After parking the rental car, they got out and walked into the Goat Inn in the old centre of St. Albans. The former coaching inn was now a bed and breakfast that also provided home-cooked meals.
When Luke tried to book two rooms, he was told that only one was available. “It’s a nice sunny room,” the proprietor told him. “And it has two beds.”
Luke booked the room, explained the situation to Meredith, and much to his surprise, she didn’t complain.
“I trust you,” she told him.
After lunch—hot baguettes, with ale for him and bottled water for her—they went upstairs to the nice sunny room. As it turned out their room was small and neat with white walls, blue curtains at the single window, and two beds with white and blue coverlets and blue throw pillows. One bed was a double and the other a twin.
“Lie down and rest,” Luke told her. “I’ll run out and see if I can pick up a few necessities like toothbrushes, deodorant and—” he ran his fingers across his jaw “—a razor.”
“You won’t go far, will you?”
“No, I won’t go far. Just lock the door when I leave and don’t let anyone in while I’m gone.”
When Luke returned with a small bag of toiletries that he had purchased at a local drugstore called Boots on St. Peters Street, he had checked on Meredith. After he found her sleeping soundly, he went back downstairs, drank a bottled lager beer and telephoned Griff.
“Meredith thinks she can find Linden,” Luke told Griff. “We’ve traveled north of London and have been eliminating village after village.”
“Linden may not be in the UK after all,” Griff said.
“What makes you think he might not be here? Meredith seems pretty certain that she is slowly but surely zeroing in on him.”
“Someone killed Shiloh Whitman last night,” Griff told him. “One of the guards patrolling the grounds found her body a little after daybreak this morning.”
“And you think it was the Copycat Carver. Was her throat slit?”
“No. She was attacked and held down in the lake until she drowned.”
“Then it may not have been the copycat.”
“Yeah, my gut tells me it wasn’t.”
“I believe Linden is in England. Between Meredith’s weird sixth sense and Mitchum’s team of experts, it’s only a matter of time until we find him.”
“Even if Linden is in England and you can track him down and eliminate him, doing that will solve only one of our problems. If Linden didn’t kill Shiloh that means someone inside Griffin’s Rest killed her, possibly someone employed by York.” Griff paused for a brief moment. “And then there’s York himself. Until we find the man masquerading as Malcolm York, no one I care about, no one I employ and no member of their family will be safe.”
Chapter 34
He would not depend on underlings to make this very important telephone call, as he had originally planned. No, he had decided that he wanted the pleasure of issuing this specific order himself. As he placed the call, he thought about Griffin Powell, a man he hated with every fiber of his being.
“I assume that Shiloh Whitman is dead, isn’t she?” he asked the moment his puppet inside Griffin’s Rest answered. “If you lie to me, I will know.”
“Yes. I did what you told me to do and I expect you to keep your part of our bargain. Don’t hurt her. Please. Let her go.”
“No one has hurt her. She is alive and well. And as long as you continue to follow my instructions, no harm will come to her.”
“I was told that if I killed—”
“Be very careful what you say. You do not want to be overheard, do you? It would be a shame if anyone found out what you had done, at least not before you are able to give me everything I want in exchange for what you want.”
“I am not going to kill anyone else for you!”
“Yes, you are, if you ever want to see her alive again.”
“Damn you!”
He laughed, gaining great pleasure from having caused so much anger and pain to someone Griffin Powell trusted. “I’ve chosen your next target. This time I want you to strike a lethal blow a little closer to Griffin and Nicole. I want this kill to be more personal than all the others. It’s time to up the ante before the Grand Finale of Act I.”
“Why do you hate Griffin Powell so much?”
“My motives are of no concern to you. Your only purpose is to obey my orders.”
“I swear to God if you hurt her, if—”
“You are in no position to make threats. But I have no reason to kill her. She is nothing more than a means to an end. As long as you do what you’re told, she stays alive. Tell me that you understand.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good,” he said. “Now, while Griffin’s Rest is in a state of turmoil today, when no one is expecting another strike so soon, I want you to kill Maleah Perdue as soon as possible. Take her by surprise.”
“Maleah? You want me to kill Maleah? I can’t. I won’t.”
“Are you sure you are willing to trade one life for another? Does Maleah Perdue mean more to you than —?”
“How do you expect me to kill her in broad daylight with Powell agents and guards and the sheriff’s department covering every inch of Griffin’s Rest? It will be impossible to isolate her.”
“Find a way. If Maleah Perdue isn’t dead by morning, someone else who is very important to you will be.”
“No! God, no . . . I—I’ll do it. I’ll find a way.”
“Now, that’s what I want to hear. By following my orders, I will get what I want and you will get what you want.”
“What I want is for you to rot in hell, you son of a bitch.”
Luke had begun to think Meredith would sleep all night. She had certainly slept the day away. But she roused a little before seven and after freshening up, she met him downstairs for a bite of supper. She ordered tiger prawns for a starter, and then honey roasted ham, served with fried eggs, house fries, and baked beans. She ate like a ravenous wolf, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Luke had settled for the homemade lasagna, and when Meredith had suggested dessert, they had both ordered the sticky toffee pudding.
Just as the waitress set their puddings in front of them, Luke’s phone rang. “Excuse me.” He removed the phone from his jacket’s inner pocket.
Meredith nodded. “Yes, of course.” She picked up the dessert spoon.
“Sentell here,” Luke said.
“We have a couple of possibilities,” Mitchum told him, skipping any preliminary pleasantries. “All parties who arrived by private plane in the specific twenty-four-hour period have been accounted for except two. A guy named Horacio Vasquez Luna. He has a Venezuelan passport and he was traveling with a female, supposedly his wife. No one by that name has checked into any hotels in or around London. He hasn’t rented a condo, a house or an apartment. And there is no record of a car service picking him up at the airport.”
“Any physical description?”
“Late fifties, heavyset, beard and mustache.”
