She nodded.
They found a table and sat Raffa, in the attaché case, on the chair between them. Marcus ordered tea, and two slices of chocolate cake, with icing. He could see that she was frightened. Honestly, he was frightened too. The price of failure in this was infinitely higher than anything he had imagined when he began.
They must talk about something. He could not let her just sit here in silence, trying to pretend she was not terrified, and imagining what might be happening to her mother, and what in the end she would do alone, in a country where she knew no one. The guilt she would feel for failing would destroy her.
What would the real Sherlock Holmes have talked about? Nothing. He did not deal with children, except the Baker Street Irregulars, and they were not well brought-up little girls. They were boys, and street-wise urchins at that.
“Do you like to read?” he asked.
She finished her mouthful of chocolate cake. “Of course I do.”
“What’s your favorite book?”
“Other than your stories?”
“Other than those, yes.”
“A book of poems by Edward Lear. It was my mummy’s when she was little. And my granny’s before that.”
For a moment he was totally lost, then a flash of memory came to his rescue.
“Ah, yes. Lots of limericks. Are there any drawings in your book?”
“Drawings?”
“Yes, of flowers and things.”
“No, there are rhymes and stories.” She looked puzzled.
He was struggling. He took a piece of paper out of his notebook and a pen, and he drew a picture of Lear’s as he remembered it. It was a mock botanical name—“nasty-creature-crawluppia.” He made the picture appropriately horrible, then passed it to her.
She took it, and giggled with pleasure. “I’ve never seen that before. I’d remember.”
“He was a real artist, you know, as well as writing nonsense verses. He painted beautiful watercolors of South Africa.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He fished for words and recollections of Lear’s verses, and recaptured enough to amuse her for quite a while. Some of them she knew and recited with him. The waitress came and Marcus paid the bill.
A few moments later she returned with a receipt—and a note.
Trying to keep his hands steady, Marcus read it. He knew Sarah was watching him almost without blinking.
“They have your mother, and will exchange her for Raffa,” he told her. “They are somewhere very close, probably in this room where they can see us, so sit still. Let us keep our composure.”
“The game is afoot,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his.
“It is indeed. But we must make sure that she is all right before we give them Raffa.”
She nodded, just a tiny movement of her head.
He found himself, ridiculously, not wanting to give up the stuffed giraffe. If anything had happened to her mother, it was the only thing she had left of her past life, apart from a few clothes she would soon grow out of.
“We must make sure,” he repeated, taking his pen out of his pocket and writing on the note itself. ‘We will give you Raffa when we know Maria Waterman is safe and well.’ He gave it to the waitress, along with a couple of one-pound coins, and asked her to return it to the sender. His heart was beating so hard he felt as if his body were shaking with it. His hands were clammy.
“Yes sir,” she said obediently, and took it away.
Marcus wanted to say something to Sarah to comfort her, but his mouth was so dry he could barely speak. This was the worst stage fright he had ever had. Of course it was! It wasn’t a critical opinion of his performance of a play at stake, it was a woman’s life, and a child’s happiness.
How strange the world was—everyone around them was sipping tea and talking normally, exactly as if nothing of importance were happening. But perhaps they were making deals that would change fortunes, meeting their illicit lovers, or saying goodbye for the last time.
The note came back. ‘Give us Raffa, or we start hurting the mother.’
With a trembling hand, he answered. ‘We know what’s in it. If you hurt her we will delete the first three names from your list, along with the account numbers. The second time you hurt her, or delay any more, we will take the next three. If you look at the stitching on Raffa, you will see that it has been replaced. This is not an idle threat.’
He passed it back to the waitress. Please God this would work. His mouth was too dry to swallow, and if he took some tea it would choke him.
He looked at the child on the other side of the table.
“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “What is inside Raffa is worth millions of pounds. They want it very badly. I told them that if they hurt your mother, I will make the flash drive delete a few of the names and numbers they need. Watson is making it so it will do that. He’s very clever that way.”