Rules of Vengeance Page 6

  “If you ever want to join me on Harley Street, you’ll have to clean up your act,” said Jamie Meadows. “My patients prefer their surgeon sharp. White jacket, polished shoes. Goodness, are those desert boots you’re wearing?”

  Jonathan clutched Meadows in a bear hug. The two had been at Oxford together, each the recipient of a fellowship in reconstructive surgery, and had shared a flat on the High for twelve months.

  “What are you doing here?” Jonathan asked.

  “Think I’d miss a chance to lob a few tomatoes at my old roommate?” said Meadows as he pulled his own copy of the conference brochure from his pocket and slapped it in his open palm. “Continuing education. Your speech is going to earn me two hours of credit. I’ll give you fair warning. I’ve prepared several interesting questions guaranteed to raise a sweat when you’re on the dais.”

  Jonathan smiled. It was the same old Jamie. “How have you been?”

  “Not bad, all things considered,” said Meadows. “Been in private practice for six years now. I’m doing the cosmetic thing. Boobs, bums, and brows. Not enough hours in the day. I’ve got a surgical suite in the office.”

  “What happened to the National Health Service? I thought you were headed off to the wilds of Wales to be an Accident and Emergency doctor.”

  “Not Wales, Cornwall,” said Meadows in an injured tone. “Didn’t last six months. The government’s awful. Won’t pay for a new kidney, let alone a new pair of knockers. What’s a man with ambition to do?” He placed a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and pulled him close. “I wasn’t kidding about the job. There’s plenty of room in my shop if you decide to cross the street. Hours are long but the pay’s handsome. Actually, it’s more than that. Pru and I just bought a little shack in St. Tropez.”

  “I didn’t know they had shacks in St. Tropez.”

  “They don’t. They charge you a million quid and call them villas.”

  The two stood looking at each other, calculating the changes the years’ passage had wrought. In his worn flannels and blazer, Jonathan felt scruffy, and for once perhaps even a shade insecure, standing next to Meadows, who was decked out in Savile Row’s finest, his shoes polished to such a high gloss that Jonathan could practically see himself.

  “Christ, we hated you,” said Meadows. “Better than all the rest of us put together and a Yank at that. To top it off, you’re actually still doing what we all promised. Tell me the truth: do you enjoy it?”

  Jonathan nodded. “I do.”

  “I believe you.” Meadows smiled, but it was a melancholy smile. “So, you still solo?” he asked, perking up. “Don’t tell me you never married. You were such a monk at Oxford. Lived in hospital morning and night.”

  “No, I’m married,” said Jonathan. “In fact, I met her just a few months after finishing up. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make it.”

  “Is she back in Kenya?”

  Jonathan answered quickly, and his duplicity surprised him. “No, she’s visiting friends. I think she’s the only one who hates these things more than I do.” He added a larcenous smile to make the lie go down easier. “And you—kids?”

  “Three girls. Eight, five, and one in diapers. Light of my life.” Suddenly Meadows stood on his tiptoes and waved across the room. “There she is. Prudence. Didn’t you know her up at Oxford? She was at St. Hilda’s, took a first in chemistry, worked at Butlers on the High. Pru, over here!”

  Jonathan spotted a slender, dark-maned woman waving back and making her way toward them.

  “Pru, here’s Jonathan,” said Meadows, welcoming his wife with a kiss. “Tell him he looks as fat and out of shape as me. Go ahead. No need to spare his feelings. He’s tougher than he looks.”

  “You look marvelous,” said Prudence Meadows as she shook Jonathan’s hand. “Jamie’s been looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Actually, it’s rather last-minute,” said Meadows. “It was Pru who spotted your name on the brochure.”

  “Liar,” said Prudence. “We signed up months ago. We’ve been looking forward to this for ages.”

  “Did we? Oh yes, that’s right.” Meadows dropped his shoulders, as if found out. “Caught me again. Didn’t want it to go to your head.” He turned to his wife. “Listen, Pru, I’m trying to convince Jonathan to start selling his wares to the highest bidder, namely moi.”

  “Do you work with Jamie?” Jonathan asked Prudence Meadows.

  “Me? God, no. But close enough. I’m in pharmaceuticals, actually.”

  “Top sales rep in Britain,” boasted Meadows. “Peddles enough Prozac to keep the entire nation stoned. Earns more than I do.”

  “Hardly,” protested Prudence. “But really, Jonathan, you must come round to Jamie’s place. There isn’t a finer physician on all Harley Street.”

  “Go on,” added Meadows.

  “Oh shut up,” said Prudence, gifting her husband with a jab to the ribs. She returned her attention to Jonathan. “It isn’t all elective surgery. Jamie does plenty of reconstructive work as well. I understand that’s your specialty.”

  “When I get a chance,” said Jonathan. “Most of the time we’re without the necessary equipment. I appreciate the invitation to visit your practice. I’m only here for three days, but if I have time I’d love to.” Jonathan studied Prudence Meadows. She was pretty in an unassuming fashion, with narrow brown eyes and a vaguely sour cast to her lips. He jogged his memory for a sighting of her while he was up at Oxford all those years ago, but came up dry. He was certain they’d never met.

  “Could you excuse me? I have to run,” he said, gesturing in the opposite direction. “I need to go find the guy who invited me. Maybe we can get together tomorrow night?”

  “Dinner. Our place,” said Jamie Meadows. “I won’t take no for an answer. Notting Hill. Number’s in the book.” Suddenly he lunged forward, and when he shook Jonathan’s hand, his eyes were wet. “It’s good to see you. All this time. I can’t believe it.”

  “Likewise, Jamie,” responded Jonathan, moved by the show of emotion.

  “Anyway, till tomorrow,” said Meadows, gathering himself. “Can’t wait to hear the big speech. Give you the details about dinner then. Cheers!”

  “Yes, good luck with your talk,” said Prudence, smiling warmly.

  Jonathan walked back to the bar and ordered another beer. The room was packed. Conversation had grown from bubbly to boisterous. No abstemious physicians here. He scanned the crowd for Dr. Blackburn, and when he didn’t see him, he went down the corridor to the restroom. It was time to head out and get something to eat. No one could say he hadn’t put in an appearance.

  The door to the restroom opened. A moment later he spotted Blackburn in the mirror, plainly agitated. “Come on, then,” said Blackburn. “Follow me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Blackburn nodded toward the door. “We need to hurry before they get here. Let’s get a move on.”

  Jonathan stood his ground. “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “You know.” Blackburn walked out of the restroom. Puzzled, Jonathan followed. Blackburn led the way down the corridor, turned the corner, then threw open the door to a conference room. “What are you waiting for?”

  Jonathan hurried inside. “What’s this about?” he asked after Blackburn had closed the door behind them. “What do you mean, ‘before they get here’?”

  “There’s no time for questions. Just do as I say. You can leave through the window. It’s unlocked. Go to Green Park Underground station and take the tube to Marylebone. You’ll have to change trains at Piccadilly. I was led to understand you knew your way around London.”

  “More or less.”

  “Right, then. Get out at Marylebone and head west on Edgware Road. Look for number sixty-one. It’s a walk-up flat. Black door with golden numerals. You’ll see some names and buzzers. Forget ’em. The door will be open. Go up to the second floor. Two C.” Blackburn dug out a rabbit’s foot with a single key dangling from it.

  “What in the
world are you talking about?” asked Jonathan as he took the key.

  “Wait inside until you receive a phone call,” instructed Blackburn, calmer now that Jonathan was paying attention. “You’ll receive further instructions after we make sure you’re clean.”

  “Clean?”

  “Two of them have been keeping an eye on you at the cocktail party.”

  “Two of who? I didn’t notice anyone.”

  Blackburn shot him a glance that said he was hardly surprised. “Get going. There’s someone who wants to see you. And, I imagine, whom you wish to see as well.”

  Jonathan’s heart caught in his throat. She’s here. She’s in London.

  Blackburn moved to the door. “You must hurry,” he said.

  8

  Fronted by the Meadow, a broad field of untamed grass and bordered by the meandering waters of the Isis River, Christ Church College, Oxford, was the picture of British higher learning. The college was founded in 1524 by Thomas Cardinal Wolsey who had expropriated the grounds from a group of stubborn monks. Henry VIII stole it back from Wolsey and appointed the monastery church as the cathedral of the diocese of Oxford. As such, Christ Church was the only college at Oxford to be both church and institution of higher learning. But that kind of history belonged in guidebooks. All anyone knew about it today including Kate Ford, was that its great hall served as the set for Hogwart’s dining room in the Harry Potter movies. She was suitably impressed.

  Kate ducked her head into the dusk of the porter’s lodge and announced herself. “I’m looking for Anthony Dodd.”

  “Second floor. First door on the right.”

  She climbed the wooden stairwell. It was approaching six in the evening, and she was already bone tired. It was the videos that did it. All day she’d sat in One Park’s security office reviewing tapes from the building’s closed-circuit camera system in hopes of spotting Robert Russell’s murderer. But no one—not she, nor Reg Cleak, nor any of the doormen who had worked the day before—had seen any unknown persons enter the building, or—and this was the crucial point—walk through the front door of Russell’s residence on the fifth floor. Eight hours and not a single clue.

  At four the coroner had phoned with news confirming that Russell’s skull had been fractured before his fall. It was his opinion that the weapon was a blunt instrument, something akin to a ballpeen hammer. And though he couldn’t say whether or not the blow had killed Russell, he was able to state with certainty that the blow had rendered him unconscious. The news confirmed her suspicion that Russell was already dead, or at the least incapacitated, when he’d fallen from his balcony, and had bolstered her belief that the assailant had been waiting for Russell upon his return. The question remained: how in God’s name had he gotten in?

  Reaching the second floor, Kate advanced down a gloomy hallway. The first door on the right stood ajar. Inside a cramped, sun-filled office, a burly young man in rugby kit was bent over a desk, shuffling through a stack of papers. Kate poked her head in. “Is this Professor Dodd’s office?”

  “It is,” answered the student without looking up.

  “Is he about?” Kate asked.

  “He is indeed.” The young man put down his papers and stood up. He was taller than she’d expected, at least six feet four inches, and handsome. His cheeks were flushed, his brow damp with sweat below a head of tousled brown hair. But it was his legs she couldn’t help but notice. His thighs were as stout as tree trunks and striated with muscle.

  “Where?”

  “You’re looking at him.” Dodd nodded, stretching a hand to shake as he came closer. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m used to it. I’ll be forty next week. I’m praying for my first gray hair.”

  “Lucky you,” said Kate. “I’ve been plucking mine since I was thirty. Detective Chief Inspector Ford.”

  “I figured as much.” Dodd moved his rugby ball off a chair and motioned for Kate to sit. “Can I get you something to drink? Water, beer, diet soda?”

  “Water would be fine.”

  Dodd picked up a cell phone and called the scout with his order. “Sorry about the getup,” he said afterward. “Coming from a practice. Season’s almost here. I’m only a coach, but I like to stay in shape.” He took up position, leaning against his desk. “Anyway, let’s talk about Robert.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “I was his tutor,” said Dodd. “I supervised his doctoral work. We met twice a week for three years. We kept up contact since. I’d say I knew him well enough to know he’d never commit suicide. I take it you’re not convinced either.”

  Just then Tom Tower stroked the hour of six. Dodd’s eyes shot to the window, and the two of them sat waiting for Great Tom to stop tolling. As the last bell died, he turned his gaze to her.

  “No, Professor Dodd,” said Kate. “We’re not.”

  “Call me Tony. How can I help?”

  “I’m interested in learning a bit about Lord Russell.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” said Kate. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

  Dodd granted her permission with the wave of his hand. Kate pulled her notepad and pen out of her jacket. She did not carry a purse. Purses were for girly girls, and she’d never been one of those. Everything she needed—her badge and identification, her phone, her wallet, and her gun—she carried on her person.

  “Robbie came up in ’96,” Dodd began. “He was an Old Etonian. But he was different. Humble, not arrogant. He was smart enough to know he didn’t know everything. You don’t see that often, not from that kind of family. The Russells go all the way back to the Domesday Book. They fought with William the Conqueror at Hastings. But Robbie didn’t care about that. He was of the here and now. He put his nose to the grindstone from day one. He had a remarkable mind.”

  “How so?”

  “He saw past the facts. Oh, he could memorize with the best of them.” Dodd tapped his forehead. “He had an encyclopedia up there. But he went a step further. He saw patterns where mortals saw shadows. He identified trends long before they were anything but random events. He divined intentions. He even dared to predict. And he was right every damn time.”

  Kate nodded politely. Patterns. Trends. Intentions. This kind of talk was beyond her. Blather, she called it. She was an O-level girl who liked mayo with her chips and her Guinness lukewarm in a pint glass.

  “What exactly did Russell study?”

  “Twentieth-century Russian history. Postwar, primarily. His dissertation was titled ‘The Case for a New Authoritarian State: Benevolent Despot or Totalitarian Czar?’ He was not optimistic about the course that Russia is taking. He studied the language as well, though that was with another tutor. He spent some time in Moscow doing some work for a bank. He came back afterward and we took him on as a don.”

  “And is that what he taught? Russian history?”

  “At first, yes.”

  “And now?”

  Dodd rose abruptly and began pacing the office, cradling the rugby ball in his hands. “I’m not sure what he was up to lately, to be honest.”

  “But I thought you said you’d remained friends?”

  “We are. I mean, we were. I can’t bring myself to believe that he’s gone.”

  “Did you see each other regularly?”

  “Not for the past year.”

  “Do you recall the last time you saw him?”

  “A month, maybe three weeks ago.”

  “Did he seem in any way distracted?”

  “How should I know?” Dodd turned to her, his eyes wet and angry. He paused, and the rage left him. “We weren’t close anymore. Robbie had his projects. I had mine. I’m in love with the past. He had his eyes on the future. We didn’t talk shop.”

  “What about his students?”

  “He didn’t have any students. Not anymore. Robbie stopped tutoring a year ago.”

  “Then what exactly was his position at the university?”

  Dodd stopped pacin
g and put the ball down. “You mean you don’t know?” he asked, suddenly wary, off-balance. “Didn’t they send you up here?”

  “Who’s ‘they’?” asked Kate.

  “I thought you’d been cleared for all this. I mean, don’t all of you speak to one another?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  Dodd stepped closer to Kate, and when he spoke, his voice had quieted and grown deadly serious. “Look, DCI Ford, it’s like this. Robbie’s work wasn’t a matter fit for public inquiry. I thought you knew that.”

  “Was he doing something that might have jeopardized his life?”

  “You’re putting me in a hard spot.”

  “Am I?” asked Kate.

  Dodd didn’t answer. He stood looking at her, shaking his head. Up close, she could see the lines spreading from the corners of his eyes. She no longer found it hard to believe that he was forty.

  “Would it surprise you if I told you that we have proof Lord Russell was murdered?” she asked.

  Dodd turned away and moved toward the window. “Robbie knew what he was getting into.”

  “And what exactly was that?”

  “The game.”

  “What game?”

  “There’s only one, isn’t there?” Dodd glanced over his shoulder. “Now, would you go? I can’t help you with this end of things.”

  “I can’t find out who killed Robert Russell unless I know why someone wanted him dead. Please.” Kate paused and guardedly met his eye. “He was your … student, after all. I think he’d want you to help us find who took his life.”

  Dodd considered this a moment, then looked away. “Five Alfred Street,” he said. “That’s where you’ll find them. But don’t expect them to talk to you. They’re a secretive lot. It’s the nature of the business.”

  “Who are they? What business are you talking about?”

  “OA. Oxford Analytica.”

  Kate ran the name across her tongue until she was certain that she’d never heard of it. “What do they do?”

  “What Robbie did best.” Dodd’s eyes drifted away from hers, to the open window and the looming form of Tom Tower. “They guess the future.”