Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

Apparently not. As the breaking story ended and the tennis footage returned, the woman shook her head, crossed herself, switched off the sound of the TV, and began pouring fresh pints for the two older men. Even so, Nora thought as she gulped down her tea, it was best not to stick around here.

Craig clearly agreed. He was already out of his seat, reaching for his coat. She stood and did the same.

“I need you to fetch the car,” he said. “The brown Focus. It’s parked in the street, a few doors past my building.” He pulled a key ring from his pocket and handed it to her. “This key is for the Focus, the other is for my car, but that’s in a garage and they might be watching it. And we’d best not chance taxis or buses or the Underground; the drivers will all have my snap by now. I’ll wait here till you pull round.”

“Right,” Nora said. She shouldered her bag and headed for the door while Craig paid the hostess. The news report had shaken her, and not merely for the obvious reasons. It had reminded her of the television in the dining room at the French guesthouse yesterday morning, with the security camera photo of her in the cemetery in Pinède. It also reminded her of the scene earlier this evening, at Vivian’s house, watching the newscast about Maurice Dolin with her friends. Minutes later, her friends had been shot at point-blank range while she was upstairs, mere yards away from the assassin. Three times in two days, now, bad news had arrived by television, as if it were some modern, electronic version of the running messengers in those Greek plays she’d studied in drama school. My lords, the king is dead, and Thebes is fallen …

Outside the pub, the rain was coming down harder than before, and she couldn’t control the trembling in her hands. She’d have to drive the car back here in a near-blinding downpour. She was under the awning, tying a scarf over her hair and fumbling with her umbrella, when it occurred to her that she’d never driven in England before. The steering wheel was on the right, and she’d have to stay on the left side of the street. Everything would be backward. Dear God…

Bracing herself, she set off toward the main road. She rounded the corner onto Queensway and walked toward Craig’s building, peering through the rain at the spot where the crowds had been. The ambulance was gone, but two police cars were still there, double-parked, blue lights flashing. The officers and detectives would be in Craig’s flat upstairs, gathering evidence at what was now a crime scene. Only three or four curious onlookers remained in a cluster near the doorway, huddled under umbrellas, watching the comings and goings of the officials. She was walking past them, directly in front of the building, when she saw one face she recognized. He stood apart from the others, no more than eight feet away from her, and he wasn’t looking into the lobby like everyone else. He was glancing up and down the street as though he was waiting for someone, and Nora had no doubt whom that someone was.

Andy Gilbert, all six and a half feet and two hundred fifty pounds of him, was waiting for Craig Elder to come home so he could finish the job he’d been sent here to do.

Nora turned her face away from him, looking out into the street, grateful that she’d stopped long enough to cover her head with the scarf. She moved more quickly as she escaped down the sidewalk, searching for the brown Ford Focus. Get to the car, she told herself; get to the car and drive away before he notices me. There’s the Focus, just ahead in the row of vehicles parked at the curb. Get to the car and-

She aimed the key ring and clicked it, then opened the door and got inside. She pulled off the scarf and dropped it in her bag. The steering column was at the other end of the dashboard, of course, so she clambered across into the driver’s seat. As she turned the key in the ignition, she looked out through the rainy windshield to see Andy Gilbert looking in her direction, and she saw his eyes widen in recognition as he spotted her.

Then he was running toward her.

Key. Ignition. Lights. Windshield wipers. The car was an automatic, thank God, but she reached down with her right hand for the gearshift. The big man was pounding this way, his huge arms working like pistons. Left hand, she commanded herself. Her left hand fumbled awkwardly down to the lever and she pushed it from P to D and slammed her right foot- right, not left!-down on the accelerator. The car lunged forward, directly into the back end of the SUV parked in front of her. A dull crunch. Reverse, reverse, push backward for reverse…

Another quick glance at Andy Gilbert through the row of parked cars ahead. He was three cars away now, closing in, his right hand touching his ear, his lips moving. He was speaking into a headset. Reverse-the car jerked back, away from the dented fender of the SUV, and smashed into the front bumper of the car behind her. She was thrown forward, grasping the steering wheel to avoid colliding with it. She twisted the wheel to the right and hit the accelerator again, and the Focus shot out of the space into the street. A blaring horn, the sudden shriek of brakes on wet asphalt just behind her, and the blinding glare of headlights from the bright red car she’d just cut off. More honking. She saw in the rearview mirror that a line of cars had come to a sudden stop, thanks to her. Ignoring the horns and the angry shouts, she straightened the front end of the car and pressed the accelerator again.

He’d seen what she was doing, so he was clearly planning on heading her off. He pivoted on the sidewalk and shot out between two parked cars just ahead of her, directly into her path, raising his arms in front of him.

“Stop!” he bellowed.

Her headlights caught the look on his face, the widening of his eyes and the opening of his mouth as he realized that she was not going to obey him. She pressed down harder on the pedal, shutting her eyes and bracing for the inevitable impact. He must have tried to leap out of the way, because the thump, when it came, was on the left side of the car, not the center. Against her will, her eyes opened, and she saw. Andy Gilbert fell forward across the left side of the hood, then bounced and flew off to the side, the back of his head smashing into a window of the parked car behind him, shattering it. The Focus slid past and headed for the intersection. A red light.

Nora stomped her left foot down on the brake and skidded to a stop on the wet road just as a young woman with an umbrella stepped out in front of her. Turn signal, turn signal…there. Turn left, she instructed herself, into the left lane, not the right lane. The blinker blinked, the wipers swept rhythmically back and forth across the windshield, and the red car she’d nearly sideswiped came to a stop behind her. The driver, a middle-aged man, was leaning his head out his window, shouting and gesticulating at her, pointing back the way they’d come. He’d seen the collision, and he was berating her for leaving the scene of an accident.

She peered into the rearview mirror, straining to see through the rain. A large, dark figure was crumpled in the street beside the parked car some thirty yards behind her, and other pedestrians were arriving there. A gaggle of umbrellas closed in on the spot, and she heard more shouting. It had seemed so artificial to her, so choreographed, the impact and the body bouncing gracefully back into the other car, smashing the breakaway window like a stuntman in a Bruce Willis movie. It couldn’t have been real, could it? She couldn’t possibly have just killed a man.

The man in the red car was opening his door, preparing to get out and give her a piece of his mind. He’d make a citizen’s arrest, no doubt, and she would be taken to a precinct station and charged with vehicular manslaughter, held without bail, her passport confiscated, and tomorrow afternoon Jeff would die. Her husband was alone and afraid and probably injured in some remote place, and she was his only hope of survival. No, she thought. No! This clown in the red car will not detain me. If I killed Andy Gilbert, so be it. I must find my husband. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters. The man was out of the car now, moving toward her driver’s door, an angry scowl on his face, and now he would-