Chapter 66

CHAPTER 66

HER CONVERSATION WITH Holmes ended as Dodgett walked back into the office.

“Robinson’s sorted,” he said. “Moved to more spacious quarters.”

Marple tucked her phone back into her bag. “Take me to the mothership.”

“Beg pardon?” said Dodgett.

“We’ve gotten all from Jane that we’re going to get. I doubt that her sister will be any more helpful. I need access to your Interpol team and your ICMEC liaison. And I need a proper desktop computer. Enough of your little underground lair. Get me to HQ.”

“Absolutely, Margaret. At your service.” Dodgett pulled out his phone and tapped out a short text. Marple didn’t even wait for him to finish. She picked up her bag and coat and brushed right past him. He caught up with her halfway down the corridor.

“This way,” he said, pressing the flat of his palm on her back to guide her to the left. An unnecessary gesture but not surprising. Marple had been observing PC Dodgett closely from the second she had spotted him in the airport. His expressions. His lingering glances. His way of positioning himself close to her.

There was nothing improper or forward in his actions; in fact, he retained a classic British reserve. But Marple was an expert at reading people—men especially. What she picked up from Dodgett was a slight but significant infatuation. And she intended to work it for all it was worth.

Once they were outside, Marple took a deep breath of cool night air, a relief from the dank atmosphere of the annex basement.

“It’s only a few blocks,” said Dodgett. “Shall we walk?” He pointed up the street past a pair of turreted brick buildings to a sturdy block of white stone peppered with small windows. The Thames was on their right, glimmering in the moonlight through a row of trees. Very romantic.

“No,” said Marple. “Let’s run.”

Dodgett was in good shape, but Marple matched him stride for stride. When they reached the front entrance of New Scotland Yard HQ, he was actually panting harder than she was.

Unlike the sparsely populated annex, the pristine headquarters building was buzzing, even at this hour. And here, the lifts definitely worked. Dodgett escorted Marple into a nearby elevator and pressed 5.

“What happened to old Scotland Yard?” asked Marple as they glided upward. Christie’s Marple would definitely have felt more at home there, in the ornate old brick building near Trafalgar Square.

“Converted to a Hyatt,” said Dodgett. “Top suites go for a thousand pounds a night.”

“I do hope you’re getting a cut,” said Marple.

Dodgett shook his head and chuckled. “Not even a mint on my pillow.”

When the door opened, a welcoming committee of two was waiting. A stout middle-aged man in shirtsleeves stood next to a petite woman wearing glasses and a ponytail. As the elevator door closed, Dodgett made the introductions.

“Margaret Marple, private investigator, meet Chief Inspector Crouse, my superior officer, and one of our best criminal intelligence analysts, Rebecca Tran.”

“Pleasure,” said Marple, shaking each of their hands briskly. She turned to Dodgett with a frown. “Nobody from ICMEC?” She’d been hoping for a specialist from the international organization that dealt with missing and exploited children.

Chief Inspector Crouse stiffened slightly. “I think you’ll find that Rebecca can access all the resources you need,” he said.

Marple nodded toward Tran, who looked more like a grad student than a seasoned investigator.

“No offense meant,” said Marple. “I just think that on a case like this, we need somebody with an expertise in this kind of crime.”

Tran adjusted her eyeglasses and took a small step forward. “I was trafficked near Saigon when I was ten,” she said softly. “Resold in Phuket at twelve. Escaped in Manila when I was thirteen.” She paused, not blinking. “I’m familiar with the market.”

Marple felt herself reddening. Crouse cleared his throat and extended his arm toward a corridor that led off the lobby. “Right, then,” he said. “Shall we?”

Marple and Dodgett fell in behind Crouse and Tran as they led the way down the hall. Marple pinched the constable’s arm beneath his uniform sleeve. Hard.

“You could have told me!” she whispered.

“Sorry,” Dodgett whispered back. “I didn’t know she’d been assigned to the case. Our good luck. She’s bright as a bloody button.”

The small procession came to a halt in front of a thick, windowless metal door. Crouse waved a plastic card over a panel. A loud click sounded. Tran pushed the door open to a large windowless room filled with rows of evenly spaced wood-topped tables. The space was lit mostly by the glow from a dozen computer screens and from a bright banner of images that ran in a moving mosaic above a world map at the front of the room. The images were of children—thousands of them—all ages, all colors, all nationalities, each captioned with an age and a DOD: date of disappearance.

Rebecca Tran pulled out a chair and sat down in front of one of the consoles. She looked directly at Marple, patting the next chair over.

“Have a seat, Miss Marple,” she said. “Where would you like to start?”