Chapter 53

CHAPTER 53

MARGARET MARPLE’S PLANE had touched down on Heathrow’s rain-drenched northern runway at half past nine in the morning, London time. Marple hated red-eye flights, especially in this direction. She’d been fitfully awake for almost the entire journey across the Atlantic. Now she was exhausted and ready for a nap—just when she knew she needed to be at her most alert.

It didn’t help that she’d been thinking about Brendan Holmes the whole way. But now it was time to focus. She needed to compartmentalize. Missing children—that was what she needed to concentrate on.

As she walked through the Jetway into the terminal, Marple hoped the passport control queue wouldn’t be too long. As soon as her shoes touched the carpet of the arrival gate, she heard her name called.

“Miss Marple!”

She looked up. Standing right outside the area of disembarkation was an attractive young police constable. He wore the familiar trim, multipocketed uniform jacket and matching trousers of the Metropolitan Police, with a tie knotted neatly beneath a crisply starched white collar. He held his helmet with its royal insignia under one arm, and his beaming smile showed off his perfect white teeth. If somebody were hiring a model for a British bobby, thought Marple, this fellow would be a good choice. He looks like a bloody recruitment poster .

Well done, Virginia, she thought.

Marple stepped out of the flow of exiting passengers and walked up to the officer. “I’m Margaret Marple,” she said. “And you must be…”

“PC Ben Dodgett, ma’am. Welcome to London.”

“Please. It’s Margaret.”

Dodgett gestured toward a narrow corridor marked NO ENTRANCE—OFFICIAL USE in several languages. “Shall we, Margaret?” The entrance was guarded by a solider in camo fatigues.

Margaret fumbled with her passport. “What about customs?”

Dodgett was already moving past the soldier and toward an alarmed exit door. “Already sorted,” he said, looking back. “Need help with the rest of your gear?”

Marple straightened the straps of her bag across her shoulder and slid her passport back into her purse. “No, I’m fine, thank you very much.” She already felt her accent thickening, as it always did when she touched English soil.

The door was guarded by two more soldiers, these two in black tactical gear.

Dodgett pulled out a thin plastic card. One of the soldiers took it and placed it against a scanner. Marple heard the door release. The other soldier pressed his back against it, his rifle slung across his chest. The door swung open to a caged metal stairway, which led outside, where the damp English air was filled with the smell of jet fuel and the rumble of taxiing planes. On the edge of the airfield tarmac, an unmarked sedan was idling. A driver in a dark suit stood by the open rear door. Marple immediately spotted the thick armor plating and ballistic glass. This was no Uber.

“Here we are,” said Dodgett.

The interior of the car smelled of polished leather and a faint, pleasant hint of tobacco, and it seemed to be soundproofed.

“I’m definitely traveling with you from now on,” said Marple, sliding her bag and purse onto the seat beside her.

Dodgett leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. The car pulled away and turned down a road behind the terminal. Within a minute, they were on the M4, heading east toward London.

Marple settled back on the plush leather, with Dodgett beside her.

“Is this seat heated?” she asked, sensing warmth under her thighs.

“Too much?” asked Dodgett, reaching for a control.

“Not at all,” said Marple. “It’s lovely.”

From the way they were shooting past other vehicles on the motorway, Marple estimated they were moving at least 80 miles an hour. But the only sound was a light hum from the tires. Dodgett was staring out the window at the passing blur, his helmet resting lightly on his knee.

“I don’t suppose you realize the significance of your name,” said Marple.

“I certainly do,” he replied. “Same as the constable in They Do It with Mirrors . Happy coincidence.”

“You know Agatha Christie’s work?”

“Know it?” he said. “I’m a devotee. Big fan of Miss Marple—the original.” He lifted his dark eyebrows. “No offense.”

“None taken,” said Marple. “I’m in the same camp. So which is your favorite Christie mystery?”

Dodgett’s brow furrowed slightly. “Well, I usually say it’s They Do It with Mirrors, since that’s the one in which my namesake is featured.”

“Featured?” Marple teased. “Hardly. A minor character—let’s be honest.”

“True enough,” said Dodgett with a grin. “Actually, my real favorite would have to be A Pocket Full of Rye .”

“Of course. Because Miss Marple turns to a Scotland Yard inspector for help.”

“No. Because she is close to one of the victims.”

“Right!” said Marple, running the plot in her head. “Gladys the maid. Poor girl. Strangled in the garden and left with a clothespin on her nose.”

“Sometimes I do find Miss Marple a little detached,” admitted Dodgett. “I guess I prefer it when things get more personal.” After a beat, he added, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Please,” said Marple.

“Those books were what first got me interested in police work. The puzzles. The red herrings. The misdirection. The reveal. If only real life could be that tidy.”

“I think I may have found a kindred spirit,” said Marple. She turned to more fully face him. “Not to darken the mood, but what more can you tell me about the hospital kidnappings here?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Dodgett. “So far, all we have is a doula.”

“A doula? Was she on duty the night of the kidnapping?”

Dodgett nodded. “She worked to support a couple of the mothers. Private, not on staff. Brought her in this morning. We suspect she knows more than she’s saying.”

“You have her in custody?”

Dodgett glanced at his wristwatch. “We can hold her for twenty-four hours. Plus another twelve if we think we can charge her for something serious. But it doesn’t seem likely at the moment.”

“I need to talk to her,” said Marple firmly.

Dodgett looked over. “You understand that would be totally against protocol.”

“I do.”

Dodgett’s sober expression lightened, and his blue eyes twinkled. “Well, for Miss Marple, perhaps we can arrange a professional courtesy.”