Her Glaswegian accent had entirely disappeared while talking on the phone, Susan noted.
Mrs. London hung up and shouted out the door. The accent was back again.
“Merlin! Two D11 response cars minutes away, and the Tolpuddle panda. Hold up your warrant card.”
“Will do,” Merlin shouted back. “And here comes Aunt Audrey, looking abashed, as well she might. And where were you, Auntie?”
“Send her inside,” called out Mrs. London.
A few seconds later, a cheerful, short, black-haired, dark-skinned, fortyish woman in jeans, T-shirt, corduroy jacket, and one battered brown leather glove on her left hand came inside. In her bare right hand, she clutched a steaming roll of foil that smelled delicious.
“Wotcher, Mrs. L,” she said. “I only went to get a kebab because Merlin was taking so long, and I missed breakfast. Hello, you must be Susan. I’m Audrey.”
“Uh, hello, Audrey,” said Susan as Mrs. London gave a kind of grunt. The sirens were much closer now. “Uh, will I have to go to a police station again?”
“No,” said Audrey and Mrs. London at the same time.
“Inspector Greene will want to talk to you, though,” said Mrs. London.
“Got to come with us first,” said Audrey. “You recognize those two lads, Mrs. L?”
“No,” said Mrs. London. “No one local. Had to be, not to know what this place is. Or really stupid, I suppose.”
The sirens reached a crescendo outside, accompanied by screeching tires, which suddenly stopped and were replaced by the sound of numerous slamming doors. Blue light washed the hallway through the partly open door.
“Armed Police! Armed Police! Don’t move!”
Audrey unwrapped the end of her kebab and bit off a large mouthful. Mrs. London put her pistol back in her apron.
“Give ’em five minutes to clean up and we’ll be orf,” said Audrey indistinctly, her mouth full.
Chapter Five
Below the street in darkness deep
The goblins of the fair do sleep
Their mischief done until tomorrow
When they bring a new day’s sorrow
“YOU’RE VERY QUIET,” SAID MERLIN IN THE BACK OF THE TAXI. HE sat opposite Susan, on the fold-down seat, eyes flickering left and right, watching the cars behind and adjacent to them as they slowly drove up Euston Road. The traffic was horrendous, as per usual, and it had started to rain in a halfhearted way.
“I’m an art student from the country,” said Susan. “I came to London to study, and find my father. Not . . . not be part of . . . whatever the hell is going on. It was bad enough with the weird shit, as Greene calls it, but with those thugs as well . . . I mean, why me?”
“Good question,” said Merlin. “I’d like to know, too.”
Susan glared at him, but didn’t say anything. No further conversation occurred until they were going past Broadcasting House on Portland Place.
“The BBC,” pointed out Merlin, with the air of a townsperson helping out a yokel.
“I know,” said Susan impatiently. “I told you I’ve been to London before. We used to come here every year for my birthday until quite recently.”
“Ah,” replied Merlin. “Just making conversation. You were very quiet—”
“Why did you stick Frank Thringley with a silver pin?” interrupted Susan. “You never did say.”
Merlin glanced over his shoulder at Audrey. The hatch in the glass partition between the passenger and driver compartment was open.
“Good question, luv,” said Audrey. “Why did you, Merlin?”
“He wouldn’t answer my questions,” said Merlin stiffly. “I asked him very nicely, too. And then he tried to razor me.”
“You’re lucky Thringley did have a go, and that he was up to no good,” said Audrey. “I mean, our-neck-of-the-woods no good, what with that giant louse and all. Otherwise, you’d be hoeing the cabbage rows out back of Thorn House.”
“I know,” replied Merlin testily.
“What are you talking about?” asked Susan crossly. “And you still haven’t properly answered my question. What were you trying to find out?”
“Thorn House is one of our places in the country,” said Merlin. “Dorset. They grow a lot of vegetables there. You’d probably be at home. Whereas I wouldn’t be, making it a suitable place to send me for a punishment.”
“Growing up in the country doesn’t make me a farmer,” said Susan. “What were you trying to find out?”
Merlin sighed.
“My mother was killed six years ago,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands, the bare right laid over the gloved left. “A shotgun blast. An accident, supposedly, one of those ‘wrong place, wrong time’ things. She interrupted a robbery in Sloane Street. Three armed men rushed out of a jeweler’s as she came out of her favorite florist’s, next door. She put the robbers down, but there was another one in a car on the street, with a sawn-off shotgun. She got both barrels in the back.
“When I turned eighteen and was fully inducted, I got the file from Scotland Yard. Call it morbid curiosity, I suppose. But once I’d read it, I thought it wasn’t an accident at all. I’m sure those four men were sent to kill my mother. The jewelry heist was cover for it. So, for the last year, off and on, I’ve followed things up.”
“Despite being told to leave it alone,” interjected Audrey. The traffic had seized up again at Oxford Circus, so she could turn around and talk through the hatch in the glass partition. A strong waft of beef kebab and onions came with her words. “There was no evidence of it being a planned murder.”
“Nothing except the unusual imbecility of the perpetrators,” snapped Merlin. “I interviewed them all in prison. Well, all except Craddock, the shooter—Mum lived long enough to stop his heart—and they were all near morons. I’m sure their minds had been tampered with. And they all had the same story to tell.”
“Maybe it was true,” suggested Audrey, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Lots of criminals ain’t too sharp. Hang on, we’re orf again.”
The cab clicked into gear and lurched forward, Audrey
