“God, that’s horrible. Where did it happen?”
“Near Covent Garden,” said Doyle.
“In broad daylight?”
“It’s when most crimes occur, miss.”
“Where does Miss Jones work?” asked Greenleaf.
“She’s a civil servant,” said Tessa.
“DTI,” said Rachel. “On Victoria Street somewhere.”
“Right at the start of Victoria Street,” Tessa added.
“Number one-sixteen or one-eighteen, something like that.”
Again, Greenleaf and Doyle exchanged a glance. Victoria Street... that was a bit close to the Conference Centre.
“How has she seemed lately?” asked Greenleaf. “I mean, has she been worried about anything?”
The women shrugged. “What’s that got to do with her being mugged?” asked Tessa.
“Nothing,” said Greenleaf. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Look,” said Rachel, “if she was mugged but she’s all right... just what exactly are you doing here?”
There was no answer to that, so Greenleaf supplied one.
“Just routine, like I say, miss, in cases like this. We like to check afterwards to see whether the victim’s remembered anything else.”
“Oh, like a description?”
“That’s it, yes.”
Doyle rose to his feet. “Anyway, we would like to talk to Miss Jones when she gets back.” He took a card from his wallet. “Maybe she could give us a call. Or if she gets in touch with you...”
“Yes, we’ll let you know,” said Tessa, accepting the card.
“We’d appreciate it,” said Doyle. “Good-bye, Miss Maguire. We’ll leave you to get on with your laundry and your crack dealing.”
Rachel Maguire managed a weak smile.
“Bye, miss,” said Greenleaf. Tessa accompanied the two policemen to the door. “Oh,” said Greenleaf, “I put your mail on the table there.”
“Thanks, bills probably.”
“Probably,” agreed Greenleaf. “And a postcard, too.”
“Oh?” She glanced towards the table.
“Good-bye, Miss Briggs.”
“Yes, good night,” said Tessa Briggs. “Sorry we couldn’t be” — the door closed — “more help.”
Doyle put both hands to his eyes and rubbed. “And so,” he said, “another long day comes to an end. Time for you to buy me a drink.” He started off towards the front gate.
“I told Elder I’d phone him,” said Greenleaf.
“Why?”
“To let him know if we found anything.”
“It can wait till tomorrow.”
“The summit starts tomorrow.”
“Really? Somehow that’d slipped my mind.”
Greenleaf closed the gate after them. “She works on Victoria Street.”
“I know.”
“It’s a bit of a coincidence.”
“Look, a woman called Christine Jones gets mugged near Covent Garden. Elder’s so paranoid he sees Witch round every corner. We’ve checked, and as far as we can tell, her story’s straight.” Doyle unlocked the passenger door, then went around to the driver’s side, unlocked it, and got in.
“She beat off the attackers,” added Greenleaf. “We should’ve asked her housemates if she had any training. Maybe I’ll just—”
“You go back there and you’re walking home.” Doyle waited until Greenleaf had settled in the passenger seat and closed his door. “I’ll say one thing for Elder,” he murmured, “he really did get the car cleaned.” Not that this impressed Doyle: he liked his car to smell like a car, which in his mind meant cigarette smoke, fumes, and old bits of discarded chewing gum. Now, the interior smelled of air freshener and polish. He lit a cigarette. Greenleaf wound down his window.
“Come on,” complained Doyle, “we’ll freeze.”
“Shirley complains when I go home smelling like an ashtray.”
“Jesus,” said Doyle. He took two long drags on the cigarette, then opened his own window long enough to flick it out. “Satisfied?” he said. “Now wind your window back up.”
Greenleaf did so, and Doyle started the car. “There’s a pub in Islington, you won’t believe the beer.”
“We should call into Paddy Green, see if they’ve put together a lineup for McKillip.”
“After we’ve had a drink,” Doyle insisted. He sounded irritated; maybe it was the phrase Paddy Green... The car pulled away from the curb.
“What’s that?” said Greenleaf.
“What’s what?”
Greenleaf had caught sight of something in the side mirror. There was a noise, like a yell. He turned around and looked out of the rear windscreen. Tessa Briggs was leaning over the gate, calling something, waving something.
“Stop the car,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“It’s Tessa Briggs.” Greenleaf wound his window back down and Tessa, having opened the gate, ran to the car.
“God, I thought you weren’t going to stop!”
“What is it, Miss Briggs?”
“This.” She handed a postcard through the window. “It’s supposed to be from Chris. Postmarked Saturday.”
“Supposed?” said Greenleaf.
“That’s nothing like her writing,” said Tessa. “Now tell me, please, what the hell is going on?”
Greenleaf read the card and handed it to Doyle, who read the greeting out aloud.
“‘Hard work but fun. See you soon. C.’” He turned the card over, then back again. “And it’s printed.”
Tessa was shaking her head. “Nothing like Chris’s writing,” she said. “And she wouldn’t print a message anyway.”
“Wild goose chase?” Greenleaf asked. “‘Greetings from Auchterarder.’ She’s got some nerve.”
Doyle studied the card yet again, then looked up at his partner.
“Better phone Elder,” he said.
“Where are you phoning from?” asked Dominic Elder into the mouthpiece.
“From home, Doyle just dropped me off.”
Elder was lying on his bed in his hotel room, an arm over his eyes. There were no lights on in the room, but the orange glare of the street lighting penetrated the curtains, exacerbating his migraine. He was tired, dog-tired. He knew he needed rest. For the first time, he felt real homesickness for his little cottage, its cozy den, his slumber chair.
“So what do you think?” asked Greenleaf. He’d already told Elder about the postcard.
“It’s such a giveaway, obviously we weren’t supposed to find it until the end of the mission. Meaning the mission must be soon.”
“Think she knows we’re onto her?”
“That depends on whether she needs to get in touch with our friend the Dutchman. Someone’s monitoring the hotel switchboard. The two constables who brought her in say they didn’t mention anything about a Dutchman being arrested, but then they could be lying.”
“You’re suggesting my colleagues might be covering themselves rather than telling the truth?”
“If they didn’t say anything, chances are she doesn’t know. She wasn’t anywhere near CID, which is where our Dutchman was. All the same, if she was so close to him, I can’t help feeling she’ll know.”
“Then she’ll know how close we are to her?”
“And how close is that, John?”
“We know who she’s pretending to be. Key to a lockup, missing civil servant. We’ll find Christine Jones in a garage somewhere.”
“Somewhere around Hackney.”
“If your hunch about the A-Z is right, yes.”
“Don’t forget, Barclay found the A-Z.”
“I won’t forget. But whose snitch was it found the Dutchman in the first place?”