Free A Murder of Magpies by Judith Flanders Page B

“no reason,” even if they are well past retirement age, as Mr. Rudiger plainly was, at least chronologically. It was now nearly four in the morning and I just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for about a week. Mr. Rudiger and my mother on the other hand were both irritatingly chipper. They’d agreed, without reference to me, that it was better for me to stay at Mr. Rudiger’s so I could go through my apartment with the police in the morning. I didn’t care where I was, as long as people stopped talking at me and let me go to bed.
    Mr. Rudiger showed me into a room that looked like a piece of Central Europe bodily transported: a gleaming wooden floor with a hook rug, white walls, dark wooden furniture, and a child’s wooden bed, with a duvet with a homemade patchwork cover on it. It was like being Goldilocks in the Three Bears’ house, and it was wonderfully comforting. I dozed off to the sound of adult voices murmuring down the hall. It only needed a nightlight to make my reversion to childhood complete.
    In the morning the gray, watery light coming through white cotton curtains with red ducks on them woke me gently. I got out of bed, finding myself in a peculiar, crouched-over position that was all that my now-stiffened muscles would permit. In all the books I’d ever read, Our Hero is brutally assaulted, tied up for seventy-two hours, frequently being hung by his ankles in the process. When he frees himself by gnawing through the ropes, he stops only for a quick drink, and then charges straight off after the villains. Another cherished illusion gone. It was plain to me now that what Our Hero would really do was lie in bed and moan gently. That seemed sensible, so I lay down again and did that for a while. Then I shuffled off to the bathroom and soaked my muscles until they at least let me stand upright.
    I’d been aware of Mr. Rudiger moving around earlier, and when I reached the kitchen he had a cup of coffee ready for me, and was placidly eating cereal and listening to the news on the radio. He nodded, and let me drink in silence, for which I was grateful. Then, “Inspector Field said he’ll be here at ten to go through the flat with you. Also, will you call your mother? She’s worried.”
    Worried? She was probably wondering why I wasn’t at work. Which reminded me: If I moved quickly, I could leave a message on Miranda’s voice mail at the office saying I was ill before she got in. I didn’t think I could really deal with explaining what was happening just at the moment, although David and, more particularly, Selden’s, were going to have to know soon that things were escalating. Robert Marks was going to be disgusted: He hadn’t gone into the law to deal with criminals. David, I rather suspected, would be secretly jealous that this Boys’ Own episode was happening to me. Whatever the case, all of publishing London would have heard the news ten minutes after I spoke to the office, and I couldn’t face it right now.
    Naturally my mother was already at her office, despite the fact that she couldn’t have got home much before five.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” she asked, moving on before I had time to answer. “Pavel says—”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œPavel Rudiger. Why didn’t you tell me what a delightful man he is? Such a distinguished career.” I couldn’t bring myself to ask what that was. She’d spent an hour with him and had learned more than I’d found out in over fifteen years. I’d known his first name, I supposed, but I never would have thought to have used it.
    â€œPavel says that he’s happy to have you stay with him until you get your door fixed. Do you want to, or would you rather stay with me? It will be easier for you to sort out locksmiths and so on from there.” She’d already made up my mind. “Inspector Field will bring you over here at lunchtime to go through