The customer who had been standing behind Slaton, a well-dressed elderly man, shoved his tea and fudge in front of Prudence Bloom. She ran it through the scanner, distracted as she did so. After ringing the man up, she stood staring at the rack behind him, forgetting to give him his total.
The customer patiently leaned forward, trying to see the display on the cash register. “Four pounds, six?” he queried. “Is that right?”
The question broke her trance. “What? Oh, yeah. That’s right.”
He pulled a handful of change from his pocket.
“Did you see that bloke in front of you,” she asked, “the one that just left?”
“Yes, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“It was him,” she said with certainty.
“Who?”
“Him!” Prudence pointed to a rack of newspapers behind her customer.
Every front page blazed with pictures of the terrorist fellow the police had been after. The man looked, then turned to Prudence, his skepticism evident.
“You saw him better than I did, but …” he ran a hand obviously over his own thin crown, “he had less up here than I do.” He pointed to the photograph, “This fellow’s got a full head. And he doesn’t wear glasses.”
Doubt settled in as Prudence studied the face in the newspapers. Obviously wanting to move things along, the man grabbed one and handed it to her. She studied it up close.
The customer had clearly had enough. He squirreled together the exact change, dropped it on the counter, and put the tea and fudge in a bag himself. He bid her, “Good day, miss,” with mock politeness.
“Good day,” she said, not looking up. Fortunately there were no other customers in line.
Prudence spotted a phone number at the bottom of the article, one to call in order to give information. She bit her bottom lip. Anybody could put on a pair of glasses, she reasoned. He was right about the bald spot, though. Nothing was mentioned about a reward. But still, if she could be the one to nab a killer like this! What a story to tell her boyfriend Angus and his mates. She picked up the phone next to the cash register and dialed.
“Crime Line,” said a young man.
“Yes,” she said excitedly, “I’ve seen the man you’re looking for!”
“Which man is that, ma’am?”
“The killer, that terrorist bloke! He’s in all the papers, he is!”
“Right. And your name is?”
“Prudence. Prudence Bloom. I run the till at Hartson’s Grocery in Loughton. I just saw him, right here in front o’ me!”
“Can you describe him?”
“Well, he looked just like the picture here in the paper.”
“How tall?”
She thought hard. “Six-foot, I suppose. More or less. But it was him! I’m lookin’ at the picture right now. Add the glasses, and take some hair off the top.”
“Sorry?”
“He had glasses. And there was some hair gone on top, not like in the picture. But it was him all right.”
Fortunately for Prudence Bloom, she couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face. The hotline operator took down information for five minutes. When he was done, he promised that someone would drop by to investigate.
“I hope it’ll be soon,” she said, looking suspiciously toward the street. “He could still be right outside.”
The operator tossed Prudence Bloom’s report into a stack of seven others he’d taken in the last hour. And there were nine men and women filtering calls behind him. “As soon as we can, ma’am.”
“As soon as we can” turned into two hours. The officer in charge of the hotline operation was handed the most promising prospects immediately. If he concurred that they were worth checking, an investigative unit was instantly dispatched to gather more information. Once the priority tips were handled, he waded through the other ninety-five percent. He read Prudence Bloom’s information and yawned. The fact that the suspect was now balding didn’t even register a chuckle. So far today, the suspect had been seen with a red Mohawk, two hundred extra pounds, and in one case had somehow transformed himself into a black woman.
The supervisor wasn’t particularly excited by what he read, but the standing orders were to check out everything. He also had the advantage of manpower. Virtually every policeman in the city was working this weekend, like it or not. He put the report in a queue, and eventually a copy was faxed to the local division.
When Constable Vickers walked into Hartson’s Grocery, Prudence Bloom was getting ready to go home. She was upset it had taken so long, but the cashier told her story all the same. She’d seen someone who matched the pictures in the paper, albeit with a few adjustments. Beyond that, the patrolman garnered only one other useful scrap — when the man had gone out, he’d turned right. As Vickers departed, a frustrated Prudence Bloom was explaining everything to her manager and asking for the next day off.
Vickers had nothing more to do, so he turned right as well. He spoke to a few of the merchants down the street and showed them a picture, but nobody remembered the man. He was ready to give up when he came upon the Forest Arms Hotel. He went in and made his pitch at the front desk, with no luck, then moved to the bell stand.
He held up the picture to the man on duty.
“Seen this fellow? Maybe missing some hair on top and with a set of thick brown-framed eyeglasses?”
The bellman thought. “Well, like that … I s’pose it looks a bit like the chap up in 37. He came in a couple of hours ago.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Two shopping bags, I think.”
Vickers smiled. He’d found his suspect. That would make his sergeant happy. It always made them look on the ball when they could call back to headquarters and tell them to strike one off the list. He took the lift to the third floor, found Number 37 and knocked loudly. There was no answer. He frowned and went back down to the front desk, wondering if they’d let him have a look without a warrant.
“Who’s in Number 37?” he asked.
The desk clerk looked at her log. “That would be Mr. Forger, the Belgian. Is there a problem?” The clerk looked nervous. She had obviously made the connection as to who Vickers was asking about.
“When did he get here?”
“Two days ago. I checked him in. He paid cash in advance, through the weekend. I—”
A shrill, pulsating screech cut off all normal conversation.
“What’s that?” Vickers yelled.
“The fire alarm!”
A hysterical maid came running down the stairs. “Fire!” she screamed. “Number 36! There’s smoke coming from under the door!”
The clerk called the fire department.
“Bloody hell!” Vickers stammered. He drew out his two-way and called the station.
Benjamin Jacobs was at home. It felt strange after spending so many years on the move, traveling abroad, dashing from a speech here to a committee meeting there. His days and nights running the country had been spent mostly at the Prime Minister’s Residence in Jerusalem, with occasional forays to Tel Aviv. And twice a year Jacobs would stray to the requisite oxymoron of a “working vacation,” typically a resort with magnificent views, wide-ranging recreation opportunities, and no chance to enjoy any of it. On the few occasions when Jacobs had tried to sneak back to his own house, it was invariably surrounded by the media. They clicked and clamored, hoping for a sound bite or a picture — some snippet that could be turned into either a meaningful diplomatic signal or an awkward personal gaffe. The latter usually got better ratings. Jacobs swore he didn’t miss any of it.