Moriarty Returns a Letter (21 page)

“Bloody hell,” said Nigel.

“The good news was that she turned herself in. The Yard had her in custody.”

Nigel said, “Why are you stating good news in the past tense?”

“Wembley said she killed the psychiatrist who was evaluating her.”

“So she’s still homicidally bonkers.”

“And then she escaped.”

“Bloody hell,” said Nigel again. “Does the Yard have any idea of her whereabouts?”

“Wembley’s best guess—and mine—is that she’ll go back to doing what she was doing before.”

Nigel thought about that for a long moment.

“I see,” said Nigel. He knew what the implications were.

“I can’t track her down myself,” said Reggie. “I have to stay with Laura.”

“Of course,” said Nigel. “So you need someone to—”

“Nigel, I need you to find Darla Rennie—before she finds us.”

“Understood,” said Nigel.

Nigel got off the phone with Reggie, and then he called Inspector Wembley at Scotland Yard.

“I didn’t know you were in town, Heath,” said the inspector.

“I’m supposed to be on my way to an engagement party,” said Nigel.

“I think she’s too good for him,” said Wembley.

“That’s your opinion,” said Nigel, not entirely certain whether Wembley really meant it. “I understand that Darla Rennie is at large?”

“Yes,” said Wembley.

“What are you doing to track her down?”

“Right at the moment, talking to you, Heath. Make it worth my while. You knew her, didn’t you? A couple of years ago?”

“In a way. We were in group therapy together. The careers group, they called it, but it was really the career failures group. I was there with the intent of abandoning my solicitor’s license and punishing myself for winning a tort case that my clients deserved to lose. She was there cultivating a deep resentment of Black Cabs and a delusion of my brother being Sherlock Holmes. We had to confess all sorts of things in the group. She confessed to being a genius, a sort of schizophrenic savant, but having no sense of directions whatsoever, hence her failure as a Black Cab driver.”

“Anything else?”

“You’ve been in a room with her, haven’t you, Wembley?”

“Yes, if you mean the interview room.”

“Well, then, you already know. She’s as seductive as hell. Which would be fine in and of itself, if only she were not also completely unbalanced and known to kill people.”

“Good point,” said Wembley.

Then, out of the blue, Wembley said:

“Did you manage a romp and tickle when you were with her at therapy?”

“No,” said Nigel, surprised by the question, but answering anyway. “Almost did. We made an appointment to meet between therapy sessions, but she was late—or lost, or something—and I gave up waiting. Missed her by that much.”

“What about your brother? Did he do her when he got involved in that Black Cab case?”

“No,” said Nigel, now getting annoyed.

“How do you know?”

“I know my brother,” said Nigel, “and I know there hasn’t been anyone else after he met Laura Rankin. Regardless of what he might have wanted people to believe in his single days.”

“I only ask,” said Wembley, “because when I requested that he come down to the Yard to talk to Darla Rennie, he seemed just a little nervous about it.”

Nigel said, “I think you’ll find that of the three of us—myself, Reggie, and Laura—the only one who is not completely terrified of Darla Rennie is Laura.”

“Yes,” said Wembley. “Well, even so, I’ve notified the local authorities in Dartmoor National Park to be on the lookout, in case she tries to waylay them on their little drive. But it’s a large area. And of course she might not even go after Laura at all; she might just decide to try to keep her freedom and flee the country. In the meantime, we’re pursuing all leads.”

Nigel thought about that for a moment.

“Pursuing all leads means you don’t have any that are worthwhile, doesn’t it?”

“It means what I said,” replied Wembley, tightly. “We’re doing the best we can. O’Shea is at the crime scene at the mental health facility right now. I’ve given her permission to talk to you, if you want to call later.”

“O’Shea is good,” said Nigel.

“Damn right she is. You know, it’s your brother’s own fault that Darla Rennie got out, Heath.”

“How so?”

“He and Laura rang me up with an alibi for her for the murder of the fisherman; their theory is she couldn’t have done it, because these blasted hamburger wrappers are unique and prove she was at the Marylebone Grand Hotel at the time.”

“Hamburger wrappers?”

“Darla Rennie entered the house, saw the body, dropped the bag of burgers and wrappers, and then ran—according to her story. I thought it was nonsense. But based on what your brother and Laura told me, I had the alibi checked out—and it turns out that, just as they said, the hamburgers in those wrappers were unique to the event taking place at the hotel, and could only have been purchased at the hotel itself, at the same time Cheeverton was being murdered at Canvey Island. And they had Darla Rennie’s fingerprints on them. It’s a shame. If it weren’t for the damn junk-food wrappers, she’d have no alibi. The security tapes from the hotel don’t show her being there at all. CCTV can have blind spots, of course—but the point is, there’s no other record of her being there except the damn wrappers. If it weren’t for them, she’d still be charged with the Canvey killing, and she’d still be safely in jail.”

“All right,” said Nigel. “But I can’t imagine the Darla Rennie I knew running from the sight of a body.”

“She claimed that she’s no longer the Darla Rennie you knew. She claimed that she’s no longer delusional. And that she no longer kills people.”

“Nice if it’s true,” said Nigel. “But I’m not betting my brother’s life on it. Or Laura’s. I’m sure your team is doing all they can, but I’m going to look for Rennie on my own. I trust you don’t mind.”

“I’ll lend you a copy of her file,” said Wembley. “Find her if you can. And if you can disprove her alibi while you’re at it, more power to you. I guarantee you, we won’t let her get out the next time.”

23

By the time Reggie and Laura departed their hotel that morning, the drizzle had turned into rain.

It hadn’t been easy getting out of the hotel. The news about Darla Rennie at breakfast had been distracting, and the phone calls with Wembley and Nigel had taken some time.

And then the hotel manager had second thoughts, apparently, about how Reggie and Laura had been treated the night before. He greeted them personally as they were checking out.

“I’ve been instructed to offer you free accommodations,” he said, “at the Dartmoor Deluxe. It’s one of our most special properties, just at the western edge of the national park, and a wonderful stopping point if you are heading to Land’s End, or Penzance, or any points southwest.”

“Thank you,” said Reggie. “But tonight was our only stay in Dartmoor. We only have a few hours’ drive now to our destination.”

“The weather is looking inclement,” said the manager. “It might take you longer than you think. The road is always uncertain. You never know what might happen.”

“I’m sure it won’t take us the entire day,” said Reggie.

“No, no, of course not,” said the manager. “And that’s why I’ve been instructed to offer you a very special stay—for an hour or two on your afternoon drive, just as a break to freshen up, or the full night if you want it, whatever you like, completely free of charge.”

“Well…”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Laura. “Do we need a coupon or anything?”

“Absolutely not. Just drop in, say your name, and our staff will do the rest.”

“All right then,” said Laura. “No promises, but if we need a break, we’ll keep the Dartmoor Deluxe in mind.”

And then, finally, they were on the road.

After an hour in the increasingly cold and windblown rain, they drove past the small sign announcing that they were officially now in the Dartmoor National Park. Farming fields gave way to a patchy mix of olive green heather, tan-colored scrub grass, and gray-white stones with black moss on their sides. The sheep and occasional farmhouses turned to wild ponies and rocky cairns.

If you had lunch in a basket, the sun was shining, and you were a few hundred meters from your house, thought Laura, it was nice country for a picnic.

But at the moment, it was simply isolated and bleak.

The conversation waned a bit; Laura leaned her seat back and closed her eyes, and Reggie began to test the Jaguar on the curves, just for the entertainment.

And also because he had noticed the temperature gauge beginning to climb just a bit. Sometimes an increase in speed helped the fans cool the motor.

“Wait,” said Laura suddenly. “Slow down.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Stop for a moment.”

Reggie did so, pulling the car to the left on the road, but not actually off of it, because there wasn’t enough of a shoulder for that.

“I saw someone,” said Laura.

“You mean back the road a quarter mile?”

“Yes. You saw him, too?”

“Some farmer-type bloke standing at the edge of the road, in a heavy coat with a hood and with his hands clasped behind his back?”

“Well, yes, exactly. I don’t think I’ve seen a single other person, or a farmhouse, or anything civilized at all for the past ten miles.”

“And?”

“Well, shouldn’t we go back and see if he needs something?”

“What is it you think he needs?” said Reggie.

“I don’t know. But what would he be doing out here all alone in the rain?”

“Waiting for a bus?”

“Reggie, there are no buses on this road.”

“For a truck, then. Or a tractor.”

“We’re too far into the reserve for that.”

“Was he waving his arms wildly and screaming for help?”

“Well … no. But I think he raised his head as we drove by.”

“He won’t fit in the back, and he wouldn’t like it if we tied him to the roof.”

“Reggie, I don’t mean give him a ride, but shouldn’t we go back and see if he needs something?”

Reggie sighed, restarted the engine, and put the car into reverse.

“All right,” he said, “if you insist. But my guess is, if he needs anything regarding us at all, it’s to take the long-handled axe that he’s hiding behind his back and hit us over the head with it and drag us back to his cave to feed to his irradiated mutant urchins.”

“You’ve seen too many American movies.”

“Agreed. But I’m just glad he’ll be swinging his weapon on your side of the car first and not mine.”

24

Nigel had no car. Whenever he returned to London, he always got around either on foot, or by tube, or, on the rare occasion when he could afford it or was forced to splurge, by Black Cab. There was seldom a need for anything else.

Today he took a Black Cab directly to Scotland Yard to pick up the file from Wembley.

Then he went to the tube station, got on the Hammersmith line to Barking, and from there he caught a bus to Canvey Island.

Had Darla Rennie’s delusions in fact returned, and was she once more targeting Reggie and Laura? It seemed likely; Nigel could think of no other reason for her to have been hiding the published itinerary of their trip under the floorboards of the fisherman’s house.

But if it was true, then the woman had a problem: Reggie had changed that itinerary. He and Laura would not be at the stops originally listed in the paper. And if Darla Rennie attempted to find them just by driving out to Dartmoor and looking for them—well, that would be nearly impossible … and foolish. Especially given that she had no sense of direction.

And as delusional as she might be, Darla Rennie was no fool. She would not put herself in the position of driving aimlessly in Dartmoor, and Nigel knew he would not find her by doing that himself.

So he rode on the bus to Canvey Island, studying the file from Wembley as he rode.

Nearly two hours later, the bus rolled through the town’s little center and dropped Nigel at the corner of Long Road and High Street. Nigel got directions from the driver, and began walking toward Oyster Creek, which ran between Canvey and Southend-by-Sea and emptied into the Thames Estuary.

At the foot of Long Road, Nigel found a paved footpath, with a narrow grassy strip on one side and a sloped muddy bank on the other, running parallel to the creek.

Nigel had to choose his direction: He could go to his right, toward the Smallgains Marina, where Cheeverton’s boat was supposed to be moored. That was not his preferred choice; boats were not in his comfort zone.

Or he could go to his left, toward Cheeverton’s house, where the body was discovered. But he knew O’Shea from Scotland Yard forensics had already been all over the house, and he saw no issues regarding those findings in the file. There wouldn’t be much to accomplish there.

And then he saw a third choice: the High Water Pub, just at the corner of Long Street, only yards away from where Nigel was standing, and right in the path of anyone—say, Cheeverton himself—who ever had occasion to walk from Smallgains Marina to the house where Cheeverton had lived.

Between the boat and the pub, Nigel’s choice was easy. He entered the pub.

Nigel’s eyes adjusted to the indoor light, and he looked about.

It was not a fancy pub, but it had the essentials. There was a center bar, some tables in front, and a few booths at the far wall and in the corner. There was a jukebox and local bulletin board on the wall immediately to his right.

On a small table next to that wall, between the bulletin board and the shelves that adjoined the bar, was a white-and-red sack of some sort of fast food.

The place was nearly empty; the afternoon crowd had not yet begun to arrive.

Nigel went up to the bar, and the bar woman came right over to greet him.

“What are those?” said Nigel, pointing at the red-and-white sack.

“Hamburgers. Trust me, you don’t want one. They’re a few days old.”

“That’s an unusual wrapper. Were those bought around here?”

She shook her head. “My daughter was up in London on a historical tour for a children’s class. They toured an exhibit at a hotel and then bought a bunch of these before they got on the bus to come home. They had leftovers, so I kept them for Mr. Sizemore over there in the corner. He’ll make fish bait out of them.”