Skylark (18 page)

I shut the cupboard door. "What if Jay was right, and the stabbing was a goofy
accident?"

"Followed by burglary and murder?"

I ran a damp cloth over the counter. "I keep hoping we'll turn out to be a pair of
hysterical women, but I don't think so."

"I feel like a real fool for embroiling you in this mess, Lark. I like Milos, but goodness
knows I was just looking for a little adventure. I didn't bargain on a Robert Ludlum novel."

I laughed. "I like Milos, too, you know. I think you did what you had to do, going to this
rights organization. In fact, you were darned clever. I'm with you."

She gave me a quick hug. "That means a lot. Good night, Lark."

After Ann deserted me I sat in the living room watching the news. The state visit had
gone off without a hitch. Princess Di and Prince Charles would be spending the holiday at
Sandringham. An outbreak of salmonella in the north had been traced to a batch of
hazelnut-flavored yogurt. The commentator said 'yoggurt'. For some reason, the irony of health-food
aficionados being felled by their favorite nosh gave me the giggles.

I decided to turn off the telly, before my snickering woke Ann, and go to bed. Jay was
sound asleep. I snuggled in beside him. When I woke at half past six he was already up.

I drifted out to the kitchen and found him reading Ann's old
Times
.

"Hi." I stretched and yawned, then put the kettle on. "What time did you wake up?"

"Four."

"Great stuff, jet lag." I looked closer. His face had a grayish tinge, and his eyes were
shadowed. I felt a clutch of dismay. "Uh oh. Nightmare?"

He set the paper down. "It's okay, Lark. I brought the Walkman. And I took a hot bath
about an hour ago."

"But it's been more than a year."

He sighed. "Yeah, I'm a little depressed. I thought the plane flight would probably
trigger off a doozy, but it's no damn comfort knowing I was right. I wonder how long it takes to
row across the Atlantic?"

The kettle shrieked. I removed it with numb fingers and poured boiling water into the
cafetière
.

Jay's nightmares were a legacy of traumatic stress. Twenty years before, the year Jay
turned nineteen, he had had a tour as an army medic in Vietnam. The day he was scheduled to
return to the real world, he boarded a Pan American charter at Tan Son Nhut just as the airbase
came under a rocket attack. After nearly a year of combat he had not expected to make it home
alive. The rocket attack lasted two hours. Then the plane took off. He claimed he held it together
and in the air all the way across the Pacific Ocean. Jay does not like to fly.

I had found out these interesting facts only when I proposed our trip to England and then
only after prodding. I had taken a cool, rational view of the situation. He should not be debarred
from normal interaction with the world because the world had been insane when he was a kid.
He agreed. Reluctantly. After considerable thought. He flew at home, short hops, and he had
medication to take if he were to suffer an anxiety attack before the flight, or halfway through it.
Nobody had said anything about anxiety attacks on the ground.

For the most part Jay was fortunate. He did not suffer flashbacks or ungovernable rages
or other debilitating symptoms, and he had long ago worked out routines, like the hot bath and
jazz on the Walkman, for dealing with nightmares. They had decreased in frequency since our
marriage, but they were appalling when they did happen. From my viewpoint, the worst thing
about them was my inability to do much that helped.

I pressed the lid of the coffee pot down viciously and poured a cup of cloudy liquid. It
was far too weak.

"Damn. Damn me for thinking up this self-indulgent expedition, and damn Ann for
getting caught up in Milos's melodrama, and damn Thorne for taking my passport." I was
beginning to cry. I bit my lip hard and sat down at the table.

Jay touched my face. "Hey, cut it out. Go for a run with me." Running was another
remedy, an effective one when it was possible.

I sniffed. "In the park?"

"Sure, in the park. Then we can come back and spend the morning canoodling on that
weird bed."

I gave a watery laugh. "Okay. Ten minutes."

"Make it five." He was wearing sweats and running shoes, and he was wound up like an
overworked spring.

We were out the door and trotting toward the zebra in ten minutes flat.

We zipped all the way around the Hyde Park and most of Kensington Gardens. I was
ready to do it again, but Jay pulled me down on a bench.

"Hey! Enough." He was panting and laughing.

I said between gasps. "You're sure?"

"Yes." His breathing steadied. "Lead me back, Lark. I want breakfast, and I'm damned if
I know where we are. What's that?" He pointed at Kensington Palace.

"Princess Di's little townhouse. Come on." I jogged him home via the news agent's. I
would have bought croissants, but I didn't have enough change in my zip pocket.

We took a bath together. Showers are better, but the bath was not bad.

We had spilled quite a lot of water on the floor. I made toast while Jay mopped, and we
were both feeling a lot better by the time Ann got up. All the same I was worried. I wondered
how much it cost to take the QEII to New York.

Jay and I were lying on the plum bed--fully clothed, we are not sexual athletes--and
reading the
Independent
together when the phone rang. I heard Ann answer. After a few
minutes a timid knock on the door sounded.

"Come in," I caroled.

Jay sat up and swung his legs off the duvet.

Ann's head poked around the edge of the door. "Inspector Thorne wants us to look at
those mug shots this morning, Lark." She blushed. "Shall I tell him you're otherwise
engaged?"

Jay pulled me to my feet. "Tell him Mrs. Dodge will cooperate fully with the authorities.
She's coming.
I'm
going to take a nap."

I kissed him. "Okay?"

"Okay."

Ann cleared her throat. "He'll send a car, he says. Fifteen minutes?"

"Fine."

* * * *

I spotted ferret-face halfway through the second page of photographs Sgt. Wilberforce
showed me. Ann had already had her turn and was waiting for me in Thorne's office.

"That's the one."

"Are you quite sure, Mrs. Dodge?"

"Quite," I said coldly. I hadn't forgiven Wilberforce for Sunday, and I don't think he'd
forgiven me, either.

"And you can't identify the other man, the assailant?"

"I saw his shoulder and the back of his head as he left the train. I might be able to pick
out his suit fabric but not his face."

He closed the book, and I rose.

"Mrs. Dodge?"

"What is it?"

"If I spoke too heatedly on Sunday I beg your pardon."

I stared at him. He did not look or sound penitent, but neither was I. "I think you meant
what you said, sergeant, and anyway I gave as good as I got."

At that he smiled slightly. "True."

I nodded. "It's okay. Is there anything else you'd like me to look at?"

"No. Inspector Thorne wants to speak to you."

"Certainly."

Sgt. Wilberforce cleared his throat. "Were you really an Olympic basketball player?"
Ah, the background investigation. They had been thorough.

"I was chosen for the 1980 team. If you recall, the U.S. team wasn't allowed to go to
Moscow that year, so I didn't make it to the Games."

"That must have been disappointing."

I gave a rueful grin. "You can say that again."

He laughed. "I can but I won't." He showed me into Thorne's office, seated me beside
Ann, and reported that I had identified the same man Ann had also recognized.

Thorne rubbed his hands, beaming. "Thank you very much indeed, ladies. Happen we'll
have chummy in custody this time tomorrow."

"Who is he?" Ann asked, taking the words out of my mouth.

"An old lag, name of Albert Parks. Sparks, he's called. Pick-pocket, burglar, failed
con-man, general handy-man to the big boys when he isn't behind bars. I wouldn't have thought of
Sparky in this case. He's an old-fashioned crook, not violent by nature. I shall have words with
Master Parks."

I said, "The woman on the Tube, er, Mrs. Watt, did she identify him, too?"

"She wasn't sure. He was one of three she thought were possible. She also gave us a
possible on the knife-artist."

"Milos's assailant?" Ann asked, breathless.

"Yes. Do you think you might be able to pick that one from a line-up?"

"I saw his profile for a second." She lifted her huge purse to her lap. "I'll try, certainly.
Inspector?"

"What is it, lass?"

Ann was pink with embarrassment, but she spoke steadily. "I was so worried over
Milos's disappearance, I reported it to the people at the Henning Institute."

Thorne's smile faded. "Eh?"

She lifted her chin. "The Henning Institute. They have offices in Blooms..."

"I know who they are. Why, Mrs. Veryan?"

I could see Ann swallow, but her grave voice didn't falter. "I still think Milos was
spirited away from that hospital against his will. I told the woman I contacted all the
circumstances and explained what I knew of the papers. I think the Czech secret police may have
abducted him to keep him from revealing information their government wants to hide. You've
had Milos's papers for a week now. Have they been translated?"

"They have." He spoke without expression. "I'm not at liberty to tell you the contents,
but they are not germane to my investigation."

Ann returned his gaze. "Very well, inspector. I thought I ought to let you know what I'd
done. I'll apologize--when I've seen Milos and talked to him."

I thought Ann might add a flurry of soothing phrases, but she rose with great dignity,
shook hands with Inspector Thorne, and smiled at Wilberforce.

I said, "Congratulations, Inspector. We'll sleep easier when Parks and his partner are in
custody." I, too, shook hands.

Thorne said heavily, "In the matter of Miss Beale's murder, I trust neither of you will
leave town without notifying me."

"I've learned my lesson." I looked at Ann.

"I'm just sure you'll find him and that he'll spill the beans right off." Ann was gushing a
little. "He looked like a weak personality."

I shook hands with Wilberforce. "You're an inch or two too short to play professional
basketball, sergeant, but I hope you'll try the game for fun. It's an exciting sport at any level of
skill."

Wilberforce inclined his head. "I think there's a court in Chelsea."

"Good morning, ladies," said Thorne in tones of dismissal. We left.

When we got home I rousted Jay out, and we ate lunch while I told him about our
identification of Parks. I think all three of us were relieved to put a name to one of the criminals.
I know I was.

After lunch Ann and I took Jay off for a look at Parliament--Ann's idea of the minimum
a tourist should see in London--and a nice walk along the Embankment to the Tate
Gallery--mine.

Jay was being biddable. He gawked obediently at Westminster Hall, deplored the fact
that we would have had to wait until Wednesday evening to see a session of the House of
Commons, and strolled with us through the hordes at Westminster Abbey. We made him admire
the statues of Churchill and Emmeline Pankhurst. He said good things about Rodin's
Burgers
of Calais
, too, but I think he preferred the equestrian statue of Richard I riding loftily off in
the direction of Pimlico. At the Tate, I was merciful. We drank in the Turners and left the rest for
later.

The three of us dined at a pub off Sloane Square and took the Tube home. We had to
show Jay exactly where the assailants had got off, and he scouted their possible escape routes. It
was nearly ten when we climbed on a westbound car. He made us wait for a Circle Line train, in
case its carriages were different from those on the District Line. I think they were, marginally.
Something to do with the doors. He stopped just short of making Ann and me reenact Milos's
stabbing.

It was early for theatergoers and late for everybody else, so the carriage was almost
empty. I nearly overbalanced showing Jay how I had caught Milos. He wanted to know my angle
of vision and Ann's. The handful of passengers watched us, wide-eyed, as we got off at South
Kensington.

Jay wasn't particularly interested in the South Ken station, though the scene there, where
we had waited for the paramedics to come for Milos, evoked the experience more vividly for me
than Sloane Square. The last of the news vendors was packing it in as we left the station. Ann
bought the
Evening Standard
.

It seemed strange, approaching the house in the dark, not to find the constable standing
on the steps and a reporter or two lurking. The press had definitely gone on to better things. I
missed the policeman.

I almost tried to unlock the gate to the areaway. Trevor's light was on in the basement
flat.

We entered the murky foyer, I batted the light on, and Ann sprinted for the door of our
flat, key at the ready. Jay didn't follow us in immediately, and when he entered he was carrying a
filthy lightbulb.

"What's that for?"

"I'm going to replace it." He began rummaging in the kitchen cupboards.

"Won't the landlord object?" Ann asked.

"His exalted lordship clearly hasn't seen the place since 1928." Jay found the light bulb
stash and extracted a hundred watt bulb.

"Yeah, but the janitor mops once a week," I said. "And collects the garbage."

"Then he's in for an illuminating surprise."

"He'll replace the bulb."

"You can keep substituting stronger bulbs. Maybe he'll get the point. Show some
initiative, Lark. I don't want you and Ann coming into a dark foyer while I'm off in
Yorkshire."

Ann was heating water for tea. The kettle shrieked. "When do you go north, Jay? Friday
morning?"