by Kris Langman
She paused again. Daniel looked more interested in the cigarette he was fishing out of his shirt pocket than in what she was saying. Anne fought a minor skirmish with her temper. This jerk was facing a murder charge. Didn’t he care whether he went to jail?
“I’m not supposed to go into the office,” Daniel said finally. “Not until this mess is cleared up. Condition of my bail.”
“Did they take away your ID, your access card?”
“No. I still have all that shit. I can get into the office, I guess. I’m just not supposed to. Restricted movement the police called it. I’m supposed to stay here at the flat. I can go to Mum’s house or to the club. That’s about it. Can’t leave town, which sucks. Teddy is having a little get together at his place in Oxfordshire this weekend. He always has the best stuff, straight from Columbia. Plus I hear he’s flying in some hookers from Hong Kong. Real high-class call girl types.”
Anne ignored Daniel’s look of intense self-pity. “Will you show the picture around or not?”
“Yeah, sure,” Daniel said resignedly. “Doubt that it will do much good though. If you’re thinking that the doc killed Jimmy I think you’re heading up the wrong road. Davidson protects his own ass. He’s a master at it. He wouldn’t do the murder thing. It would put his precious self in too much jeopardy.”
“Maybe. But it’s worth a try. As soon as I get hold of a picture I’ll drop it off at the reception desk downstairs.” She stood up and handed him a business card. “This is my office number. Call me if you get any results.”
“What then?”
“Then we tell the police. Try to point them at Dr. Davidson. I’ve tried to tell them my suspicions about him, but they seemed determined to focus on you.”
Daniel had been walking toward the front door, but now he paused and looked back at her, an oily expression creeping into his drunken eyes. “You seem damn certain that I didn’t kill my brother. Has it ever occurred to you that you’re making this whole thing too complicated? Maybe no one stole that paperweight off my desk. Maybe I just tucked it into my pocket and walked out with it. Maybe I went to visit Jimmy when he was dead drunk, which was most of the time, and smashed his head in. Maybe I took his worthless little body out to Greenwich and dumped it in the river.”
Chapter Thirteen
Anne pulled the fern leaf out of her ear for the third time. It insisted on poking her like a toddler in a bid for attention. She was crouched next to a potted palm and hidden from view – she hoped – by two large maidenhair ferns which were badly in need of pruning. Lindsey was sitting forty feet away at one of the Café Barbican’s outdoor tables, checking her makeup with a compact mirror. Dr. Davidson had gone to collect their drinks. The Jose Carreras recital at the Barbican Center was starting in twenty minutes and concert-goers were clustered around the Barbican’s central courtyard, smoking, drinking, watching the ducks paddle by in the artificial lake, or admiring the twelfth century façade of St. Giles church. St. Giles was the only pre-1960 structure in the Barbican, and resembled an old woman who had refused to move out of her home despite having her neighborhood invaded by rambunctious newcomers.
Anne re-checked the zoom lens on her camera. It was at its highest setting. She should get a good head shot. Fortunately the recital was an afternoon matinee, so there was plenty of light. She had practiced with the camera in her flat, taking several not-for-the-scrapbook pictures of her living room wall. The clicking sound of the camera had been barely noticeable. She double checked the flash setting. It was switched off. There was nothing to alert anyone to her presence.
Except the duck. A fat mallard waddled up and planted itself at her feet, quacking loudly. It expected breadcrumbs, and when they were not forthcoming it didn’t hesitate to voice a complaint. Anne nudged it with her toe. The duck took issue with this and increased the volume. Several people looked in her direction, including Lindsey. Anne hadn’t told Lindsey about this little adventure, and wasn’t thrilled at the idea of having to explain to her coworker why she was hiding behind a fern kicking a duck.
She bent down lower and tried to reason with the duck, who was having none of it. It pecked at the soles of her Nikes, hesitantly at first, then with gusto. Apparently rubber was a tasty duck snack. Anne gave it another nudge, which only served to inflame its appetite. Finally she scooped the duck up with both hands and gave it a toss toward the lake. It gave an outraged squawk and flapped its wings in protest before assuming a dignified pose on the algae-strewn surface of the water.
Anne peered cautiously through the ferns. Dr. Davidson had returned, bearing two glasses of Guinness, and Lindsey set her compact mirror down. The doctor looked different, and for a moment Anne couldn’t pin down the change. Then she realized that he was smiling. Not a full-fledged grin, but teeth were definitely showing. It looked so unnatural on his usually immobile face that she was amazed Lindsey didn’t jump up and run away screaming.
She raised her camera as the doctor sat down. He was turned sideways to her. She snapped a profile shot just for the heck of it. He stretched an arm along the table, one finger tracing the back of Lindsey’s hand. Anne could feel her stomach turn at the sight. She wondered if he genuinely liked Lindsey, or if he was just making use of her. Their conversation at Lady Soames’ house in Regents Park was burned into her mind. The Lindsey Problem had been torturing her ever since. She didn’t think Lindsey was in any direct danger, but that didn’t stop her from worrying.
There. The doctor had turned in her direction. She aimed the camera at him and took four shots in quick succession, then sat down cross-legged on the ground and checked her watch. She had about a ten minute wait before the crowd on the patio dispersed and made its way into the theater. She shifted on the cold concrete, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. Five minutes into the wait a tiny toy poodle appeared around the side of the potted palm. It gave Anne a disgusted look and lifted its leg, wetting the pot with a miniscule stream of liquid before trotting off again.
* * * *
It had been two days since she’d dropped off the pictures of Dr. Davidson at Butler’s Wharf. Two days without hearing anything from Daniel. Anne was beginning to wonder if he’d forgotten all about their arrangement. Finally, on Friday morning she received a call at work.
“It’s me.”
Anne frowned at the phone. “Who is this?”
“Soames,” said the voice impatiently.
“Oh. Daniel. I didn’t recognize your voice. How did it go?”
“Barber recognized him.”
“Barber?”
“Yeah. Barber. The guy who sits next to me. Not the brightest bulb on the tree, but he says he saw Davidson sit down at my desk, you know, like he was waiting for me. He stayed for a minute or so then left.”
“What day was this?”
“What?”
Anne sighed. “What day did Barber see Dr. Davidson? The date.”
“Oh. Didn’t ask him.”
Anne dropped her head into her right hand and began yanking at her hair. “I’d like to talk to Barber. Do you think you could arrange that?”
“Yeah, I guess. Where?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anywhere in the City is fine.”
Anne perched on a stool in Starbucks, watching the pedestrians pass by along Bishopsgate. The men all wore tailored blue suits and the women all wore black pantsuits. Anne watched in vain for a deviation from this dress code. It robbed everyone of individuality, causing them to blend in with the rain-soaked gray streets and the overcast sky. Across the street black cabs formed a line in front of Deutsche Bank. Every so often a fund manager would rush out of the building and leap into a cab, chatting away to an invisible companion, his omnipresent cell phone headset nearly invisible.
Anne wrapped her hands around her Vanilla Latte. The steam rose up and tickled her nose, while the newspaper wielded by the man on the stool next to her tickled her cheek. She scooted away from him and checked her watch. Nearly noon. Daniel and ‘Barber’
were late. She’d give them another twenty minutes and then she had to get back to the office. It was a good thing that her employers at the Franklin Group weren’t the hands-on type of managers. They generally let her set her own schedule as long as she got her projects done on time. Her immediate supervisor wasn’t even in the country this week. He was at the company’s headquarters in Los Angeles, enjoying warm breezes and sunny skies, Anne thought bitterly, as she watched yet more rain come down and rush into the gutters. Huge puddles were forming at the street corners where drains were blocked. Pedestrians were having limited success at jumping the wider puddles. Anne winced in sympathy as one woman hesitated at the curb, ready to take the leap, only to be engulfed by a wave of water as a black cab sped merrily by and parted the puddle like the red sea.
“Hey, it’s us.”
Anne turned. Daniel and an innocuous looking young man wearing the omnipresent blue suit, presumably Barber, were standing behind her. She hopped off her stool at the counter and led the way over to a small wobbly table. She set her latte down but then snatched it up again as the table listed, threatening to slosh half her drink into Daniel’s lap. He and Barber were both carrying mochas. Daniel slurped his noisily, apparently unfamiliar with the concept of introductions. Anne sighed.
“Hi, I’m Anne. Thanks for coming.” She held out her hand, which Barber shook politely. She realized it was just a surface impression, but he seemed a better sort than Daniel. Less rude, less self-involved. He sat patiently, waiting for her to continue.
“Um,” she said, uncertain how to begin. “Are you aware of Daniel’s problem?”
“His arrest? Sure. The whole office is talking about it. The police came and searched his desk. I was there at the time and they asked me a couple of questions. Had I worked with him long, did I know his family, that kind of thing. It seemed pretty serious, in fact, I was kind of surprised when they let him out on bail.” Barber reddened and avoided looking at Daniel, who seemed unconcerned. He had finished his mocha and was busily lighting up a Marlborough, ignoring the disgusted looks from the next table.
“Great,” said Anne. “It helps that you’re aware of the situation. I won’t go into all the details, but I think that someone else is responsible for the murder of Daniel’s brother.”
“This guy in the picture that Daniel showed me.”
“Exactly. You say you saw him at Daniel’s desk. Are you sure it was him?”
“Definitely. It’s the hair. Not many people have hair that color. It’s so pale it’s almost white. Anyway, as I told Daniel, this guy came into the office, sat down at Daniel’s desk and waited there for a few minutes, then left. It stuck in my mind, because we don’t get that many visitors coming into our area. You have to have an employee ID card to get past the barrier down in the lobby. If you don’t have a card then you have to register at the front desk and they give you a visitor’s pass.”
Anne’s head snapped up at the word ‘register’ and she looked over at Daniel to see if he had caught the significance of it. As usual, he was clueless. Anne mentally rolled her eyes heavenward.
“This registering of visitors, is it written down somewhere?”
“Sure,” said Barber. “In a notebook at the receptionist’s desk. They write down the person’s name, who they’re visiting, the time and the date.”
“Barber,” Anne began. “Sorry, that was rude. I’m afraid I don’t know your first name.”
“Timothy.”
“Timothy, would you be willing to talk to someone at the Bishopsgate police station? There’s an Inspector Beckett there who’s working on this case. I need you to tell her what you just told me.”
“Sure, if you think it will help.”
“Great. It’s just around the corner from here, across from Liverpool Street station. Why don’t we go over there right now?”
Chapter Fourteen
The notebook was missing. Inspector Beckett had called with this unnerving, not to mention frustrating, news an hour ago. Anne sat at her desk, staring blankly at the specifications from NatWest Bank which she was supposed to be turning into code. She, Daniel, and Timothy Barber had all trooped over to the Bishopsgate police station and reported to Inspector Beckett. Timothy had described the visit Dr. Davidson had made to Daniel’s desk, and had even remembered the date: February 5 , ten days before Jimmy Soames had been found floating in the Thames. The Inspector had listened politely, if not avidly, and had sent DC Singh over to Daniel’s office to retrieve the visitor’s notebook. DC Singh returned with the news that the notebook used during the month of February had been lost. The receptionist had replaced it with a new one.
“We still have Mr. Barber’s statement,” the Inspector had said during her brief phone call to Anne. “It does place the doctor at Daniel’s office, giving him access to the paperweight which was used to bludgeon James Soames. However, I have to remind you that Daniel Soames could have taken that paperweight from his own desk at any time. It’s also possible that Daniel Soames bribed Mr. Barber to come forward with this story about seeing the doctor at Daniel’s desk. We’ve done considerable digging into Mr. Soames’ background, and he has a habit of throwing money around when it suits his needs. I have to say, Miss Lambert, that you appear to be somewhat obsessed with the idea that John Davidson is involved in this matter. Your behavior is bordering on harassment. I suggest you back off and let us handle things. All you’re doing is giving the doctor enough ammunition to file a libel charge against you.”
Anne ground her teeth as she replayed the phone call in her head. The frustration of not being believed was mounting to the boiling point. Dr. Davidson was a threat, she was sure of it. To herself, and possibly to Lindsey as well. It was guilt which was driving her, she knew. Guilt at getting Lindsey involved in this. She got up from her desk, shoving the chair back so abruptly that it banged against the wall behind her.
“Dude, easy on the furniture.” Nick came in, munching on a cherry Danish. Crimson syrup dripped from his chin onto his Van Halen t-shirt. He gave the sticky mess an ineffectual swipe with a paper napkin, turning Eddie Van Halen’s face bright red. “You look all stressed out. How come you’re in such a bad mood on this beautiful day?”
Anne raised her eyebrows and glanced pointedly at the rain streaking down the windows, but the sarcasm of the moment was lost on Nick. He flopped down in his chair and started typing, oblivious to the red blobs of syrup flying across his keyboard. The office supply cabinet was littered with his victims, the last an expensive ergonomic keyboard which was brought down by the whipped cream atop a full mug of hazelnut mocha. Anne sighed and went in search of Lindsey.
Voices drifted toward her as she approached the reception area. Anne poked her head around the corner. Lindsey was simultaneously talking on the phone and making conciliatory hand gestures at a gentleman standing in front of her. Three other people were seated in chairs against the walls. Next to the door a man and a woman were engrossed in a stack of pie charts, and in the corner a man sat by himself, blocked by a ficus tree. All Anne could see of him was a pair of trousers with creases as sharp as a knife edge. As she watched, the legs uncrossed and approached her. The doctor's white-blond hair glowed faintly blue under the florescent lights.
“Hello Anne.”
She stared at him impassively. “What are you doing here?” she asked finally.
“I’m taking Lindsey out to lunch,” Dr. Davidson replied calmly. “Why don’t you join us? We’re walking over to Chez Gerard on Bishopsgate.”
Anne glanced over at Lindsey, who waved at her before jumping up to escort a client down the hall. She turned back to the doctor. “All right,” she said, crossing her arms defiantly.
The doctor chuckled. He leaned in, the lapel of his jacket nearly touching her head. “I’m really not such a bad guy, you know,” he whispered.
Anne glared at him but didn’t answer. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lindsey’s lunchtime replacement take her seat at the reception desk. Lin
dsey returned a second later, already clad in her black trench coat.
“She’s too young for you, you know,” said Anne.
“Who, Lindsey?” The doctor glanced over at the reception desk, where Lindsey was bending over a computer screen, pointing something out to her replacement. “Nonsense. She’s twenty-five. I’m only in my early forties.”
“Well, then she’s too nice for you.” With that cheap but inadequate shot Anne ducked back down the hall to her office and snatched up her parka and purse. She waved goodbye to Nick, who was following up his cherry Danish with a container of cold pad thai. He was talking on the phone, and bits of food were flying across his desk like sawdust in a lumberyard. Anne dodged an incoming noodle and logged off her computer. When she reappeared in the reception area Lindsey and Dr. Davidson were standing arm-in-arm, the doctor murmuring something in her ear. Lindsey laughed and gave him a playful little push on the shoulder.
“John was just saying that you don’t seem to like him much,” she said to Anne with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I told him you just need to get to know him.”
“I don’t think that will help,” replied Anne, eyeing the doctor like a vegetarian told she’d learn to love steak tartare.
Lindsey smiled uncertainly at this. She looked about to reply, but then decided to let it go. She turned and led the way down the stairs and out into the rain. Anne pulled up her hood, following Lindsey and the doctor as they huddled together under his umbrella.