Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

Ashe drove into London against the outrush of early escapee evening traffic, hekept feeling again the burning warmth of her tawny hands against his chest, andthe pallor of the cold patches that seemed, each time, to replace them.

SilviaDusa, (S.D.). Had he even taken her seriously?

No?Decidedly no. Ifyes,then undeniably he should and would have gone to Stuart – not, obviously, inher company, or on her behalf, but in order to protect whatever project shemight, however slightly and inadvertently, have jeopardised. And partly toprotect and cover himself, it went without saying, since she had hinted at hermistake to him. To stay dumb was to be complicitous with the adversary,whatever was out there that must be worked against.

Whathad she said? He had been trying all morning, after seeing that One Down clue,to recall precisely.

“I have done something stupid... I havegiven something to someone.”

Was that what shehad said? Her actual words? He had not, as she had accused him of doing, recordedtheir dialogue. He had had no grounds, surely, to feel that might be necessary.

Theweather had stayed stormy and overcast. London began to loom up, a mass ofthickly dark, and yet already luridly lighted shapes. The river lay likepolished lead under its welter of neons and lasers. Ten or so years ago it hadresembled a Science Fiction city, as New York had done years before that. Butterror and catastrophe had fractured New York’s architectural mountains, whilethe exhaustion of financial downfall was putting out London’s inner fires.

KenLesley was tonight’s Reception. His office nickname was, predictably, Kill, but several,Carver included, knew him as “Ken”.

Hechecked Carver’s ID fleetly, they exchanged a taciturn acknowledgement, andCarver took the lift to the fifth floor.

“Deathoccurred between approximately 11 and 12 p.m. on the date given. The body wasfound about 6 a.m. the following morning, when a cleaner went into thelavatory. The pub is a quiet one, with a steady inflow of generally regularcustomers. Dusa was noticed on the previous evening, being a stranger, and alsoattractive. No one saw her leave since she did not leave, at least in any physical way.Usually, they say, the facilities are checked just before, and again just afterthe pub doors are shut for the night. But were not on this particular occasion.One senses that happens quite often. The means was a man’s razor blade stuckinto a cork – the old-fashioned sort of cork that isn’t plastic. Dusa appearsto have cut the veins of her left wrist lengthways, rather than across ordiagonally. It’s the most efficient method, and it worked, but not many peoplecan manage it; it takes a steady hand. Nor were there any preliminary ‘practice’cuts. She had drunk, according to the bar staff, only two glasses of red wine,house variety, nothing special, which she bought directly from the bar. She wason her own. If she was waiting for anyone, no one showed up. The bar peoplethought, in fact, she had left by the garden exit – the garden is kept openfor smokers even if the weather is unsettled. The cleaner who found the bodyhas been unwell since then, and her questioning has been minimal. No helpfulDNA or other identification seems to be in the picture. No alien substances werefound in Dusa’s stomach. No other significant marks were on her body. The corkcarries evidence only of Dusa’s own handling. She did not find the cork at thepub, and seems to have brought the weapon with her, ready-assembled. Atpresent, there we have all the information ceded to us.”

Latham’svoice stopped. (It had been his bleak voice, the one he used for such, andsimilar, announcements.)

Heronsspoke: “Who did it?”

Lathamshrugged, “We have no idea. Unless just possibly it was Dusa herself.”

“Why?”That came from Ireland, smoking his fifth cigarette in the corner. Unlikeevery pub and office in England, this room had no smoking ban.

“Why is the thing wewant to learn, of course,” said Latham flatly. “Why, and if not, who. But there’svery little about her on record, beyond the obvious profile-monitoring we allundergo. Read her file. It is now available to everybody present here.”

“What’snext, then?” asked Herons.

“Nothingyet. We do our homework. We keep our heads down and antennae up. Be ready. Thisis a Level Blue.”

“Solow?” Herons seemedaffronted.

“Sofar. But it might go up to a Green tomorrow.”

Theymurmured.

Carverhad risen to leave the room with the rest, but Latham directed at him a smileand the smallest shake of his head. Carver therefore turned back, pretending toselect a pen from the cluster on the table.

Latham,as he walked past, muttered, “Give it a couple of minutes, then drop by myroom, will you?”

Carverdid as Latham said. There were frequently clandestine signals it was necessaryto follow. He wondered what Latham would want him to do, and was glad againthat Donna was away from the house. Under the circumstances the task might becomplex and mean more hours to put in, and though she was used to what shecalled his extra-curricular outings, if she was still unsettled it might havecaused problems. He wondered if Dusa had had relatives, apart from the mother,who must now be informed of her death, and if so who would see to it, thenormal authorities, or Mantik. This job would not fall to him at least.

Whenhe reached Latham’s room, (a miniature of Stuart’s on the floor above), thelights were lowered to a sociable level, and the vodka and glasses had brokenfree of the cupboard. Outside, beyond the blinds and the drawn curtains, an innovationLatham preferred, tarpaulins flapped and scaffolding rattled in a thicklyrising wind.

“Sorryto drag you in on your R and R, Carver, but it seemed best.”

“That’sfine, Mr Latham.”

“Good,good. Take a drink, yes, go on, we can sort out your travel arrangements in aminute, no worries. I think we owe you a cab home.”

Carverpoured the vodka, and drank a meagre sip. What did Latham want? Something,plainly, that he meant to build up to.

“Takea seat. Yes, that’s it. Just something I want to play over with you. I supposeyou knew Silvia a little, did you?”

Carversaid, “Not really.”

“Justused to meet her in the corridor, yes? Yes. But the odd exchange