Something was wrong with Nora’s timeline, something that nagged at her. She looked back at the earliest notes at the top of the page. And there it was:
June 28: Car accident in Kensington. Jeff plants wallet, keys, camera on body; gives two notes to Solange with instructions; then goes to Bill Howard’s country house.
That wasn’t possible, was it? Jeff arranged the accident, yes, that much was true. But the notes from Solange were only necessary later, after Nora had been knocked down in Russell Square Gardens. That’s when Jeff decided to get Nora out of England to France, to Charles de Gaulle Airport. He wouldn’t have written the two notes until then, June 30, two days after the accident. If he had been already hiding out in the house in East Anglia-on the other side of England-on June 30, how had he managed to get two handwritten notes to Solange in London? And how on earth had Solange managed to get there so fast, waiting in the hotel lobby when Nora arrived, less than an hour after the attempted robbery in the park?
Unless…
Unless Solange had been a backup, plan B, a contingency plan in case Nora was in danger at any time after she was given the manila envelope. That’s the only way Jeff could have written the notes two days beforehand. He knew there might be trouble, so he had Craig Elder follow her, and he had Solange waiting to take over the babysitting duties in the hotel. Solange had the notes, if necessary; otherwise, she was simply supposed to guard Nora until Nora flew back to New York the next day.
But Nora had disrupted the schedule, getting out of the limousine and heading into the park instead of going straight back to the Byron as expected. Craig Elder had followed her there, and the terrorist, Yussuf, had been following her ever since she’d boarded the plane at Kennedy. When he showed himself and tried to steal her purse, plan B had immediately gone into play.
Now it all became clear. Except for one thing…
Solange had been Bill Howard’s new girlfriend. He was divorcing his wife of twenty-five years to marry her. He’d even bought the country house for her. If they had been so much in love, how could Bill Howard be the arms dealer?
That was what Nora now suspected. When the arms dealer had learned that Nora was being sent to France, he’d come up with a diversion, a phony but plausible way to get her to an isolated place, kill her, and bury her. The note instructing her to go to Pinède: Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. Aside from herself and Jeff, Bill Howard and his wife were the only people who knew about Pinède. And it was Bill Howard’s driver, Andy Gilbert, who’d met the terrorist in Leicester Square. He’s planning to move it out tomorrow. He was Bill Howard. Who else?
But Solange had been murdered, probably by the same assassin who’d waited for Nora in the cemetery. Could Bill Howard really be that cold-blooded? Could he have ordered the killing of his own lover, fiancée, future wife? No, it didn’t make any sense. Which left only one possibility.
Vivian.
Vivian Howard, Nora’s chic, funny, scatterbrained friend of fifteen years, a criminal mastermind? That was patently absurd. Vivian, bless her heart, could barely negotiate a white sale at Fortnum & Mason, let alone an illegal arms deal. She thought Red China was what you used with a black tablecloth, and she probably couldn’t find Iran or Iraq or Afghanistan on a map. If she ever met an Al Qaeda operative face-to-face, she’d ask him who designed his lovely kaffiyeh. No, Vivian was definitely not involved in this.
Nora had to assume that Bill was Mr. X. She had to assume that he’d had Solange killed. The people on the other end of the deal were presumably paying millions, much more than Bill Howard would ever see from Her Majesty’s government payroll, and that was a good motive. Untold wealth was always a good motive for just about anything.
She had to find Craig Elder.
There was no telephone in the apartment. Jeff had taken his cell with him, along with his computer. Craig had given her his phone number, so she decided to risk a trip outside, to find a pay phone in the neighborhood.
She was standing up from her husband’s desk, reaching for her coat, when she heard the sudden sound of a key in the lock of the apartment door. She froze, staring, as the door slowly swung open.
Chapter 32
It was the young woman Nora had seen emerging from the Jenner apartment downstairs and leaving the building. She bustled into the room, heavy plastic grocery bags dangling from each hand. She was turning toward the alarm panel when she saw Nora standing by the desk.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh dear, I beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t know anyone was home.”
Nora inhaled, getting over the shock. Then she managed a smile. “My husband isn’t here. He’s-away.”
The young woman nodded. “Yes, I know. Mrs. Noone, isn’t it? I recognize you from the snap next to his bed.”
Nora frowned, wondering when this pretty woman had seen the photo next to her husband’s bed. “And you’re Ms. Jenner?”
“Missus. Mrs. Jenner. Polly.”
“Nora,” Nora said, relieved. “Nora-um-Nora Noone.” She winced at the sound of that and then masked it with another smile. “And what are you doing here, Polly?”
Polly Jenner held up the grocery bags. “I do for him, don’t I? Weekly shopping, cleaning, and laundering. I’m the char for everyone else in the building-they’re all men, you know-and today it’s Mr. Noone.”
“Oh, I see,” Nora said, and now she was very relieved. Looking at the bags, she said, “Let me guess: frozen fried chicken dinners, canned-I mean, tinned-soup, microwave popcorn, Diet Coke, oatmeal, and strawberry yogurt.”
Polly burst into a grin. “You forgot the chocky chip biscuits.”
Nora nodded. “Of course. He dips them in the yogurt.”
“That he does! There’s also fresh fruit and veg for salad, and salad dressing.”
Nora widened her eyes, impressed. “Those must be your idea, not his.”
“Yup! I told him to eat salad and fruit every day, and he minds me. My Danny is the same-what is it with men and fresh veg? You’d think we were trying to poison them! Danny works for Vauxhall, you know, autos. Well, let me put all this away, then I’ll see to the cleaning.” She headed for the kitchen.
Nora followed her. “I just made a pot of coffee. Have some. Let’s sit down for a bit before you start working.”
“Ta.” Polly quickly emptied the bags and stowed everything in the refrigerator and cabinets. Then she found a cup and poured. They sat at the kitchen table.
“So, when did you last see, um, my husband?” Nora asked. She wondered if he’d told this woman his first name or if he’d invented one. Better not to chance it, she thought; I’ll just call him Mr. Noone.
“Hmm, that would be three days ago-no, four. Four days ago. I met him on the stairs as he was going out, around teatime. He had a bag with him, you know, a big valise. He said he’d be away for a few days. A computer convention in Nottingham.”
Nora nodded. So, he’d given Polly Jenner the usual cover story. Mr. Noone was in electronics.
“Oh, and he came back that night,” Polly went on. “Very late it was too-midnight, by my bedside clock. Danny and me was wakened by a loud thump from the ceiling, and then we heard footsteps walkin’ round up here. A few minutes later the door opened and closed, and he came away down the stairs. I figured he must’ve forgot somethin’ he needed for his trip.”