Glass Houses Page 3

  The medics had opened a gurney and were immobilizing the woman preparatory to moving her.

  Olivia stepped closer. She had to. Someone picked up a woolen hat that rested half on and half off the edge of the platform. He said, “This is a bit tatty but it could have been worse. Her brains could have been in it.” His nervous laugh brought a weak, answering titter from a few shocked observers.

  The hat was red, bright red.

  Reddish-brown curls fanned out from the prostrate woman’s head.

  The belt on her old tan raincoat had snapped and trailed at her sides.

  Olivia tore off her own hat and spun away. She crept into the tunnel leading to the lifts, searching around her with each step. When a lift arrived and opened, she looked inside before entering with a crowd, and facing the direction she’d come from. Sounds bombarded her, and the frenetic beat of her heart joined in the fearsome racket.

  The lift doors slowly closed, and once more she gave thanks for her good luck, but an instant before heavy rubber moldings thumped together, the man from the bakery came into view. He ran, held onto the crown of his hat with one hand and waved the other while he yelled, “Wait.” He wore dark glasses that should have made it all but impossible to see down here. “Hold the lift!”

  “Like ’ell we will,” a girl with turquoise dreadlocks said. She knocked away the fingers of someone coming to the runner’s aid and the door slid closed. “Some of us has got work t’do. ’Angin’ about for one of them streaky-suited City gents? Not likely, mate.”

  That poor woman down there had almost died, almost been killed. Olivia was convinced there had been an attempted murder, and that she had been the intended victim. The woman had been unlucky enough to bear a marked resemblance to her and to be wearing clothes too similar to be discernible from Olivia’s in a madly heated moment.

  Now, the would-be murderer—and she knew without a doubt it was the man at the bakery—would make his getaway, but that didn’t mean that if he was crazy enough, he wouldn’t be back once he discovered he’d not only failed to kill, but had attacked the wrong victim.

  From her right pocket Olivia drew out the bakery bag. It was a squelching mass, the inside coated with thick red jelly.

  Three

  The phone rang.

  Olivia didn’t know how long she’d been sitting at her desk, staring straight ahead at her computer screen and trying to decide what to do next.

  She pushed her chair back.

  It could be that nasty person calling about the photographs again. He spoke as if he had cotton wool in his mouth, or as if he was talking through a flannel still wet from washing his face with it. An amateurish attempt at disguising his voice. And if she of all people knew it was a trick, well then, it was silly. But it was very nasty indeed, too. Not that anything would ever be as frightening again after what had happened at the tube station.

  If she answered and it was him, she could try to put him off from coming here, say she’d meet him somewhere instead. She picked up the phone and said, “Hello, Olivia FitzDurham here.”

  “Olivia. It’s Penny. Thank God you’re back. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

  “I haven’t been gone hours. Where are you? I tried to call you until late last night.”

  “There’s no time for talk,” Penny said. “I’m in France. I haven’t got time to tell you what’s happened, not right now. I had to run. Now you have to run.”

  Olivia massaged her eyes. “We’d better contact the police.”

  “No! Oh, no, Olivia. If you call the police, we’re finished. I’ve been threatened. If there’s any police interest, they’ve said they’ll… Olivia, they’ll kill me.”

  “You’ve got to talk to me,” Olivia said, falling over her words, driving a fist into her stomach. “Please. I’ve got to know what’s going on. Someone already tried to kill me, tried to push me under a train.” She wouldn’t take time to explain how she’d pieced the evidence together.

  “Oh, my God,” Penny whispered. “And they’re trying to blackmail me. It’s mad. Pack up and leave. Do it. Don’t wait, Olivia. For my sake, don’t wait.”

  Olivia bowed her head until her forehead rested on the desk and whispered, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Instantly the line was dead. She’d have to go ahead and take Sam up on his offer of a safe haven.

  She’d barely hung up when the phone blared again. This time she snatched it up. She wouldn’t gain a thing by sounding terrified. “Hello. Who do you want to speak to?”

  “Hello, darling. Daddy and I were just talking, and we’ve decided this would be a good weekend for you to come. We—”

  “Mummy.” Of all the rotten luck. Mummy calling from Eton now, of all times. “Mummy, why do you and Daddy insist on getting up with the worms. Could I please—”

  “Olivia! What can you be thinking of, interrupting me like that? Why, I’m quite bemused by you. That’s another thing Daddy and I were talking about. You’ve changed. And it’s up with the birds, not the worms. How unpleasant that sounds. Worms.”

  A muted chime on Olivia’s computer announced an incoming message from Sam, and her already thumping heart positively pounded. She opened the post.

  “Olivia: Use this new address from now on. Hackers have gotten to the old one and it’s not secure. Get a cash advance so you don’t have to use your card to buy the ticket. Just let me know when you’ll be getting in to JFK Airport and I’ll meet you. Sam.”

  The address was MustangMan@Dakota.org. How odd. “Olivia, darling, what’s the matter? Is something wrong? Talk to me at once.”

  “I’m fine, Mummy. A bit tired. It’s already been a long day.” And this new day had scarcely begun.

  Another e-mail arrived.

  “Olivia: Don’t open anything else from this address. Contact me at MustangMan with your flight information. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

  Dakota was a state, wasn’t it?

  She heard her mother talking, but to Olivia’s father and with a hand partially over the mouthpiece. “She’s behaving very strangely, I tell you, Conrad.”

  “Give it to me, Millicent,” Daddy roared. Then he roared at Olivia, “What the dickens is going on? The P.M.’s on the telly, so hurry up, young lady.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Daddy.” Except that a criminal might arrive at her front door shortly, and to escape another man, a would-be murderer, she was about to book a flight to New York, where she would be met by a man she had never so much as spoken to, but in whose hands she intended to place her life. Well, her safety, anyway.

  Her mother’s voice quavered down the line again. “Daddy says you’re all right, Olivia. He says I’m making something out of nothing. I’ll be the judge of that this weekend.”

  There was another message from Sam.

  Olivia moved her mouse and highlighted the line. The subject was: “You ‘re too quiet.”

  “Catch the train up, darling,” Mummy said. “I worry so when you drive that terrible old Mini. It ought to be condemned.”

  “Yes, Mummy. I’ll call you later.” She slammed the receiver into its base and prayed the thing wouldn’t ring again.

  Now what would Sam have to say?

  She turned cold and pulled her hand back. He’d told her not to answer any more posts from the old address, which meant this one wasn’t from him.

  It could be. No, he wouldn’t be so careless.

  The highlighted line gleamed, and Olivia felt sick looking at it.

  It was the middle of the night—no, the early hours of the morning in New York. In Hampstead, the clock on the mantel— a little painted, porcelain affair flanked on each of its fussy sides by a shepherd and shepherdess—struck its tinkling chimes eight times. Beyond white-lace curtains at the rounded bay window over Back Lane, pale morning sunlight shone on hanging baskets of leggy fuschias suspended from the crossbar on a black lamppost, but inside the little house Olivia still needed the lamp that stood atop the creaky rolltop desk. V
oices reached the second-floor sitting room at Number 2A—voices, and the occasional sound of a car’s tires squidging down the steep and winding cobbled road toward Heath Street.

  That photograph man could arrive at any time, but she didn’t intend to be there.

  She must phone an airline, and pack, and drive to Heathrow. Her camera bag was always packed and ready. Where was a decent suitcase? The green tartan grip her brother, Theo, had given her when she’d graduated from art school was the newest.

  The grip was in the attic.

  But the phone books were on the hall stand downstairs.

  Perhaps she ought to find the suitcase, then—No, first the flight, then the case.

  Theo was such a dear to let her use Number 2A while he was out of the country. He was always out of the country, and he could sell the house for a lot, she supposed. She suspected he only kept the place because he worried about his “nutter” sister and wanted to help her. Theo was a bit of a snob. Oh, not really, not more than the merest bit, but he did have strong opinions about some things and expected his sister to “marry well,” even though he saw no reason to hurry into that state himself. For Olivia to “marry well,” he baldly stated that a good address was important. Number 2A Back Lane, Hampstead, was quite a good address.

  The narrow staircase was gloomy, a function of the only windows in the hall below being the stained-glass fanlight over the front door and a matching panel in the center of the door itself. Olivia had taught herself to avoid turning on the vestibule light whenever possible. As generous as Theo might be, he’d had the switches converted to the type of punch-and-run efforts Olivia had detested in France. One punched the button at the top or bottom of the stairs, depending on where one started, and ran as fast as one dared. One was inevitably left in darkness before reaching one’s goal. But all this did save electricity.

  Theo was in international banking.

  Brollies stood, higgledy-piggledy, beneath coats hanging from brass hooks on the mahogany hall stand. A heap of tatty phone books kept company with the pointed ends of the umbrellas where they rested on a green-tinged brass tray at the base of the stand.

  Oh, really, everything was taking twice as long as it should. She was tired, that was the reason. After all, a night without sleep was a bit much.

  She carried the appropriate book to the bottom of the stairs and sat down to open it in her lap.

  Someone used the knocker on the front door. The noise vibrated in the silent little house.

  Olivia held her breath. Through the blue-and-yellow stained-glass panel she saw a shadow-—a fairly clear outline, actually. Cautiously, she stood up and tiptoed closer.

  The head outside might not be as far from the ground as hers.

  A woman?

  Still clutching the open telephone book, she slunk along the nearest wall and lowered herself to one knee. Sliding the nail on her right forefinger under one corner, Olivia eased the flap to the letterbox inward. No more than half an inch. With her cheek resting against the door, she closed her left eye, and squinted with her right. Pinstripes traveled down a double-breasted black suit jacket.

  She clutched the region of her heart and leaned carefully away.

  A grunt accompanied the gradual sinking of the jacket, of the person inside the jacket. A tie—green with gold ducks in flight—came into view, then a white shirt collar over which thin flesh waggled like the pouch beneath a pelican’s bill.

  Olivia extracted her fingernail without disaster and clamped her hand over her mouth. Scooting, she shrank into a dark corner. One of the long macs on the hall stand hung near enough for her to crouch behind it.

  A familiar sharp clatter meant Olivia’s visitor had opened the letterbox from his side.

  Olivia’s eyes felt dry, and her throat hurt. Please let him give up and go away. The lining in the old mackintosh was torn behind one sagging pocket. She shifted and discovered her second serviceable peephole of the day.

  The man rattled the door knocker again. Rude fellow. And he did so while he pressed his face to the open letterbox and peered in. He wore his dark glasses with the small, round lenses. When he moved, evidently to get a different view into the hall, his nose came into view, a bumpy, faintly purple nose like that of the vicar of St. Paul’s, where Mummy went to church.

  This wasn’t the vicar of St. Paul’s. Unfortunately.

  “Miss FitzDurham? Come on, love. Don’t keep me hangin’ about.”

  Well, that definitely wasn’t the same voice as the one on the phone. Olivia breathed deeply but felt no relief.

  “Let me in where we can talk quiet-like.”

  She might be a bit dotty on occasion, but she wasn’t a fool, and she wasn’t letting him in.

  “If you had my boss, you’d help me out here, Miss FitzDurham. You have no idea what I go through.”

  The creature disgusted Olivia. Did he honestly think she wouldn’t recognize him?

  “Well, I can see I’m going to have to impress you. Here, take a gander at this. Go on, it’ll show you I keep my word— and that I’m on the up-and-up.” He pushed something through the slot, something that fell to the shining wooden floor with a solid thunk. Olivia was almost certain she heard the man mutter, “Blimey,” but couldn’t be completely sure.

  Olivia positioned herself to look downward. The sun sent a shaft past fingers that still intruded into Number 2A. An envelope with banknotes spilling out basked in the spotlight. Well, this was definitely the same person as the one who rang her, but he’d forgotten his flannel this time. She wondered if his pockets still housed rats or whatever.

  All was silent for too long. Olivia heard her own pulse against her eardrums. She ached from holding still.

  At last he said, “Look, unless you can go invisible, you’re in there. I know you are, see. Come on, let me get on with my business, there’s a good girl.”

  His fingernails were well manicured, and he wore a diamond ring on the small finger.

  “You wouldn’t keep the money and not give me the photos, now, would you?”

  She jolly well would not.

  “The negatives are all I need if you don’t want to open the door. Put them out the letterbox and I’m gone. London Style is always reasonable, and we’re very sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Was that a twenty-pound note Olivia could see? The envelope was thick, so there might be quite a few of them. Sam wanted her to use cash to buy her plane ticket; probably so she wouldn’t leave a definite trail for someone else to follow. She’d read about that sort of thing.

  “Miss FitzDurham?”

  Call the airline. Book the flight and arrange to pick up the ticket at the airport. Pack a few things and go.

  Olivia cleared her throat. “Who’s there?” The man had to be got rid of. She hadn’t asked him to push money through the door, but he had, and he was asking for the negatives. Good enough.

  “It’s the man from London Style. If I could come in—”

  “No.” She pushed the mackintosh aside and stood up. “I see you’ve brought the money to pay me. I’ll just get what you want. Thank you.” Perhaps there was enough money on the hall floor to pay for her ticket; then she wouldn’t have to worry about getting a cash advance.

  She dashed down the uncarpeted stairs to the basement, snatched the envelope containing the Abbey House, St. lohn’s Wood, negatives, and returned to the hall. “I’d like you to sign a receipt,” she said, marveling at her resourcefulness under stress.

  The man cleared his throat. “You sure you want the neighbors staring at me talking to you like this, miss?”

  “Just give me a receipt and our business is done, Mr.—”

  “Don’t have any receipts. They told me you already had an agreement. I’m handing over the money. You don’t need anything else, miss.”

  Olivia considered his logic. “All right.” She picked up the money to make sure it wasn’t a bank note on either side of pieces of newspaper. That was something she’d seen at the picture
s. She riffled the contents of the envelope. No newspaper.

  “Very wise,” the man said.

  Olivia jumped, horrified that he might be watching her. He couldn’t really see her from where he was, but he would have heard her check the money. “Here,” she said, pushing the negatives at him.

  The letterbox closed. Olivia hurried into the dining room that fronted on the steep street and tried to get a good look at the man. He had paused briefly to check the contents of the envelope she’d given him. A moment later, he was on his way with one hand held behind his stiff back in a studied pose. Small and thin, his black shoes still shone—very small black shoes. The brim of his dark trilby was turned down and from the back his head appeared to rest directly on his shoulders. And she had seen his face again—the purple nose, the lax skin of his neck.

  It was definitely him, the man who had fed the rats in his pockets at the bakery, the man who had attempted to push her under a tube train, or who had stood on the platform ready to ambush her but managed to attack the wrong woman.

  There wasn’t any time, not for worrying—or even being afraid.

  She ran up the stairs and back into the sitting room. There wasn’t any time for thinking.

  TWA had a flight into Kennedy Airport leaving in a few hours. She booked a seat, scrambled up the pull-down stairs to the attic, and located the scuffed green tartan grip Theo had bought her. The neon-pink luggage tag was in a side pocket, and she strapped it to a handle.

  The call to her parents was brief because she summoned a rare flash of authority when Mummy started to complain. “I’m going to France on business, and that’s that,” she’d said, and hung up. Really, they meant well but they did stifle one so.

  Despite her brother’s conviction that his sister was a “nutter,” this absolutely wasn’t like her, not dashing off without a good deal of consideration about the steps she intended to take.

  Should she go to the police here in London?

  And run the risk of getting Penny killed? What would she say anyway? That she’d got carried away by the attention of an American federal agent… on the Internet? That she’d discussed some odd circumstances in her life and decided, partially at his suggestion, partially because he’d written what she wanted to read, not to talk to the police here? And would she talk about Penny? And then would she go on to say that she’d just given a man a set of negatives—through her letterbox—and accepted money for them?