Chapter 64

CHAPTER 64

IT WAS ALREADY 7 p.m. in London. Marple was pacing in a tiny office in the bowels of the task force annex. PC Dodgett was sitting at a small metal desk, drumming his fingers on the cover of a case binder. Marple was clutching her phone so hard her knuckles were white.

She’d heard from Poe when he’d arrived in Queens. He could only tell her what he knew, that it was a crime in progress. Beyond that, she was totally in the dark. And still nothing from Holmes. Was he lost in the wilds of Delaware or somewhere else off the grid? Marple was furious with him for picking today of all days to go off exploring his family history.

She dialed Poe again. The call connected, then dropped.

“Maybe the signals are jammed,” said Dodgett. “From all the police activity.”

Marple was exasperated. “This is Scotland Yard, for God’s sake! You don’t have boosters?”

“Main building, yes,” said Dodgett, “but bare bones down here, I’m afraid.”

“Well, then,” said Marple, grabbing her coat, “let’s get to headquarters. I need to—”

The phone jittered in her hand. Dodgett sat up straight in his chair. Marple looked at the screen. It was an incoming FaceTime call—from Holmes. After a momentary glitch, his face filled the screen. Marple felt a flood of relief.

“Brendan! Where are you?”

Poe crowded into the frame, nudging Holmes partway out. “He’s with me!” Marple could hear the crackle and buzz of police radios in the background. Emergency lights reflected off her partners’ faces.

“Do they have her?” she shouted at the screen. “Do they have Megan Robinson in custody?”

Holmes shook his head, full-frame again. He flipped the phone around to show the massive police operation as he narrated the scene. “She’s in that building, with three babies.” The image flipped again to show Holmes in close-up. “Margaret, she’s threatening to kill the babies if she doesn’t get safe passage.”

Marple felt her stomach drop. Her mouth went dry.

“The negotiator is trying to stall for time,” said Holmes, “but the deadline is coming fast.”

“Is Duff there?” asked Marple.

“Ten yards away,” said Holmes. “He’s pissed off that the lead came from us instead of from his precious task force.”

“Take me to him,” said Marple.

“On my way,” said Holmes.

Marple turned to Dodgett. “Do you have a cell down here?”

“You mean a mobile?” He reached into his pocket.

“No, not a phone. A cell. A jail. A lockup.”

“We have a secure cubicle. Tiny, but—”

“Perfect,” said Marple. “Get the doula. Put her in there. Wait for me.”

Dodgett jumped up from the desk and opened the door. Marple watched him hurry down the hall toward the interview room where they’d left Jane Robinson. She looked down at her phone. The screen image wiggled and flared out for a few seconds. Marple heard a few muffled male voices. The camera focused tight on an armored vest, then tilted up to Graham Duff’s angular face.

“Marple?” he exclaimed. “What now?”

“I’m with somebody who can help,” she said. “Get me in there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to talk to Megan Robinson directly.”

“Not easy,” said Duff. “She’s in a sealed building with a metal door. If we breach, she might kill the babies. Or we might, by accident.”

While talking, Marple headed out of the room and down the hall behind Dodgett. “Listen to me. Tell your negotiator to inform Megan that I have a message from her sister, Jane.” She could hear Jane Robinson down the hall, screaming like mad, spewing a fresh stream of Scouse curses. Excellent.

“Hold on,” said Duff. Marple heard the rustle of the mic against fabric. The screen went black, except for a few flashes around the edges.

Marple rounded a corner. Dodgett was standing outside a small concrete cubicle with a clear door of ballistic plastic. There was barely room in it for a steel toilet and a concrete pedestal seat. Jane Robinson was inside. The door was thick, but her shouts pierced right through it. What a pair of lungs on this girl, Marple thought.

“Quiet down!” shouted Dodgett.

“No,” said Marple. “Let her wail. The louder, the better.”

She looked down at her phone. Holmes was on the screen again. She could tell from the jerky image he was on the move. “Okay,” he said, his voice tight and low. “She’s agreed to open the steel door just enough for us to slide in the phone.”

The image jittered and went dark again. The mic picked up the sound of boots on pavement, along with the rattle of metal gear. Then the view was from flat on the ground, looking up at the sky as a police helicopter crossed the frame. The image spun out of focus and went dark again. Then the mic picked up a woman’s voice.

“Got it. Now go! No fooking tricks.”

Liverpool accent, no doubt about it.