A Murder of Magpies Read Online Free PDF

is disrupted it’s very noticeable.
    â€œDid you call the police?”
    â€œOooh, what a splendid idea.” He slid into a falsetto. “‘Officer, someone broke into my house, leaving no visible signs, turned all my cushions over and pouf ! Vanished.’ Sam, I’m camper than a row of pink tents. How seriously do you think they’ll take my cushion trauma?”
    Camper than an entire Boy Scouts’ jamboree, actually. “Hmm. But even if they don’t take it seriously, at least there’ll be a record if you are burgled later.”
    â€œWhich they then won’t take seriously because I’m the queen with the chintz fixation.”
    â€œAll right, all right. Was anything taken?”
    â€œNo, but there’s nothing here. I’m camp, not a fool. All the notes for the book are at my solicitor’s.”
    â€œAny way of finding out who your sources are from a phone book? Old phone bills?”
    â€œMy phone book was with me, and you know I never keep bills.”
    I do. I’ve never met anyone like Kit. He claims never to have opened a bill since he left university. His bank pays them, and he isn’t interested in finding out if he’s being overcharged, or someone is racking up bills on a stolen card number. I’m fascinated, but he’s not bankrupt yet, so I guess it works for him.
    â€œI don’t understand. Do you think his family did this? Would they even know how?”
    â€œNo, not the family. But don’t forget that Vernet is plenty worried—money-laundering allegations will not exactly float their corporate overlords’ boat. And the police who allowed themselves to agree that it was an accident aren’t going to be thrilled.”
    â€œYou think the police broke in?”
    â€œGrow up, Sam, would you? What do you think, that the police spend their shifts saying ‘Evening all’ and helping old ladies across the street? The French police covered up a murder. The people involved in the cover-up probably don’t even know why, but it’s not the kind of thing they want the world to know. And the people actually profiting from the system won’t be much happier. Even if they’ve lost their front man, the method was good, it worked—they don’t want that exposed.”
    I paused.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” he asked testily. “You know I’m right.”
    â€œI’m sure you are.” I was pacific. “It’s just—this sounds so melodramatic, but then so does burglary by the police, and money laundering, and—” I was babbling. I pulled myself together. “A CID inspector came to T and R this morning.”
    â€œHe did? What for?”
    In passing, I longed to challenge Kit’s automatic assumption that the visitor had been a man, but he had been, and anyway this was not the time. “He was investigating the death of a motorcycle courier. A hit-and-run, except all of his deliveries were gone. I was on his schedule. I told him I had no way of knowing who might be sending me something, but now the hard copy of your manuscript seems a likely candidate.”
    There was a silence. Then, “It sounds possible, doesn’t it.”
    â€œWill you ask your typist to let me have the details of what she sent, and when? I’ll pass it along.”
    He made noises that indicated he was going through his phone book to get her number.
    â€œIn the meantime, the burglary: Where does this leave you?”
    â€œUs, honey, us. We need to get this book out fast. Once it’s published, the horse has bolted, there’s no point in closing the stable door.”
    â€œUs?” I squeaked. I sounded like Kit talking to the police, but my falsetto was involuntary. “What do you mean, ‘us’?”
    â€œWhoever it is wants to stop publication. I don’t think they care how. If they can find out who my sources are, and get them to