“Maybe,” said Wembley. “The divine and the decadent do tend to be right next to each other in this part of the city. But I think Mousetrap is playing too far away for your theory, if that’s the one he saw. Any other ideas?”
“Just one: He confronted his nonpaying client and got killed for his trouble.”
“And they chose an alley in Soho for their business meeting?”
“I can’t explain the location. But it’s not uncommon for remote workers to get stiffed. Happens a lot. The big companies just stonewall the smaller contractors and tell them to bugger off. Cases that come to me are much higher up the corporate food chain, of course. But it’s an annoying sort of behavior, at any level.”
“I think you’re making more of it than it is, Heath. But do you have a name for this nonpaying client?”
“When I get back to my office, I can send you both the name and the postal box address his employer was using.”
“Send it on, then.”
Wembley started to turn away.
Reggie hesitated, still staring down at Mr. Liu’s body.
“Was there something else?” asked Wembley.
“No,” said Reggie.
“Step back, then. You’ll hear from me if we have more questions.”
Reggie turned away and started back toward his cab.
At the entrance to the alley, just past the crime tape, Reggie stopped. The wind had blown a small slip of white paper into a rain puddle by the wall.
Nothing unusual about that. But the item looked relatively fresh. Reggie picked it up.
A receipt from a souvenir store. Cash purchase. And the change back was seventy-two pence—the same amount Mr. Liu had in his pocket.
Probably it meant nothing whatsoever.
Still, Reggie looked back at the crime scene. Wembley and the forensics expert were busy, focused on the body. The novice bobby looked available, but taking the receipt back to the inexperienced recruit didn’t seem like the most efficient thing to do at the moment, and the taxi was waiting. Reggie stuffed the receipt into his pocket and got in the cab.
As he rode back to Baker Street, Reggie reminded himself that Mr. Liu was already dead. There was no reason the exact circumstance of his murder should matter.
But it did matter. The more he thought about it, the more he connected the image of the stubborn man in his office with the frail body in the alley, the more he thought of Mr. Liu coming all this way for a sum that was less than the cost of the trip, the more the circumstance of his death mattered. It just did.
And although he wanted to do so, Reggie knew he would not be able to leave it alone.
13
Laura’s cab arrived at Tobacco Wharf, where Robert Buxton, like another publishing magnate before him, had located his multiacre publishing compound.
There had been time on the short drive to rehearse once again what she wanted to tell him—what she would have told him already, if only she had been able to reach him in the last three days.
And time to wonder why he had made himself unavailable for her to do so.
It must surely be a very good reason—at least from his point of view.
Something involving royalty, probably, or highly placed politicians. Even Lord Robert Buxton knew better than to put her on hold for mundane corporate matters.
Not that it would matter. She had already made up her mind.
The cab drove down a dark red corridor of ten-foot-high brick walls to a gated entrance.
Laura had been here many times before. The supervisor at the guard station recognized her, made a quick phone call, and waved her on through.
In the lobby of the main building, journalists and office workers for the tabloids Buxton owned were coming and going; a few stood chatting by the public lifts. It was all normal.
She used the pass card Buxton had given her months ago to access the private lift. She got in alone and entered her security code to get to the top floor.
The lift opened on a broad reception area, with indoor shrubs and deep comfortable chairs and a skylight. At the center of it, immediately across from the lift, was a gleaming brass reception bar—staffed at various times, depending on the purpose of the occasion, by either a bartender or a stunningly beautiful receptionist. Sometimes, on more intimate occasions, Buxton himself did the honors.
The stunningly beautiful receptionist was, of course, purely for public-relations purposes. Buxton had found a way to mention that to Laura the first time she had visited this floor. Laura had found a way to convey that she hadn’t even noticed.
But today it was none of those people. Today Buxton’s chief of staff, his second in command, stood in front of the reception area.
He was a tall man, quite thin, with graying hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. As Laura got out of the lift, he stepped forward at once and introduced himself—Alex Simpson—unnecessarily.
“Yes,” said Laura. “I’m sure we’ve met.”
“Of course,” said Alex.
Laura followed him through an interior door and into Buxton’s private conference room.
One long side of the room was lined with bookcases and framed first issues of each of Buxton’s publications. The other side was a broad window that looked out over the Thames.
Three men in black suits, with chests like anvils, and electronic devices in their ears, Lord Buxton’s private security team—Laura was sure of it; she had seen at least one of them before—stood talking in front of that window.
They all turned and stared in her direction. Then one of them pressed a button that automatically closed the heavy window drapes; the other two came and joined Laura and Alex Simpson at a polished oval conference table in the center of the room.
“Henry is in charge of Lord Buxton’s internal security,” said Alex, indicating the man seated at his left. “Ian is first operational officer. Their entire team will be working with us.”
Laura looked from one to the other and then back at Alex.
“Working with us?”
Alex looked over at Henry, and Henry nodded to confirm.
Then Alex looked at Laura and very carefully said, “Lord Buxton has been kidnapped.”
For a moment, Laura was completely speechless. She had imagined a number of scenarios to explain why Robert had not contacted her. This was not among them.
“How … I mean, why haven’t I heard…”
“You haven’t heard of this because no one outside this room knows,” said Alex. “We need your word that it will stay that way.”
“Of course,” said Laura, without giving it any thought at all. “Naturally.”
Surely all kidnappings were done that way.
“But the police?” she offered.
“Are not under any circumstance to learn of this,” said Alex. “We have been told this by the kidnappers. As you might expect. In any case—well, Lord Buxton has always anticipated the possibility—”
Henry interrupted him, speaking now for the first time. He leaned forward and lit a cigar, then leaned back in his chair as if he were making a point of some pride, “The fact is, we are more prepared for this and better able to handle it then the police have ever been.”
Laura looked from Henry to Alex, who seemed to shrug in the affirmative.
“I don’t doubt you in the slightest,” said Laura. “But then—why am I here?”
Henry gave Alex a look that indicated he had been wondering exactly the same thing about her.
Alex did not hesitate with the answer. “Because Lord Buxton’s emergency instructions specifically state that in such an eventuality, you are the one person in the world he would trust to deliver his ransom.”
“Oh.”
The entire room was silent for a moment. Laura tried to grasp the full meaning of what had just been conveyed—both in terms of Robert’s attitude toward her and in terms of what might come next.
Alex apparently interpreted her silence as a demand for more details.
�
�We don’t know how much they want yet,” he said. “But Lord Buxton set aside a precautionary fund for this purpose long ago. And of course he is insured. The kidnappers have requested a meeting, at which they will communicate the particulars. And as it happens, because your relationship with Lord Buxton has been well publicized—after all, you are getting married, are you not?—not only are you the representative he would want us to use but you are also on the very short list of the representatives the kidnappers are willing to meet with.”
“Who else is on that list?” asked Laura.
“Well … no one, actually. Just you.”
“A meeting with the kidnappers,” said Laura, pondering it. There seemed little reason to point out a flaw in the marriage assumption at this moment.
“Yes,” said Alex. “Alone, per their instructions.”
“Armed and potentially violent men, are they?” asked Laura.
Henry shrugged.
“Well,” said Laura. She looked about her at the four men in the room. Alex and the barrel-chested security detail with guns under their coats, she assumed, looked back at her expectantly.
“I’ll do it,” she said after a long moment. “I mean, of course I’ll do it. But isn’t there supposed to be a proof of life, or some such thing?”
The men looked at one another. Alex nodded to Henry, and then Henry placed a briefcase on the table.
He opened it, reached inside, grasped something—and then he dropped it on the table in front of Laura.
Laura shrieked.
“My God! They’ve scalped him!”
“Hairpiece,” said Alex. “Custom-made. We verified it’s his.”
“Oh, that can’t be,” said Laura quickly. “I surely would have noticed such a thing.”
“He’s worn it for years,” said Alex. “It is his best-kept secret.”
“I should say so,” said Laura. She ran her fingers through the locks of the hairpiece and gave that secret some thought.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose it might explain his reluctance for—well, one or two particular activities.”
She put the hairpiece down.
“All right. I will do whatever I can. What needs to be done. But there’s someone I’d like to notify before we get started on this.”
“I’m sorry,” said Alex. “But as I said, no one can know.”
“He’s very smart,” said Laura. “Perhaps he might even be able to—”
“It’s quite impossible, Miss Rankin. And I can’t see how a barrister would be of use in any case.”
Laura paused at that and looked hard at Alex.
“What made you think I was referring to someone who just happens to be a barrister?”
Alex hesitated, then said, “You were, were you not?”
“That’s not the point. The point is, how did you know whom I was referring to?”
The man squirmed.
“Please understand. I am Lord Robert Buxton’s chief of staff. It’s my job.”
Laura took a deep breath and looked hard at each of the three men, and then very directly at Alex.
“When we get Robert out of this,” she said very deliberately, “perhaps there will be a discussion regarding just what your job is.”
The chief of staff cleared his throat.
“Understood,” he said. “But does that mean you will help us?”
“I will,” she said. “But I must make a call. I at least have to let him know that I will be unavailable for a bit. If I don’t, he will wonder—and if you want something kept secret, you are well advised not to set Reggie Heath to wondering.”
The security chief turned toward Alex and said, “I really don’t think we should—”
“It’s not up to either of you,” said Laura, “and there is no ‘we’ in this regard. I will make this call.”
“Or course,” said Alex quickly. “But please just leave a message. We can’t risk his asking you questions.”
As Laura started to dial, Alex put a cautioning hand on her forearm.
“I know you’re an actress,” he said. “Sell it.”
Laura gave that advice the dismissive look it deserved.
She punched in Reggie’s number at Baker Street Chambers, bypassing the public number that Lois handled and going directly to his private line.
As she expected, he had not yet returned. The answering machine came on.
“Thank you for the lovely lunch, almost,” said Laura. “Sorry I left no dessert, but I did warn you. I have to leave now for … an emergency. With my cat. I must take Tabasco to the vet, poor thing. You would not believe what she has coughed up. I will ring you soon. Don’t wait up.”
She hung up the phone. The security detail in the room with her all nodded.
There, thought Laura. That should do it. At least for now.
14
Robert Buxton was awake again. He had a suspicion that he must have been fading in and out of consciousness for some time. This time, he resolved to maintain it.
He took a breath—and then he remembered why he shouldn’t. There was that stench again.
He knew his eyes were open; the air was so damp that he could feel it hitting his eyeballs with the stink. But he could see nothing but pitch-black.
He blinked his eyes, trying to focus. There had to be something, some light somewhere. He raised his head, tried to turn it. The nausea returned when he did that, but this time he did not succumb, not yet—and yes, somewhere to that one side, there was something. There was a light.
It was coming toward him. Now it was so close that it was blinding. He shielded his eyes.
And then he heard a voice.
“Where is it?”
God, what an annoying voice. Was it talking to him? It might be.
“We know you had it. Where is it?
Buxton raised his head, tried to look past the blazing bright lantern and see the face of his interrogator, but he could not. The nausea returned, from his head to his gut, and his head dropped back down.
15
It was late afternoon when Reggie arrived back at Baker Street Chambers from the crime scene in Soho.
Lois was at her desk but didn’t look terribly busy, at least not with law chambers work. Which was to be expected today, Reggie knew, given that he had told her to keep the calendar clear.
She had newspapers spread out over her desk.
“Sorry,” she said as Reggie approached. “It’s been very slow. An American lawyer dropped in and said he would call again later. And Miss Rankin departed an hour ago. But other than that, well … I was just looking through the headlines, trying to do that Sherlock Holmes thing with the newspapers. Solving things. Would you like to hear? The headlines, I mean?”
Reggie shook his head. “Not necessary. But I do have a task for you. Please get the contact information from my meeting with Mr. Liu yesterday and send it on to Detective Inspector Wembley. Also, in my notes there’s the name of a woman Mr. Liu was working for; send that to Wembley, as well.”
Lois turned from the newspaper and looked up questioningly.
“I’m afraid that … Mr. Liu was killed last night,” said Reggie.
“Oh.” Lois stared back down at the papers. “Oh my.”
Reggie told her briefly what had happened. Then he took the receipt from the alley out of his pocket.
“I want you to go to this shop in Piccadilly and ask what this purchase was. It might be something that Mr. Liu bought shortly before he died. He had nothing on him. Whatever he had, if he had anything, was taken during the robbery, if it was a robbery. I’d just like to know what the purchase was.”
“Yes,” said Lois, taking the receipt from Reggie. “I’ll get right to it.”
Reggie opened the door to his interior chambers office.
He hadn’t expected Laura to still be there, of course. Yet it caused a bit of a twinge to see the remnants of the catered lunch lying about.
Timing is everything, and he had sworn to himself that
he would not bollix it up again.
Then he saw the message light flashing on his phone. Reggie immediately punched the button and listened to the message. It was from Laura. A sick cat. All right, then.
Then he punched the replay button and listened to it again.
He could not recall ever hearing this exact tone of voice from Laura before. It was hard to know what to make of it.
She was an actress, of course, and even more than most women, she knew how to convey what she wanted to convey just by her tone of voice.
But for the life of him, Reggie could not figure this one out.
He wasn’t at all sure, but it sounded as though—just possibly—something might be wrong.
He hoped to God it had nothing to do with the proposal that he had not quite been able to make before rushing off to Soho.
Was “I have a sick cat” the new code phrase for “I won’t marry you”?
He hoped not.
But if it was not that, what was it?
He rang Laura’s home phone. No answer.
He rang her mobile. No answer there, either; it played her usual personalized greeting and invited the caller to leave a message. He did. He asked her to please ring him back.
For several minutes more, Reggie sat at his desk and resisted the impulse to just get in his car and drive out to Laura’s home in Chelsea.
And then, with no other urgent task available to distract him, Reggie gave in to those instincts. He left chambers, and instead of driving directly home to Butler’s Wharf, he drove to Chelsea.
He pulled up underneath a tree directly across the street from Laura’s home. The porch light was on. None of the other lights in the house was. She was either not home or she was home and had gone to bed.
But if she was home and had gone to bed, she would have picked up when Reggie rang her. That assumed, of course, that she had gone to bed alone. Reggie considered the alternative for just a moment.
Was she with Buxton? If she was simply going to a publicity conference or some such thing with him, why leave a message about a sick cat?
Perhaps Reggie had just been fooling himself. Perhaps there had never been any hope at all.
The Baker Street Translation Page 7
