Farnham got the coffee and brought it into Room Three, a plain white cubicle furnished with a scarred table, four chairs, and a water cooler in the corner. He put the coffee in front of her.
‘Here, love,’ he said, ‘this’ll do you good. I’ve got some sugar if — ‘
‘I can’t drink it,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t — ‘ And then she clutched the porcelain cup, someone’s long-forgotten souvenir of Blackpool, in her hands as if for warmth. Her hands were shaking quite badly, and Farnham wanted to tell her to put it down before she slopped the coffee and scalded herself.
‘I couldn’t,’ she said again. Then she drank, still holding the cup two-handed, the way a child will hold his cup of broth. And when she looked at them, it was a child’s look — simple, exhausted, appealing . . . and at bay, somehow. It was as if whatever had happened had somehow shocked her young; as if some invisible hand had swooped down from the sky and slapped the last twenty years out of her, leaving a child in grownup American clothes in this small white interrogation room in Crouch End.
‘Lonnie,’ she said. ‘The monsters,’ she said. ‘Will you help me? Will you please help me?
Maybe he isn’t dead. Maybe —
‘I’m an American citizen.!’ she cried suddenly, and then, as if she had said something deeply shameful, she began to sob.
Vetter patted her shoulder. ‘There, love. I think we can help find your Lonnie. Your husband, is he?”
Still sobbing, she nodded. ‘Danny and Norma are back at the hotel . . . with the sitter . . . they’ll be sleeping . . . expecting him to kiss them when we come in . . . ‘
‘Now if you could just relax and tell us what happened — ‘
‘And where it happened,’ Farnham added. Vetter looked up at him swiftly, frowning.
‘But that’s just it!’ she cried. ‘I don’t know where it happened! I’m not even sure what happened, except that it was h- huh-horrible.’
Vetter had taken out his notebook. ‘What’s your name, love?”
‘Doris Freeman. My husband is Leonard Freeman. We’re staying at the Hotel Inter-Continental. We’re American citizens.’ This time the statement of nationality actually seemed to
steady her a little. She sipped her coffee and put the mug down. Farnham saw that the palms of her hands were quite red. You’ll feel that later, dearie, he thought.
Vetter was drudging it all down in his notebook. Now he looked momentarily at PC Farnham, just an unobtrusive flick of the eyes.
‘Are you on holiday?’ he asked.
‘Yes . . . two weeks here and one in Spain. We were supposed to have a week in Barcelona . . .
but this isn’t helping find Lonnie! Why are you asking me these stupid questions?’
‘Just trying to get the background, Mrs. Freeman,’ Farnham said. Without really thinking about it, both of them had adopted low, soothing voices. ‘Now you go ahead and tell us what happened.
Tell it in your own words.’
‘Why is it so hard to get a taxi in London?’ she asked abruptly.
Farnham hardly knew what to say, but Vetter responded as if the question were utterly germane to the discussion.
‘Hard to say. Tourists, partly. Why? Did you have trouble getting someone who’d take you out here to Crouch End?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We left the hotel at three and came down to Hatchard’s Bookshop. Is that Haymarket?’
‘Near to,’ Vetter agreed. ‘Lovely big bookshop, love, isn’t it?’
‘We had no trouble getting a cab from the Inter-Continental . . . they were lined up outside.
But when we came out of Hatchard’s, there was nothing. Finally, when one did stop, the driver just laughed and shook his head when Lonnie said we wanted to go to Crouch End.’
‘Aye, they can be right barstards about the suburbs, beggin your pardon, love,’ Farnham said.
‘He even refused a pound tip,’ Doris Freeman said, and a very American perplexity had crept into her tone. ‘We waited for almost half an hour before we got a driver who said he’d take us. It was five-thirty by then, maybe quarter of six. And that was when Lonnie discovered he’d lost the address . . . ‘
She clutched the mug again.
‘Who were you going to see?’ Vetter asked.
‘A colleague of my husband’s. A lawyer named John Squales. My husband hadn’t met him, but their two firms were — ‘ She gestured vaguely.
‘Affiliated?’
‘Yes, I suppose. When Mr. Squales found out we were going to be in London on vacation, he invited us to his home for dinner. Lonnie had always written him at his office, of course, but he had Mr. Squales’s home address on a slip of paper. After we got in the cab, he discovered he’d lost it. And all he could remember was that it was in Crouch End.’
She looked at them solemnly.
‘Crouch End — I think that’s an ugly name.’
Vetter said, ‘So what did you do then?’
She began to talk. By the time she’d finished, her first cup of coffee and most of another were gone, and PC Vetter had filled up several pages of his notebook with his blocky, sprawling script.
Lonnie Freeman was a big man, and hunched forward in the roomy back seat of the black cab so he could talk to the driver, he looked to her amazingly as he had when she’d first seen him at a college basketball game in their senior year — sitting on the bench, his knees somewhere up around his ears, his hands on their big wrists dangling between his legs. Only then he had been
wearing basketball shorts and a towel slung around his neck, and now he was in a suit and tie. He had never gotten in many games, she remembered fondly, because he just wasn’t that good. And he lost addresses.
The cabby listened indulgently to the tale of the lost address. He was an elderly man impeccably turned out in a gray summer-weight suit, the antithesis of the slouching New York cabdriver. Only the checked wool cap on the driver’s head clashed, but it was an agreeable clash; it lent him a touch of rakish charm. Outside, the traffic flowed endlessly past on Haymarket; the theater nearby announced that The Phantom of the Opera was continuing its apparently endless run.
‘Well, I tell you what, guv,’ the cabby said. ‘I’ll take yer there to Crouch End, and we’ll stop at a call box, and you check your governor’s address, and off we go, right to the door.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Doris said, really meaning it. They had been in London six days now, and she could not recall ever having been in a place where the people were kinder or more civilized.
‘Thanks,’ Lonnie said, and sat back. He put his arm around Doris and smiled. ‘See? No problem.’
‘No thanks to you,’ she mock-growled, and threw a light punch at his midsection.
‘Right,’ the cabby said. ‘Heigh-ho for Crouch End.’
It was late August, and a steady hot wind rattled the trash across the roads and whipped at the jackets and skirts of the men and women going home from work. The sun was settling, but when it shone between the buildings, Doris saw that it was beginning to take on the reddish cast of evening. The cabby hummed. She relaxed with Lonnie’s arm around her — she had seen more of him in the last six days than she had all year, it seemed, and she was very pleased to discover that she liked it. She had never been out of America before, either, and she had to keep reminding herself that she was in England, she was going to Barcelona, thousands should be so lucky.
Then the sun disappeared behind a wall of buildings, and she lost her sense of direction almost immediately. Cab rides in London did that to you, she had discovered. The city was a great sprawling warren of Roads and Mews and Hills and Closes (even Inns), and she couldn’t understand how anyone could get around. When she had mentioned it to Lonnie the day before, he had replied that they got around very carefully . . . hadn’t she noticed that all the cabbies kept the London Streetfinder tucked cozily away beneath the dash?
This was the longest cab ride they had taken. The fashionable section of town dropped behind them (in spite of that perverse going-around-in-circles feeling). They passed through an area of monolithic housing developments that could have been utterly deserted for all the signs of life they showed (no, she corrected herself to Vetter and Farnham in the small white room; she had seen one small boy sitting on the curb, striking matches), then an area of small, rather tatty-looking shops and fruit stalls, and then — no wonder driving in London was so disorienting to out-of-towners — they seemed to have driven smack into the fashionable section again.