Free A Murder of Magpies by Judith Flanders

trying to figure out what to do. I could hardly ring my own phone and suggest to the burglars that they might like to leave now, as I was on my way.
    I turned to go back up to Mr. Rudiger. I’d use his phone to call Inspector Field. I had a mobile but it was, naturally, in my flat—I hadn’t seen any reason to take it to my mother’s. I’d only gone up two steps when the hair on the back of my head lifted. Someone was standing on the landing. I couldn’t see him, or hear him, but I knew he was there. He’d watched me walk up to the top, and he’d let me pass back down.
    Now what?
    I found out, all too soon.
    *   *   *
    I focused on the tree that grew outside my sitting room window. There was something odd about it. It had shrunk. And the window had suddenly decided it had curtains. Why was I sleeping on the sofa anyway? I heard a step behind me, and the door closed. I remembered the stairway and tried to sit up and turn quickly, but a light inside my head exploded, and I dropped back onto the cushions.
    â€œGently. You’re fine, but you’ve had a knock.” It was Inspector Field. How had he got into my sitting room? How had I?
    Mr. Rudiger came into my line of sight with a glass of water. “Here. Just a sip.”
    This wasn’t my sitting room, it was his, and the tree had shrunk because I was looking out from the second story. I took the water but my hand was shaking and it slopped out over what had, until the last hour, been my best suit. I pushed myself up on one elbow and looked down at myself. There was blood all over the front of my jacket, and one elbow and both knees were ripped. Damn. Now I’d have to go shopping with Kit.
    Kit. Oh God.
    â€œWhat happened?” I tried to stay calm, but my voice was shaking, to match my hands. I was going to cry, too, which was really embarrassing.
    Mr. Rudiger sat me up and put a cushion behind me. He took away the glass, tipped out most of what I hadn’t spilled into a nearby plant, and gave it back to me. “Here, sip slowly.” He held a tissue in front of my nose and said, like a particularly fond mother, “Blow.” His face showed no more surprise than it had when I’d first come upstairs with my news.
    His impassivity and briskness, not to mention the tissue, steadied me. “I’m all right now.” I think I persuaded myself. “What happened? And when? What time is it?”
    Inspector Field pulled up a chair. “I’ve just got here. You weren’t unconscious for long. You were lucky. Whoever was inside your flat must have posted a lookout. He only wanted to make sure you didn’t see anybody. What I don’t understand is that you were knocked on the head, and then for some reason they also pushed you down the front stairs on to the pavement as well. That seems excessive, and it reduced their chances of getting away quietly.”
    I was embarrassed. “Um. Well. I realized somebody was there, so as he came toward me I was ready, and I kneed him in the balls and hit him over the head with a Hornby engine Bim had left on the stairs. I’m not sure if the train connected, but my knee definitely did. That might have annoyed him enough to push me.”
    Inspector Field looked like he was biting the inside of his cheek. “It might be a good idea not to annoy any more people with coshes,” he advised solemnly. “They get cross, you know. If I’d thought you’d get involved, I would never have—” He broke off, shaking his head, and stood up. “I’ll just wait for the ambulance. Then I’ll join my colleagues downstairs to see what’s been going on there.” He stared at me for a minute, apparently wondering what other trouble I could get up to in the ambulance.
    The thought of my flat, and what it most probably looked like, made me want to cry again, and once a night was enough. So I said mutinously,