“No, that won’t be necessary. I may take a rest and then get out on foot later. I want to see where Higgs was killed before I meet with his daughter tonight.”
“It won’t take you long to find the Shakespeare. I went by myself, and it seems they’ve taken the tape down now.”
“Good. Would still like to look things over, perhaps even talk to a few people. I’m hoping our friendly pub workers have loose lips.”
“I’d say a few pounds would probably loosen them up nicely,” replied Nigel with a wink. “By the way, if you need a lift, you know how to contact me.” The Brit lowered his head to look across the square. “Traffic is often a bit troublesome in London, but I’ll never be more than twenty minutes away.”
When they exited the car, the wind whipped their coats and blew leaves across the square to their right. Nigel opened the hatch and retrieved a small black case from a utility compartment. He glanced around quickly before unzipping Zane’s luggage and slipping the case inside. He then zipped the bag back up and set it on the sidewalk before turning back to Zane. “Monsieur Bergeron, enjoy your stay in London.”
Zane nodded, and they shook hands.
After leaving the car, it took him about two minutes to cross the square and walk past the groups of tourists gathered on the sidewalk. An elderly woman looked in his direction and then did a double take. As Zane passed her, the woman nudged her companion and pointed in his direction. The operative smiled as he bounded up the steps and entered the hotel.
CHAPTER FIVE
Oxford Street was one of London’s premier shopping addresses, one and a half miles of fashion boutiques, jewelers, bookstores, luggage retailers, and hair stylists. The street was also known for the perpetual throng of people that lined the sidewalks, both tourists and locals alike.
After napping for several hours in the hotel, Zane made his way toward the shopping mecca. Upon arriving at Oxford Street, he turned right and melted into the crowd. Pulling out a map he had picked up in the hotel lobby, he played the role of confused tourist, staring at it for a few seconds and then doubling back several times as if lost. Each time he turned around, he carefully checked the crowd for a subtle turn of the eye or a face that appeared more than once. On three occasions, he stood in front of men’s clothing stores, staring at the reflection of passing shoppers.
Satisfied that he wasn’t being followed, Zane entered a coffee shop near the corner of Oxford and Regent. There was no line, so he immediately approached the pink-haired barista and ordered a latte with a double shot of espresso. He then sought out a window seat and waited for one of London’s famed black cabs to pull up to the intersection. Three minutes later one appeared, and with latte in hand, the operative rushed out and flagged it down.
Shortly after Zane settled into his seat, the Scottish cabbie began to babble incessantly, something the operative was thankful for because it allowed him to continue to watch for tails. The older Scot pontificated about the deterioration of society, from the disobedient and poorly dressed youth, to the ever-growing state that encouraged laziness and coddled criminals. Every few minutes, he would glance up into the mirror and declare, “It’s a bloody shame, isn’t it?”
Zane, still playing the role of French Canadian tourist Michel Bergeron, would nod in agreement and lament that the conditions were much the same in Quebec.
Precisely eleven minutes later, the cabbie turned onto Queen Victoria Street and came to a stop in front of the Shakespeare. Zane handed the man his fare through the opening in the glass and stepped out of the stately black vehicle. As he closed the door, he could still hear the Scot opining on the increase of violence in London ghettos.
Zane stood for a moment after disembarking, staring at the scene in front of him. The Shakespeare occupied the bottom floor of a narrow, four-story building. There was a small plaza with a few outdoor tables between the front entrance and New Bridge.
He rubbed his chin lightly. Higgs would have exited the Shakespeare and walked directly past the cluster of tables on his way to hail a cab. It was possible that the assassin had been waiting for Higgs behind the tables, but that wasn’t likely. The killer was a professional, and professionals didn’t linger out in the open. No, it was likely Higgs was followed out of the Shakespeare.
Zane looked at his watch. Still plenty of time before he had to meet Amanda Higgs. It was time to go inside and speak to another person who might be able to help him: waitress Vanessa Wells.
The Shakespeare was virtually empty when Zane entered. In a few hours it would be overrun with thirsty Brits, but for now it offered the perfect opportunity to poke around.
Zane caught the attention of one of the barmen and told him that he was going to take a table in the rear. He also said that he traveled to London frequently and wanted his usual waitress. He clicked his fingers as if he couldn’t remember the name, saying he thought it started with a “V.” The bartender told him that would be Vanessa and that he was in luck, as she had just arrived for her shift.
Zane took his seat in the back, and a few minutes later he looked up to see an attractive woman walking toward him. Her wavy blond hair was pulled up in a bun, and she was wearing dark-rimmed glasses, presumably there to give her an intellectual flair.
“Well, hello love. It’s good to see you again.”
Zane smiled to himself. “Good to see you dear. How are you?”
“Fantastic,” she replied, blushing as she drew closer and took in his apearance.
A foot in the door? Zane hoped so. “Are you on the clock?”
“Technically no. But I’d be more than happy to help one of my regulars.”
“Well, speaking of which… I have a confession to make.”
“And what’s that? I love a good confession.” She raised an eyebrow and grabbed his arm playfully.
“I’ve actually never been here before. I just asked for you because I need your help.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here for. How can I help you?”
“I need to ask some questions about what happened the week before… the incident,” Zane said softly.
Immediately, Vanessa's expression changed to one of discomfort. “I’m very sorry. I’m not supposed to talk about—”
“I understand,” Zane replied, grabbing her arm reassuringly. “I work for the New York Daily Post back in the States, and we’re doing an article on the murder. I only have a few questions.” He counted out a hundred pounds and placed them in her hand, and she didn't hand them back. The foot was officially in the door. “And if you can help me, I’d be more than happy to double what I just gave you. We always protect our sources, so nothing to worry about there.”
The money and Zane’s reassurance had their intended effect. Vanessa glanced toward the front to make sure no one was looking and then sat down next to him. Over the next five minutes, she recounted the events that took place the night of the murder. The two men were engaged in deep conversation and only looked up when she came by to check on drinks. At one point Higgs, who Vanessa referred to as the bearded man, put on his coat and left. By her reckoning, it was only about fifteen minutes later that a man came running into the pub, shouting that someone had been shot out on New Bridge Street. She said the place erupted in chaos, with patrons gathering at the front door to watch as the police arrived and secured the scene.
“Did you know the man who found the body?” Zane asked.
“No, never seen him before. He was just some random guy out with his mates.”
“Going back to the two men and their conversation, did you overhear any of it?”