Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

“In here,” he said, stopping abruptly on the sidewalk. “We can talk here.” He led her through a doorway into a pub.

Nora looked around the room, checking for enemies. It was quiet and warm with dim lighting, a long bar, and several tables and booths crowded into the snug space. Not many people here on this rainy evening: a lone drinker at the bar, a young couple necking at one table, and two middle-aged men with pints at another. An older woman with bleached blond hair and too much makeup lounged behind the counter, staring up at the flat-screen television on the wall above her. An announcer’s face filled the screen above the legend: WIMBLEDON RAIN DELAY.

Craig led her over to a booth in the farthest, darkest corner and then went up to the bar. Nora took off her coat and slid into the booth, facing the room, shaking the rain from her hair. She fished for her compact and inspected her face, unsurprised to see the dazed expression in her eyes. The house, the bodies, running through the night, the taxi, the police cars, the ambulance, the stretcher-and then Craig, dead but not dead, materializing from nowhere and grabbing her arm. She took in several breaths and exhaled slowly, willing herself to relax. By the time Craig returned with two brandy snifters, her heartbeat had slowed to something like normal.

“Drink this,” he said. “You look like you could use it. She’s bringing us tea.” He removed the coat and hat and slid in across from her. “I’ve never been in here before, and I don’t see anyone from my building. We should be okay for a while.”

Nora sipped, then coughed as the strong liquor seared her throat. Craig downed his in one gulp and fell back against the banquette. She was surprised to see tears in his eyes.

“They killed Wendy,” he said. “They killed my girl. I went out to get some food, Japanese takeaway, just down the road. I was only gone for-” He broke off, slamming a fist down on the scarred wood table.

Nora reached over to cover his fist with her hand. “Who? Who did this, do you know?”

He shook his head. “I only copped bits and pieces from the crowd in the street. They said a neighbor-old Mrs. Selby, in the flat across from mine-heard a commotion, a man shouting, and Wendy screamed. Mrs. Selby is in her eighties; she doesn’t move very fast. She finally got to her door and peeked out into the hall. The door to my flat was wide open, and she saw-she saw Wendy lying there on the floor, and she called the police. I was in the restaurant-I talked to you while they made up my order-and when I got back onto the street, I saw the crowds and the police cars. The people were saying- The word was going round that it must be the boyfriend, the man who lives in the flat. Me! I-I got the hell out of there before one of my neighbors saw me.” Another shake of his head, then a shrug. “Someone’s going to find a bag of sushi there on the walk-I must have dropped it when I took off…”

“Oh, Craig!” Nora said. “Why did you run? Why didn’t you tell the police what you were-”

“Tell them what ?” he cried. He glanced around the pub and lowered his voice. “Don’t you see, Nora? I can’t tell them anything. My girl was killed by terrorists? I work in national security? Who’s going to believe me? Everything we’re doing, everything we’ve been doing-none of it is official. The only person on earth who can vouch for me is Bill Howard, and unless I mistook your message on the phone, Bill Howard is dead. Is that right, Nora? Did they kill him too?”

Nora couldn’t bear the look in his eyes. She turned away, gazing off across the dark room. The lovers were still at it, but everyone else in the pub was clearly impatient for the matches to begin again on the television. The rain delay banner was still on the screen; they were showing highlights of earlier games to fill the void in the interim.

“Yes,” she whispered at last, and she began to weep again. “Bill is dead, and Vivian, and Claudia. They killed all of them. The blood was-it was horrible.”

Craig leaned forward, studying her face. “Where were you, Nora? I mean, why are you-” He broke off there, apparently unwilling to say it aloud: Why are you still alive?

She told him everything as quickly and succinctly as she could, using a napkin to wipe her tears away as she spoke. She began with the events of the afternoon, the conversation she’d overheard in Leicester Square and her trip to her husband’s flat. Then she took him through the entire incident at Vivian’s house. He already knew about Maurice Dolin’s disappearance and what it probably meant, and he wasn’t surprised by it. He’d had his suspicions about Dolin for a while, he said, but he’d been unwilling to share them with Bill Howard because the two men were such old friends. When she got to the part where the doorbell rang as she was about to leave the house, he raised a hand to stop her.

“Okay,” he said. “Does anyone else know about all this?”

“No,” Nora assured him. “But it’s just a matter of time now. That little boy, Shane Garson, must have told his mother that no one answered his ring. She’s a friend of Claudia’s. She’ll certainly be suspicious and-”

He held up his hand again. “We can’t worry about that now, because we can’t do anything about it. If she calls the police, then they’ll know. We have bigger worries now. Whoever killed Wendy was there looking for me, and judging from the timing, it could be the same person who was at the Howards’ house. They came to me from there, which means they’re still after me. And they’re definitely after you too. We have to get somewhere safe, now, someplace where we can rest awhile. Then we can try to figure out what to do about-”

“ ’Ere you are, luv!” A heavy tray was suddenly plunked down on the table between them, bearing a teapot, cups, and a plate of shortbread cookies. The barmaid stood above them, grinning down. They both looked up at her, and Nora forced a smile to her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“C’n I get you anythin’ else?” The woman seemed eager to please, taking special care with her few customers on this wet night.

“No, thank you, this is fine,” Nora said. With a smile and a nod, the woman bustled away. Nora poured tea for both of them, and Craig drained his cup and asked for more. She was pouring it for him when she glanced over at the room. At the television. The teapot clattered down on the table.

“Look!” she whispered.

Now, above the Wimbledon rain delay banner, the screen was filled with the legend, BREAKING NEWS: MURDER IN BAYSWATER. The legend was replaced by footage of the activity in front of the apartment building. The woman who’d just served them was watching it too.

“Cor, that’s just round the corner f’m ’ere!” she cried, and everyone in the bar turned to see. The woman picked up a remote from the counter and aimed. The newscaster’s voice filled the room.

“-haven’t yet disclosed the identity of the victim of the strangling, a young woman, but they are interested in speaking with the resident of the flat, a man named Craig Elder.”

The photo that appeared on the screen was an old one, perhaps from his high school days. Craig had long hair, nearly to his shoulders, and a thick mustache. He was grinning self-consciously into the camera. Nora looked from the image on the screen to the man across from her, assessing him. He looked quite different now, with his buzz cut and clean-shaven face. Older, of course, and much more self-assured than the callow young man in the picture. No, she definitely wouldn’t connect the two faces in her mind. She held her breath, hoping that the barmaid wasn’t preternaturally observant.