Bloody London by Reggie Nadelson

Author:Reggie Nadelson [Nadelson, Reggie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery & Crime
ISBN: 9781409007500
Publisher: Random House
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Part Two

London, November

19

A faint oystery light smudged the November sky outside the window. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I was in London, it was freezing cold and I couldn’t figure how the heat worked. I ran for the shower fast, the tiled floors bare, me hopping around like a fly on a cake of ice. It was early, before seven, and I’d slept lousy after I got into London the night before, restless, displaced, tainted sleep.

At least the water was hot, and I stood under it and let it steam me back to life. Then I put on clean clothes. In my suitcase was the photograph of Thomas Pascoe. Why Pascoe died, the big picture, was here in London. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming, not even Lily. I had to get my head screwed on straight. I wanted to know how she was connected to the Pascoe case and why she kept his portrait in her kid’s closet. She left New York in a big hurry three days after the case broke. Maybe it really was because I was on the job. Maybe it was that simple and she was pissed off at me, or scared for me, but I didn’t call her, not yet. I put it off.

If Lily was here in London – and she was here – Phillip Frye was back in her life. It was Frye who called her the day after Pascoe died. Frye who offered her a job. Frye who could sucker Lily with a call. It was only a job, she said. Said she’d finished with Frye years ago. Now, I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

Jacket on, collar up, I went into the kitchen, made some instant because it’s all there was; standing in front of the glass door to the balcony, I drank the putrid brew out of a blue and white mug. There was a radio and I switched it on. A woman’s voice, poised but icy, talked politics.

The apartment in the renovated warehouse was sleek as a ship’s cabin. Light wood floors, white walls, an open kitchen, a table and chairs, the bedroom with the bed, the white tiled bathroom. The balcony hung over a promenade along the river. I shoved open the balcony door.

The fog seemed to lie over the town like old soft rags; it draped itself on my hands and face and left them wet. London wrapped in its traditional weather. What else could a tourist want? I laughed and finished the coffee. Then I looked up at the roof.

The security was good: discreet video cameras, an alarm system. Anyone who got in – whoever left the dummy for me to find the night before – knew his way around. I slammed the door. What was it the cabbie said when I landed, with London lit up by bonfires like a war zone? Guy Fawkes Night.

The dummy, the Guy they call it, lay inside on a white canvas chair.

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