The Danger Next Door (Anne Lambert Mysteries) Page 12

And the trap closed. She hadn’t seen it, hiding in the grass, and now it was fastened on her leg, its metal teeth drawing blood. Dr. Davidson watched her with a hungry expression.

  “Lindsey is a delight,” he said softly. “We got along famously at lunch the other day. In fact, we’re going out again next week. To a recital at the Barbican. Jose Carreras is singing. I’m picking her up at work. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”

  Anne didn’t reply. There was no point.

  “Well,” continued the doctor as he rose from his seat and adjusted his tie by a fraction of a millimeter, “I think we’re finished here. Lady Soames, it’s been a pleasure, as always.” He bent and grasped her hand briefly. “Anne, why don’t I see you out. Carstairs can give us both a ride home.” He approached Anne as if to help her out of her chair, but she ignored him.

  “Why did they arrest you?” she asked, looking straight at Daniel. He was so taken aback by the question that his face didn’t have time to assume its usual petulant expression.

  “The police found something in Greenwich, near where Jimmy was murdered,” he grudgingly replied. “A marble paperweight from my desk at work. A model of the Bank of England. The old man . . .” Lady Soames frowned at him. “. . . my father gave it to me when I started my first job. It had my fingerprints all over it, and some of Jimmy’s blood. They claim I hit him on the head with it and then dumped him in the river. I didn’t, of course.” The customary whine had returned to his voice. “I told them it must have been planted, but no one believes me.”

  “Planted by whom?” asked Anne.

  “By whoever killed Jimmy, of course.”

  “Of course it was planted,” Dr. Davidson broke in smoothly. “By one of Jimmy’s drug-dealing friends. A point Anne can mention when she talks to the police. Now, we should be going. Lady Soames has other appointments to keep.” He reached for Anne’s arm, but she twitched away from him.

  “Why wasn’t it found before now?” she asked Daniel.

  “What?” asked Daniel blankly.

  Anne struggled with the impatience which every conversation with Daniel seemed to generate. It was like coping with an extremely spoiled, lazy child. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Why didn’t the police find this paperweight weeks ago, when they first searched the crime scene?”

  “How would I know?” snapped Daniel, as if the topic had nothing to do with him. “Because the police are fuckin’ idiots, I expect.”

  “Daniel!” said Lady Soames sharply. She went over to him, hand raised. Anne expected her to give him a cuff on the head – he could certainly use one – but instead she smoothed down his hair. Daniel was not appreciative, and arched his back like an angry kitten. He launched himself from his chair and left the room in a huff. They could hear his footsteps echo along the stairway like a two-year old’s temper-tantrum stomps.

  Anne felt a chill in the room. She wasn’t saying her lines correctly, and she could tell that Lady Soames and Dr. Davidson were wondering if they should have chosen another actress for the part.

  “Miss Lambert,” began Lady Soames, but was interrupted by the doctor, who raised his hand like a cop stopping traffic. He helped Anne from her chair with more force than gallantry and escorted her from the room. When they reached the entrance hall Carstairs materialized as if on cue.

  “Shall I drive you back home Miss?”

  “No thank you,” said Anne, maneuvering so that Carstairs was between her and the doctor. “I think I’ll take a walk through the park. It’s a nice day for it.”

  “Now that is a shame,” said Dr. Davidson as Carstairs helped him on with his overcoat. “I was hoping we could talk on the ride back. There are a few things I want to discuss with you, and I don’t have time to feed the ducks. Ride back with me. You can go for a walk another time.”

  Anne crossed her arms, set for battle. She was about to reply when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Heavy black motorcycle boots appeared first, then grubby jeans and a black leather jacket –- the long fringe on its sleeves brushing the banister like a horse’s mane. As the man’s face came into view Anne suddenly remembered where she’d seen him. It was the man in the snapshot. The one she’d found in the flat in Soho.

  He clumped toward them, boots leaving bits of mud on the cream-colored rug. As he approached Anne noticed something silver dangling from his left ear. A razorblade.

  “Hey, sweetness,” he said, addressing Anne. “Did you get my note?”

  Anne’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “What note?” she managed to choke out.

  The man scratched his scruffy goatee and winked at her. “The note I left in your mailbox, darling.”

  “Oh,” Anne mouthed silently, suddenly keenly aware that Dr. Davidson was watching her.

  “I was thinking maybe we could take a walk in the park, talk a few things over. Won’t take long.” He waited, a slight smirk on his face, as if expecting someone to object to this suggestion. Which they did.

  “Miss Lambert, I really don’t think you should . . .” burst out Carstairs.

  The doctor chimed in with “Anne, this is not a person you should be associating with.”

  Anne waved them to silence. “I’m not wandering around the park with you. How about finding a café nearby, where we can talk.”

  “I don’t do cafes, honey.” A leather-clad arm threw itself around Anne’s shoulders. “There’s a pub down on Baker Street. The Slug and Lettuce. The glasses aren’t too clean, but the Guinness is straight off the boat from Dublin.”

  “Fine,” Anne spat out, throwing off his arm. She thanked Carstairs for her coat and led the way out the door.

  Anne squirmed on her barstool, peering with distaste at a copy of the pub’s food-spattered menu. The front cover boasted a fat slug crawling across what appeared to be a moldy green washcloth –- the beleaguered lettuce, presumably. The Slug and Lettuce plied its trade two doors down from the Sherlock Holmes museum, and its menu was geared toward the tourist. Lots of ‘ye olde’ and ‘traditional’. ‘Ye Olde Spotted Dick’ was the highlight of the dessert section. Serving something called ‘Spotted Dick’, in an establishment with the word ‘slug’ in its name. It was no wonder that British food had such a lousy reputation.

  Anne tucked the menu back between the salt and pepper shakers and ordered a coke. Her companion ordered a pint of Guinness and glugged half of it, wiping the foam off his chin with his jacket sleeve. Anne mentally rolled her eyes. Give him a bandana and he could star in a high-school remake of Easy Rider. A Peter Fonda wannabee. His mother must be so proud.

  “So, you wrote that anonymous note,” Anne said just to kick things off.

  “Nope, not me babe. I delivered it. I didn’t write it.” He tossed down the rest of his beer and waved his glass at the barman. “We haven’t been formally introduced. Name’s Billingsley, but you can call me Razor. All my friends do.” He stuck out a grimy hand, which Anne ignored.

  “Billingsley. Daniel’s friend. Didn’t the police suspect you of killing Jimmy Soames?”

  “Nah, that was all a mistake.” Down went the second Guinness. Anne began to wonder who was paying for this little rendezvous.

  Billingsley leaned in close to her. “That prick, that doctor, spun them a tale and they were stupid enough to listen. First he tried to pin it on me, and when that didn’t work he switched to Daniel.”

  “But, they have actual evidence against Daniel,” broke in Anne. “Some kind of paperweight with blood on it.”

  “Don’t care what they have. Daniel didn’t do it. Way too lazy to kill anyone, is our Daniel. Plus, bumping someone off means taking a bit of a risk, and Daniel never puts Daniel at risk.”

  Anne sipped her coke and mulled this over. The guy was probably right. She couldn’t imagine Daniel having the initiative or the guts to kill someone. He could have paid someone to do it, though. She eyed Billingsley warily, glad they were in a public place. “How did you and Daniel meet, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “No
t at all, darling. My life is an open book.” He put his non-Guinness-holding hand on Anne’s knee and leaned toward her with a leer.

  Anne sighed and jerked her knee away so quickly that Billingsley nearly fell off his barstool. He grabbed the brass rail which ran the length of the bar, righting himself with a good-natured chuckle. Anne got the impression he was so used to being rebuffed that it didn’t bother him anymore.

  “Daniel and I met on a dark and stormy night in Soho Square. The moon was out, and so were the drunks.” He winked at her. “Very romantic.”

  Anne started in astonishment. “You were lovers?”

  Billingsley laughed, choking on the third Guinness he had just ordered. “That’s a good one, luv. Nope, sorry to disappoint, but we were just a businessman and his customer. I had a thriving trade in the white stuff –still do – and Daniel was looking to buy.”

  Anne nodded thoughtfully. That agreed with what Dr. Davidson had told her about Billingsley being Daniel’s dealer. Not that she thought either one of them particularly reliable sources of information. “So you didn’t know Jimmy Soames, or Daniel, back in your school days?”

  Billingsley laughed again, bits of foam flying off his beer glass. “You should be a comedienne, darling. Wyndham Prep. Nope, I’m a Brixton man, me self. Majored in drinking, roach-rolling, and the occasional knife fight.” He puffed out his chest – the very picture of a ‘West Side Story’ gangbanger.

  “Did you read that note you delivered to my mailbox?” Anne asked.

  Billingsley shrugged and shook his head.

  It was the look of uninterested boredom on his face, more than anything else, which convinced Anne he’d had nothing to do with Jimmy’s death. “It mentioned Wyndham Preparatory. It also had your address scrawled on the back.”

  “Yeah, Jimmy put that on, in case you had any questions. You could look me up.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  “So Jimmy wrote that note,” said Anne.

  “Sure,” shrugged Billingsley. “Who else?”

  Anne finished off her coke. So. Dr. Davidson knew that Jimmy Soames had written the note. When she’d shown it to him he’d recognized the handwriting. He must have. He’d known Jimmy, what, almost twenty years. She slid her empty glass around in circles on the bar and thought about it. The doctor knew that it was Jimmy who had a grudge against him, who was writing anonymous notes to his neighbors, attempting to ruin his reputation. Trying to link him to something which had happened at Wyndham Preparatory. It had to be blackmail. The doctor had been blackmailing Jimmy for years, threatening to tell the world that Jimmy had strangled a ten-year-old boy. The note showed that Jimmy was beginning to crack. That he wanted out of the arrangement, consequences be damned.

  Inspector Beckett and her colleagues in the London police force were focusing on the case against Daniel Soames, but to Anne it looked very much like a stronger case could be made against her next-door neighbor.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tower Bridge was crammed with pedestrians. Anne was swept along by the rush hour crowd as they poured out of the City. She glanced to her right, squinting at the brightness of a spectacular sunset which was just starting to fade. The glass-enclosed sightseeing boats below her reflected back the glare like giant spotlights. At the river’s edge the stone walls of the Tower of London were licked by fire as the glowing waters of the Thames lapped at their base. The Tower was peaceful at this time of day, the flags on the White Tower flapping lazily in the breeze. Most of the tourists had left, replaced by pigeons searching for dinner among the cobblestones.

  The Tower may have been peaceful, but Tower Bridge was anything but. The giant structure shook as an endless stream of cars and double-decker buses rumbled over it. Anne could feel the vibrations through her feet as she crossed the middle of the bridge. She looked down. Far below her the waters of the Thames rushed, visible through a gap in the walkway. As she neared the end of the bridge Anne maneuvered through the throng until she was at the railing. The staircase which would take her underneath the bridge and over to Butlers Wharf was approaching, but the crowd was single-mindedly following its own path and deviations were not tolerated. At the entrance to the staircase she grabbed hold of its metal banister and swung herself out of the flow like a swimmer fighting the tide.

  At the bottom of the steps she darted left and passed through a stone tunnel which emerged into Butlers Wharf. This was a collection of brick warehouses from the Victorian era which had been converted into riverside flats. Their wrought-iron balconies jutted out over the river, the fairy-tale turrets of Tower Bridge looming above. Anne followed the narrow alley at the back of the complex, passing restaurants just opening for business and shops just closing for the day. Most of the businesses were upscale and gourmet, reflecting the income of the area’s residents. Cappuccino seemed to be a favored commodity. After a bit of searching she managed to find the entrance to the residential complex. The lobby looked like part of the old loading dock had been filled in and given a coat of paint. Huge beams criss-crossed the ceiling, ropes a thick as a man’s arm looped through the gaps. A young woman sat at a desk in the center of the cavernous space. Anne crossed to the desk, her steps echoing on rough wooden planks that were probably the original warehouse floor of a hundred and fifty years ago.

  Anne cleared her throat. “Hi. I’d like to visit one of your tenants. Daniel Soames.”

  “Of course. Just enter his flat number into the intercom.” The girl tucked the wad of gum she was chewing into her cheek and pointed to a phone embedded in the desk. “Each flat has an intercom. If he’s home he’ll answer.”

  “Um, that’s great, but I don’t actually know his flat number. Could you look it up for me?”

  “I’m sorry Miss. That’s not allowed,” replied the girl, shifting the gum to her other cheek. “We need to protect the privacy of our tenants. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” said Anne. “Could you call him for me?”

  “Sure, that’s not a problem. Your name please?”

  “Anne Lambert.”

  The girl picked up the intercom phone and punched in a three-digit number. Anne politely averted her gaze.

  “Mr. Soames? This is Julia from reception. There’s an Anne Lambert here to see you. Shall I send her up?” She paused to listen, and then nodded. “I’ll do that. Bye.”

  She rose from her seat and beckoned to Anne. “This way please. I’ll need to punch the code into the lift for you. It’s part of our security system. Only the tenants can use the lifts.”

  Anne followed her over to the sleek modern lift which was tucked between two ancient wooden beams and watched her enter a four digit number into a keypad.

  “So someone would need to know the code for the lifts if they wanted to get to the underground car park?” Anne asked casually.

  If the receptionist was surprised by the question she didn’t show it. “Yes. The tenants use these same lifts to get to their cars. Now, just push the button for floor three. Mr. Soames said he’d meet you at the lift.”

  Daniel was puffing away on a Marlborough underneath a no-smoking sign when Anne stepped off the lift. He turned without a word and headed off down the hall, his stockinged feet kicking up tiny blue static sparks on the carpet. He turned into an open door at the far end. As Anne followed him in she gasped. The flat was huge. Small planes could taxi down the living room. The right side of the room consisted entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. Anne felt herself drawn to them as if by magnetic force. The Thames flowed past at her feet, sightseeing boats crammed with tourists taking pictures of each other circled under Tower Bridge and headed back to Westminster pier. Across the river at angle she could just make out the flags of the White Tower, while directly across the water loomed the modern concrete hulk of the Thistle Hotel.

  Anne reluctantly turned from the view to search for Daniel. He was nowhere in sight, but she could hear the clink of glasses in an alcove off the main room. She did a slow pivot in the cente
r of the floor, taking in the décor. There were no carpets, just the original heavy wooden planks, which gave the room an industrial feel. Mahogany leather couches were spread haphazardly around the space, none of them arranged into the conversational groupings so beloved of decorators. Ashtrays littered the end tables, overflowing with cigarette butts. It was unnaturally quiet. Anne guessed that Daniel had convinced Mummy and Daddy to spring for some major soundproofing.

  She had just chosen a couch to perch on when Daniel reappeared clutching a whiskey glass. He tossed down the contents and chucked the glass onto the couch next to her. She jumped at the impact but didn’t rise from her seat. She was beginning to get a bead on Daniel’s personality. He was a common, garden-variety bully, overlaid with a veneer of spoiled rich kid and laced with insecurity. Too lazy to be aggressive, she guessed that he would only become dangerous if backed into a corner. His current demeanor suggested nothing more than irritation at having his evening ritual of smoking, drinking, and most likely coke-snorting interrupted. He had removed his jacket and tie, and one tail of his wrinkled shirt had become untucked from his trousers. He wiped his hands on his stomach, stretching the fabric of the shirt across his thin ribs. He gave Anne a ‘get on with it’ look.

  “I was wondering if you would do something for me,” she began. The look on Daniel’s face said ‘not bloody likely’, but she soldiered on. “I’m going to try to get a photograph of Dr. Davidson. A nice clear facial shot. I’d like you to take it to your office. Show it around. Especially to the people who sit near your desk. I want you to ask them if they’ve ever seen him in your office.”

  She paused to give Daniel time to take this in. Judging by the lack of animation in his expression, he seemed to be having difficulty. Anne wondered how drunk he was. She was about to repeat herself when he stirred.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why show the picture around your office? Because of that paperweight. The one the police found in Greenwich,” she reminded him helpfully. “You said it had come from your desk. So how did it get out in Greenwich? If you didn’t kill your brother, then obviously someone took the paperweight off of your desk. Your fingerprints would be all over it. As a tool to frame you it’s perfect, but it would have been hard to get hold of without being seen. Most offices in the City have tight security after dark – CCTV cameras, guards, all kinds of stuff. It’s more likely that whoever took that paperweight snatched it off your desk during business hours. And someone must have seen them near your desk.”