Free The Victim in Victoria Station by Jeanne M. Dams

Also, somebody outside Multilinks
might
have killed him, if he
was
killed. He could have friends over here, people he’d known in America who’d moved here, family—”
    â€œDo friends kill friends?” I demanded.
    â€œYes,” said Tom and Lynn in unison.
    I sighed. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m theorizing ahead of my data. Sherlock Holmes warned against that. But I have to start somewhere, and Multilinks seems like the logical place. In fact, it seems like the only place, for a private individual like me. I can’t go around taking fingerprints or interviewing witnesses. How many thousand people were in Victoria Station at about the right time, do you suppose? And how would I find them?”
    â€œOkay, D., we take your point. I’ll make a phone call or two and see what I can find out about Multilinks. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a nap after that lunch my lovely wife stuffed us with.”
    Lynn threw a cushion at him and then yawned herself. “Power of suggestion,” she said accusingly. “I’d planned a shopping expedition, Dorothy, but it’s raining too hard. The perfect afternoon for a nap, in fact.”
    We had our naps, and then we had a light supper, and then Tom and Lynn got out their pictures from Africa, and I was treated to a travelogue. The pictures were superb, taken by a man with a good eye and a wildly expensive camera. Lynn contributed a witty commentary, and I did laugh immoderately at the story of the night they were awakened in terror, in mid-safari, by unearthly yowls that turned out to be a couple of amorous tomcats. It was a long evening all the same. Tom had put in phone calls to some of his cronies and didn’t expect any information until morning, but it was hard not to strain our ears, waiting for the phone to ring.
    We finally gave up the pretense and went to bed. “I’m not an early riser, Dorothy,” said Lynn on the way up the stairs, “but the coffeemaker’s ready to go, and you know where the kettle is if you prefer tea. Just help yourself to anything you want to eat.”
    â€œOh, I don’t expect I’ll need anything, and anyway I expect to sleep forever. Thanks, you two. Good night.”
    In fact, I slept badly. The nap had taken the edge off my need for sleep, and in the middle of the night the rain, that lovely soporific, stopped. In its wake came a heavy warmth that, again, reminded me of the summer humidity we sometimes had back home. The difference was that in Indiana there’s always some air-conditioned place to provide refuge. Here it almost never gets anything like as hot, but to offset that, air-conditioning is very rare. I tossed amid my damp sheets. Finally, about five-thirty, I’d had enough. I crept down the heavily carpeted stairs to the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker.
    Tom walked in at six. “Wouldn’t you know,” he said grumpily. “Take the day off, could sleep in, can’t sleep at all. We’ve got to air-condition this place.”
    â€œHave some coffee. I couldn’t sleep either. It’s cooling off, though. A breeze came up about a half hour ago.”
    The kitchen curtains were fluttering slightly, and the air was becoming fresher. I sat Tom down in front of the window and let the breeze and the caffeine improve his frame of mind. When he was on his second cup, I couldn’t hold back any longer.
    â€œTom, what do
you
think is going on at Multilinks? Didn’t anybody yesterday give you any idea?”
    â€œOnly rumors, D. An idea that there’s something not quite kosher about the company, that maybe they’re not doing quite as well as expected. I’ll know more by noon, if there’s anything to know.”
    We waited for breakfast until Lynn came down, and then sat around the house frankly staring at the phone. It rang, finally, three times in quick succession, and when Tom