Thief's Mark. Carla Neggers

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СКАЧАТЬ his view or blurred by fear, shock, adrenaline and horror.

      The man looked to be in his fifties.

      The right age.

      Martin allowed himself a moment to listen to birds singing in the trees behind him, but he couldn’t do it. He felt himself being transported to the past, against his will...to the arrival of the police and the unfathomable news that Charles and Deborah York were dead—murdered in their London home—and their young son was missing. At that moment, his own life had been forever changed. He’d been here on the farm. He’d wanted to run, as he did now.

      He’d located Nicholas and Priscilla and sat vigil with them through those tense, grief-filled days, every second seared into his memory. Eight-year-old Oliver had escaped from the Scottish ruin where the two men who’d killed his parents had taken him, with the hope of earning a hefty ransom in exchange for the boy’s safe return to his family. A priest out for an early morning walk had come upon him and taken him to safety. Young Oliver identified the killers and kidnappers as Davy Driscoll and Bart Norcross, two men in their midtwenties who had done groundskeeping and a variety of odd jobs in London for Charles and Priscilla. They’d worked on a contract basis and had quit a short time before the murders.

      Physical and circumstantial evidence confirmed the boy’s eyewitness account.

      For their part, Driscoll and Norcross disappeared as if into thin air.

      Until today.

      Martin raked his hands through his grayed hair. He was aware of Henrietta silently watching him from the bench, but he didn’t care. He could be letting his emotions get the best of him. He could be wrong and it wasn’t Davy Driscoll lying dead before him.

      He didn’t need to panic or go off half-cocked. He hadn’t known either killer well. They were wanted men. With no credible sightings of them and no leads, surely they’d altered their appearance and adopted new identities.

      The face of the dead man, the line of his jaw, his slight build, his age...

      Was he Davy Driscoll?

      Martin sighed heavily. He was certain it was.

      Almost.

      He wondered how the dead man had sustained his fatal injuries. A knife wound? A gunshot? Martin hadn’t heard gunfire and assumed no one else had, either. He shuddered. Never mind the shock that had seized him—he made no pretense of expertise in violent death, whether accidental, self-inflicted or the work of another.

      He could hear approaching police cars. The York farm had always been a refuge, not just for Oliver, but for him, too—for all those who loved the land, its history and the family. The violence done to Charles and Deborah and their young son had occurred in London, not here.

      “Alfred...” Martin bit back fear. “He was here when I left the house.”

      “Oliver didn’t bring him to the potting shed. He probably returned Alfred to your cottage before he came down.”

      It had to be the case. The puppy would have been out the open door, yapping at their feet by now, and he was trained to stay close and wouldn’t have gone far. Martin shut his eyes. “Oliver,” he whispered, “where the devil are you?”

      “Good question,” Henrietta said.

      He opened his eyes and turned to her. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

      “I know.”

      She didn’t look ruffled by his gruffness. She seemed sincerely troubled by the day’s events, but if she was MI5, she’d be able to fake sincerity. “Oliver isn’t a killer,” Martin said.

      Henrietta turned by a tall, cracked stone urn. Her eyes had an unexpected, genuine warmth to them. “Of course he isn’t.”

       3

      London, Heathrow Airport

      Emma eased toward an empty carousel, away from the throngs in Heathrow’s crowded baggage claim. She hadn’t expected a call. It was an unknown caller. She almost let it go to voice mail but instead answered with a simple hello, without using her name.

      “Dear Emma. Where are you?”

      She recognized Oliver York’s voice and slowed her pace. “Heathrow. Did you get my voice mail?”

      “This morning. Yes. You and Colin want to see me. Why?”

      “We’ll come to you. Are you in London or at your farm?”

      “I didn’t do it.”

      Emma went still. His voice was ragged, barely a whisper. This wasn’t the irreverent, relentlessly good-natured Oliver York she knew. “Do what, Oliver?”

      “I didn’t kill that man. I tried to help him. I don’t know if it was murder, suicide, an accident. I don’t know anything. Tell the police. They’re looking for me.”

      “Oliver, talk to me. Where are you?”

      “I’m going dark. I trust you. Trust me. Colin and I will never be friends now.” His attempt to return to his natural cheekiness fell flat. “I hope you two had a fabulous honeymoon.”

      “I can’t help you if you go dark,” Emma said. “We’ll come to you.”

      He was gone.

      She slid her phone into her tote bag and rejoined Colin at their baggage carousel. He’d collected their bags, hers a wheeled case, his a duffel he had slung over his shoulder. They’d packed more than they would have for a typical business trip. They’d put together the meetings at the last minute but were dressed professionally in clothes that had seen them through nights out in Ireland.

      She told him about Oliver’s call. “He’s in trouble, Colin.”

      “Damn right he is. I just got a call from my MI5 contact. Oliver took off from his farm this morning and left behind a dead body.”

      “Who?”

      “They don’t know yet. It was a quick call. He wants our help. He’ll pave the way for us to talk to the detectives.” Colin hoisted his bag higher on his shoulder. “Looks as if we’re renting a car and driving to the Cotswolds instead of taking the train into London.”

      Emma absorbed the change in plan. She didn’t know Colin’s MI5 contact, just that they’d met during his first undercover mission five years ago. She raised the handle on her bag. Matt Yankowski, their boss in Boston, would want to know she and Colin had landed in the middle of a British death investigation involving Oliver York. “We need to check in with Yank.”

      “Have at it.”

      “It’s your MI5 contact.”

      “It’s your art thief on the lam and your grandfather whose house was broken into. If we walked into a bunch of arms traffickers, I’d make the call. I’ll rent the car.” He dipped a hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew СКАЧАТЬ