Read Online A Murder of Magpies by Judith Flanders - Free Book Online

be easier for one of your friends to ring you up and ask you? You people seem to spend all your time talking, and confidentiality isn’t a word you use a lot.” It was true, but it was clever of him to work that out after one visit. I thought we did a better imitation of appearing, if not being, professional. He went on. “How does Lovell produce his work? Longhand?”
    â€œYes. He doesn’t use a computer. He gives a manuscript to some woman and she types it up.”
    He asked me for her contact details, and then added, almost as an afterthought, “What are your locks like at home?”
    I had that feeling you get when you take a step in the dark and it isn’t there. “Average. Enough to stop the casual thug. Nothing so complicated that a professional will get pissed off and total the whole door. If someone is searching for this manuscript, wouldn’t it be better to let them burgle the place, and find out there’s nothing there?” I backtracked at his quizzical look. “I’m not aiming for a break-in, but I’d rather it happened when I was out, and I’d rather they knew I had nothing there.” I paused, trying to control myself. No dice. “I really, really don’t like this,” I snapped, as if he had tried to persuade me differently.
    â€œYou’re not supposed to.” If he hadn’t been a cop, I’d have assumed he was laughing at me, but looking closer I saw that he was being sympathetic. “Maybe you should go and stay with friends for a while.”
    I flinched, as if he’d leaned over and slapped me. This was much more real than I was prepared for. “What are you suggesting? That there’s danger? Or that I should just clear out and let some stranger come and vandalize my house?” Despite my best efforts, my voice was rising to a whine. I’d suggested the very same thing only a minute before, but when he agreed, I was outraged.
    Field looked gently at me, and said, “Wouldn’t you rather be out of the way, if that’s what’s going to happen?”
    â€œWell, stop it happening. You’re a policeman. Do something.”
    He very kindly pretended not to hear.
    *   *   *
    By evening I had stopped feeling whiny and had moved on to mutinously aggressive. I was supposed to move myself out of my house so it could be burgled, wait for my manuscripts to be stolen, and just generally sit around while Kit was done away with? I didn’t think so. I’m not particularly even-tempered at the best of times, and this was making me very, very crabby. Not adding to the general gaiety of the nation was the thought of dinner at my mother’s. But if I didn’t go I’d never hear the end of it, so I hauled on my good suit and stamped off to St. John’s Wood, feeling martyred.
    My mother looked her usual bandbox self. I always hope that, with her hectic schedule, one day I’ll see her when her hair needs cutting, or with the hem on her skirt coming down, or at least, dammit, that she’s sewn a button on with the wrong-colored thread. Today wasn’t going to be that day. Helena’s tiny, no more than five feet two inches, and a very fragile five feet two inches at that. She wears very neat, very tailored clothes, which somehow make her look irresistibly feminine, and her short, curly dark hair, still with only a few threads of gray, always looks as if she has just stepped out of the hairdresser, although I know it takes her barely five minutes in the morning.
    She looked at me and carefully didn’t sigh. “What’s up?”
    We had a few minutes before the guests came, so I filled her in on the last few days. She’s good at real trouble.
    â€œWell, you’d better come and stay for a while, hadn’t you. And warn your neighbors.”
    â€œWarn them? Warn them about what? That I’m expecting burglars, and they should see that