I didn’t bother to protest, however, and he went on, talking to the wall rather than to me. “Not the two of them. Harris was running the laundered money through Wright’s account to make it look like Wright’s deal. She was blackmailing him with the fact that no one would believe it was her, since it was his office, and his account. Cooper’s had begun to worry about the number of aborted deals, which said ‘money laundering’ to them, but they couldn’t find any evidence—unsurprising, since he wasn’t doing anything. All the same, they were nervous enough to get rid of him. It was only then, or so he claims, that he decided to cut himself in on the deal. In return for taking Harris with him to his new office, he made her kick back a percentage.” He finally looked at me. “How did you know? The handwriting in the diary I get, but how did you make the leap?”
I considered. How had I known? I thought of the three men standing over me the night before. They all knew I was a perfectly intelligent human being, but the moment I was unable to articulate, they were united without a word spoken, no benefit of doubt entered their minds. So, “She was a woman. And she was in a subordinate position.” I tried not to sound accusing. “Men don’t pay attention to women. They rarely wonder what women do, and they never wonder at all what they think. If you’re a secretary…” I shrugged. “Cooper’s didn’t believe Wright even though they must have known he was a—” I thought back to my single encounter with the man—“a dim-bulb blowhard. I never met Tiffanie Harris, but it’s clear now she is very intelligent. But she is a secretary, and she spells her name with an ‘ie.’” I carefully didn’t look at Helena. “When it was a choice between the two, everyone automatically assumed the man was in charge. Was smarter, was the one who would be running a successful money-laundering scheme.”
I thought about it some more. “And then there was Wright phoning the courier company. He just wouldn’t have. That’s what men like him have wives and secretaries for—to do the boring jobs men think are beneath them. Wright doesn’t pick up his dry-cleaning, or buy his own loo paper, he doesn’t book couriers. Men like him don’t.”
Jake nodded. “They were both women. We’ve got the contact in Vernet, too, and it was Alemán’s assistant, Devora Vargas. The two of them were running it together, and when Alemán came to see Wright, they knew that the fraud had been uncovered, and arranged for him to be killed. Vargas’s brother is in jail in Marseille, and that’s the most likely how they found a contract killer. All seemed fine, then, until Kit’s book came along. Harris was afraid the information it contained would put NCIS back on the trail, and so she arranged for someone to hold up the courier. That was all she’d planned, but the courier’s bike skidded in the rain. That’s what she told Wright, anyway. And now Wright is petrified, and is telling us everything he knows.”
We sat silently for a few minutes.
“How old is she?” I asked suddenly.
“Late thirties, early forties. Your age, give or take.” His mouth quirked, but he didn’t add anything else.
Neither did I. I didn’t think he’d missed the point. Not too much. Or he wouldn’t too often. Probably.
Epilogue
I’d been back at home for a few days. I’d read, and dozed. I wasn’t ready to go into the office yet, and deal with the curiosity of my colleagues. Mr. Rudiger made me meals, which he brought downstairs with all the pride of a child taking its first steps. After his trip to the hospital he had not gone outside again, but my flat was now apparently an extension of his domain upstairs, and thus safe to visit. I was grateful. He was a good cook, and I welcomed the company. It meant I didn’t have to think too much.
It was late afternoon. I was lying on the sofa, reading my favorite book in the whole world, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, for probably the twentieth time. Comfort reading, mashed potatoes for the mind. Bim was playing in the garden with Kay, and his squeals of pleased laughter blew in the window with the spring-like weather. I was as close to calm as I’d managed to achieve for a while.
It was all superficial. The doorbell rang, and I jumped so violently my book flew across the room. Kay was in the garden, and it was too embarrassing to run up and tell Mr. Rudiger I was afraid. I had to answer it, and my palms were starting to sweat. I sat waiting, but the bell went on and on. By the time I got to the front door I was pretty sure who was on the other side. No one else in the world rang a doorbell that aggressively. But I couldn’t risk opening the door. I stood frozen on the mat.
The bell kept ringing. I had to do something. My first attempt was useless. My voice had completely vanished. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes?” I called through the door.
“Stop being silly, Sam, and open up.” I was right. Kit.
I opened the door and we stood looking at each other. I’d seen him briefly in hospital, but he had gone home sooner than I had. He’d had a week more of Davies’ ministrations, but it had cleaned itself out of his system much faster than it had from mine.
“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” I ventured.
“The newest spa treatment: Get a wacko to abduct you.” He was preening, really quite pleased with himself.
We went in, and I made coffee. When I brought it in to the sitting room, Kit took his cup and said cheerfully, “Now, I’m here because I want to talk to you about something serious.”
I nodded.
“Being abducted is one thing, but being unconscious for a week just makes me feel foolish.”
I nodded some more. I had no idea where Kit was headed.
“So,” he said, clapping his hands together briskly. “I’m going to tell everyone that Davies was a crazed sex attacker, and I can’t say what happened during that week only because it was too perverted for public consumption.”
I stared at him. Then, “Are you serious?”
He smiled benevolently at me.
“You are. You’re serious. You’re going to make this into a comic turn.” I hadn’t laughed for a week, but I couldn’t stop now. I was heading toward hysteria. Kit began to get worried, and went into the kitchen to get me some water. By the time he came back, I was more or less under control, but still shaken by giggles. “A crazed sex attacker.” Just saying it set me off again.
“Sam. Pay attention.”
With an effort I straightened my face. “I am. You weren’t unconscious, you were the recipient of kinky sex, your stalker’s deviant lust object.”
He looked pleased. “That’s it. OK, hon, I’ve got to run. Talk to you later.”
He was gone, and I sat smiling at nothing, feeling better than I had in weeks.
About the Author
Judith Flanders is the international bestselling author of The Invention of Murder and one of the foremost social historians of the Victorian era. She is a contributor to The Daily Telegraph, The Guardian, The Spectator, and The Times Literary Supplement. Before turning her hand to writing, Judith worked as an editor for various publishing houses, including the publications department of the National Portrait Gallery, London. She lives in London. Visit her online at www.judithflanders.co.uk. Or sign up for email updates here.
Also by Judith Flanders
A Circle of Sisters: Alice Kipling, Georgiana Burne-Jones, Agnes Poynter, and Louisa Baldwin
The Victorian House: Domestic Life from Childbirth to Deathbed
Consuming Passions: Leisure and Pleasure in Victorian Britain
The Invention of Murder: How the Victorians Revelled in Death and Detection and Created Modern Crime
The Victorian City: Everyday Life in Dickens’ London
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Contents
Title Page
Cop
yright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Judith Flanders
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A MURDER OF MAGPIES. Copyright © 2014 by Judith Flanders. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
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Cover design and illustration by Kimberly Glyder Design Typewriter graphic © Bloomua/Shutterstock.com
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Flanders, Judith.
A murder of magpies / Judith Flanders.—First U.S. edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-05645-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6028-5 (e-book)
1. Women detectives—Fiction. 2. Book editors—Fiction. 3. Women authors—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6106.L365M87 2015
823'.92—dc23
2014034042
e-ISBN 9781466860285
First published in Great Britain as Writers’ Block by Allison & Busby
First U.S. Edition: February 2015
A Murder of Magpies Page 24