call to Brussels, Belgium
“This is Hyperion.”
“At this early hour? Has something happened? Where are you?”
“En route to my château. I’ve an arrangement to discuss that would be advantageous to both of us, Cronus.”
“You sound certain.”
“Of course. It appears I may be able to tell you who the blackmailer is.”
“Ah! You have my complete attention. Who?”
“Not yet, Cronus. But if things work out the way I expect, I’ll pass along the name soon. There’s a condition, though.”
“And that is?”
“Utter secrecy. No one must know I’m the source. Are those terms agreeable?”
“Interesting. Are you being blackmailed, Hyperion?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Is this blackmailer someone we both know?”
“I’m not going to discuss it. Do we have an understanding?…Cronus? Are you still there?”
“Yes, of course we have an understanding. Looking forward to your call. Be careful, Hyperion. The man with the files is a killer. But then, I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
London, England
Never a wealthy area anyway, London’s East End had been backhanded by globalization. The economic readjustment that was decimating middle classes everywhere showed here in the worn buildings and shuttered shops. Liz hurried past five stores in a row that were boarded over. Nearby, men and women stood outside pubs, pints in hand, smoking cigarettes down to the filters. Cars cruised the streets, and people with tired faces ambled home.
Liz had felt as if she were being observed during her entire journey here, although she had been unable to spot any surveillance. In a bathroom in Heathrow, she altered her appearance so she would no longer look precisely like the woman who had left Paris. She still wore the trousers of the ugly brown pantsuit, but she had put the beret, the jacket, and Sarah’s glasses into her shoulder bag. Her hair was combed, and she wore mascara and dark red lipstick. With her sleeveless top and normal posture, she would be easily recognized by Tish, despite the passage of years. But at the same time, she could quickly drop back into a deeper disguise if need be.
She covertly scanned the twilight street as she watched for the apartment building where Tish Childs lived. A block later, she found it. The door was on the alley. With a final glance around, she climbed the staircase and knocked. The odors of rotting vegetables and fruit floated up from the greengrocer on the ground floor.
Tish cracked open the door, her face brightening with surprise. She was a tired-looking woman in her late fifties, with a jaunty red scarf around her throat and carefully applied black mascara.
“Well, come in then, Liz. Mustn’t stand on the doorstep. A cup of tea? The kettle’s on. Won’t take half a sec. How did you find me, girl?”
She wore a threadbare dressing gown and slippers. She smoothed the gown and turned back into her room, walking carefully, but with the same pride Liz recalled. The bed was in the corner, and a sitting area was across from it. In between was a kitchen nook. There was no phone. Probably too expensive now.
Liz stepped in and closed the door. “I found your address on the Internet. How have you been, Aunt Tish?”
“Oh, my. The Internet? A world I’ll never know. But do stop the ‘aunt’ nonsense. Makes me feel ever so old. I’m not really your aunt anymore anyway.”
“Of course you are. Once an aunt, always an aunt.”
“That’s very sweet of you, dear. Mind sitting over there? It’s clean at least.”
The indicated sofa was lumpy and faded but neat. Liz sat and watched Tish turn up the gas under a teakettle. The low rays of the sun streamed in the single window. The room had grown cool, the only warmth radiating from the stove, where a large coffee can, both ends removed, holes punched in the sides, sat atop a lighted burner. It was not an efficient heater, but it was cheap: Britain’s energy costs were astronomical again.
Liz talked about other things as the water boiled and Tish made tea.
“Only orange pekoe, I’m afraid,” Tish told her, “but I’m rather fond of it.”
Liz suspected it was her only tea—ordinary and cheap. “One of my favorites,” she assured Tish. “Would you like some help?”
“Don’t fuss, girl. I can manage.”
Tish covered the teapot with a crocheted cozy. She set the pot, a small pitcher of milk, and two teacups onto a butler’s tray and carried the tray to a wooden coffee table framed with piecrust molding. She moved stiffly, seeming to judge each step. Very erect, she sank into a tattered wingback chair and leaned forward to set the tray on the table. Hanging inside the back of her chair was an electric heating pad.
At last, Liz said, “Please forgive me for prying…but didn’t you get alimony or some kind of financial settlement from Mark in the divorce?”
Tish hooted. She sat back against the heating pad, laughing, wiping her eyes. “Oh, that’s rich, that is. Mark never had a spare farthing, love. Why d’you think we never had children? I was raising a child already. Him!” She reached to her side and pressed a switch. “Heating pad for my wonky back. Pour the tea, would you, dear?”
“Happy to.”
The tea cozy had been elegant once, hand-crocheted with little tucks and ruffles, but it was shabby now. Liz poured milk into the cups and then tea through a strainer into the milk. The tea was thin, saving the cost of leaves. But the cups were real bone china decorated with delicate yellow roses, a classic pattern she had not seen in years.
Liz picked up her cup. “Mom never said anything like that about
Uncle Mark. I mean, he was very charming. Handsome. I didn’t realize—”
Tish’s laughter had calmed into a knowing smile. She cradled her cup, as if warming her hands. “Of course he was. An appealing scamp. He worked ever so hard at it, didn’t he just. The only thing he did work at. I was a twit of a girl, took me in properly. Oh, we had money much of the time, I admit, and I could be as big a spender as he. Looking back, Lord knows where it came from and where it went. He wouldn’t tell, and after a few years I didn’t want the answers. So I went back to work just to be sure I had a few shillings for food and a roof over my head.” She gave a ne’er-do-well shrug Liz had seen Mark use. Her voice lowered. “Can’t work anymore, though. Touch of arthritis in the spine. Nasty bit of luck.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea about your health problems. You should be getting help from the family.” She gazed at Tish. What a terrible time she’d had. Liz would call her cousin, Sir Michael—Mick—the most recent Childs male to inherit, and see that Tish got help. “Didn’t anyone realize what Mark was like? I mean, surely Uncle Robert would’ve done something. I know Mother would’ve.”
“Robbie did. After all, Mark was his baby brother. Robbie tried to get him jobs, but that’s not what Mark wanted. He was after money, pure and simple. The cash for the main chance. So Robbie doled it out for years, until he got fed up, and I didn’t blame him. He told Mark it was time to grow up, and that was the end of what I always called Robbie’s guilt money. I expect no one else really knew how bad it was, not even Melanie. After all, Robbie was a good politico and could keep his mouth shut, and Mark was certainly not about to tell anyone.” Her voice took on a bitter tinge.
“What do you mean about Sir Robert’s ‘guilt money’?” Liz asked.
Tish sipped tea and was silent. “I loved Mark, Liz. But as time passed, he got more and more sour that the baronetcy and fortune went to Robbie. It was the way things were and are, and Melanie and Blake understood that. They adjusted, made their own lives as daughters and younger sons have done for a thousand years. But for those same thousand years, many didn’t adjust, and Mark was one. He could never get past the conviction that his birthright was to be landed gentry, without the need to work—like a common drudge, as he put it. So he drank, took beastly drugs, gambled, and played the charmer, as if he were always going to be eighteen and inherit the world.” Her lips tightened. “On the other hand, I think Robbie was ashamed he’d been given everything while the rest of the family got little. That’s why he subsidized Mark, and it didn’t help poor Mark one whit. The time came when I couldn’t live with him anymore.”
“That’s such a sad story, Tish.”
“Yes,” she nodded, “it is. For Mark and for me.” She seemed to brood for a moment, perhaps remembering the good times. Then she brightened. “Well, enough of that. One goes on, doesn’t one? More tea, dear?”
“Thank you. I sometimes forget how good English tea is.”
Liz poured Tish a fresh cup, then refilled her own. Liz put the cozy back on and reached for the milk. “I know you and Mark were divorced by the time he died, but did you ever talk to him before he went to see Mother in America about why he was visiting?”
Tish seemed astonished. She frowned as she stirred her tea. “Now that’s odd. That you should ask, I mean.”
“Why, Tish?”
“Well, someone else put the question to me. I recall it, because he was such a posh chap and seemed embarrassed to pry, as well he should have been. Can you imagine? A perfect stranger asking about family matters? I mean, Mark and I may have been divorced, but I still wouldn’t discuss Childs family business. The very idea.”
“He wasn’t from the police?”
“Police? No, nothing like that. That might’ve been different, though he’d have had to give me a bloody good reason and show his credentials and all.”
“Then you told this person nothing?”
“I should think not!” She gave a sly smile. “Well, not exactly. I said very firmly that of course Mark and I discussed it. He had only one sister, and it was high time he visited her, even if she was out of the country and plane tickets were a fortune. He asked a few more questions, of course, but that was my answer, and I stuck by it.”
“When was this, Tish? Exactly. It’s important.”
Tish thought. “Well, five years ago, I should think. Yes, five or six months after Mark and your poor mother died and quite soon after poor Robbie. Such a terrible time for the family.”
Almost the exact time Langley had called her back in for a second interrogation, this time about her father’s files. “So Uncle Mark did talk to you about the trip?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. He was always ringing me up when he was in his cups and feeling sentimental. But this day, he showed up here, out of the blue. Sober as a deacon. Cleaned up nicely, shaved, handsome as the groom on the top of a wedding cake. Talking about a second chance. He’d slapped his boots on straight, he said. He’d soon be out of debt, and we could be together again.” Her eyes misted. “He begged me. He said your mother was going to help, and it’d all be fine and dandy.”
Liz set down her cup and leaned forward. “Mom was going to help? How?”
“I asked him. I can still remember how his eyes gleamed. So revved up and hopeful. Said he couldn’t talk about it yet, but he and Melanie had a deal that was going to make him rich. Something about ‘Great Waters.’ It was as good as wrapped up in a red silk ribbon, he said.”
“He told you nothing else about this deal? Where Mom fitted in?”
Tish stared into her cup. “No, but he left what little he had to me. When he and Melanie died, I went through his papers and found the file. There were only notes and didn’t make a whit of sense. I always thought Great Waters must be some kind of pot-of-gold resort. But even if Melanie had given him money, I couldn’t see how it’d possibly be enough to buy an entire resort.”
There was a file. Liz controlled her excitement. “What did you do with it?”
“Oh, it’s still with his things. Can’t turn out an old dog now, can I? Everything’s in a lockup in Fulham. Lawrence Storage. Would you like to see them? That’s nice of you, dear. Perhaps you’ll find some things you want to keep. Little treasures, you know. I hate it that Mark’s been forgotten. I’ll give you the address and key.”
Two hours later, night was in full swing in London’s East End. Street lamps cast pools of light on the dirty pavement, while shiny Jaguars and Bentleys ferried drug lords. Girls, boys, and women stood on corners in tight wisps of clothes, hoping to feed their habits. Little attention was paid to a silent figure dressed in a black jumpsuit, who pulled open the alley door that led up to the rooms above the greengrocer.
Once inside, he rolled a ski mask down over his face and walked soundlessly up the stairs, not hurrying. He tapped on Tish Childs’s door. The instant he heard the dead bolt unlock, he rammed the door open with his shoulder.
“Where is she?”
He shoved Tish Childs back into the room and locked the door behind. The dark makeup around her eyes made her look like a cornered raccoon.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her voice was low and strangely controlled, not as frightened as the intruder had expected. He decided she had been questioned by other professionals over the years and was waiting to see how serious he was. He pulled out the stolen Walther and held it up. That got her attention. Her eyes turned into faded agates but remained hard.
“Liz Sansborough,” he told her. “Where did she go?”
Rebellion flashed across her face. “Liz wasn’t here,” she said triumphantly.
He gave a cold chuckle. Of course she resisted. He had known she would, from the moment he saw that spark of mutiny and heard the triumph in her voice. He liked that. He beat her until, bloody and whimpering, she told him. It did not take long. With women, it rarely did. Not with ordinary men either, and most men were ordinary.
Finished, he screwed a so
und suppressor onto the Walther and killed her with two shots—one through the belly and the other through the heart. He ransacked the room, left a dusting of cocaine near her corpse, and trotted downstairs and out into the alley, where he dropped the Walther into a Dumpster.
His people had sent the weapon all the way from Santa Barbara, from the glove compartment in Sansborough’s car. The corpse and Sansborough’s gun would be found as soon as he phoned a tip in to the police.
South of Brompton Road in Fulham, Lawrence Lockup & Storage was a large complex with walk-in lockers that rented by the month or year. Traffic on the major arteries nearby was heavy as Londoners returned to the suburbs after late meetings and shows, but this street of warehouses and light manufacturing was quiet and dark, black shadows impenetrable between the distant lampposts. In his rental car, Simon Childs cruised slowly, noting no lights showed inside the facility’s office. It was a freestanding structure, while behind it stood a line of parallel buildings—the storage units.
He parked and got out. In the distance, tall stadium lights blazed, and young people shouted as they practiced soccer. The night smelled of dust and cooling asphalt.
When Simon had arrived in London, he met with the Childs family’s solicitor and discovered he had handled Tish Childs’s inheritance from Uncle Mark. There was little, just a few pounds and some belongings in a rented room. Tish had rented a locker, he had told Simon, where she ordered everything sent and apparently visited periodically. The attorney clearly disapproved. Why drain her little bit of money on useless things that had no value other than sentiment? Simon liked her for it.
