The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Read Online Free PDF Page B

hadn’t seen her in person yet. But when I did, I meant to offer my sincerest condolences.
    I hadn’t known Jeremy well, but I’d respected his accomplishments. He’d seemed nice. He hadn’t deserved to die.
    Not that anyone did. You know what I mean.
    In the immediate aftermath of Jeremy’s death, I crashed overnight on a friend’s sofa in Shoreditch. Even that was a tight squeeze, though. She had other guests to accommodate—including Danny, who roughed it on the floor beside me without complaint for a night after he hit town. After that, neither love nor money could secure us another place to stay—not one that hadn’t recently hosted a murder, at least. I was stuck.
    I had to return to the Wrights’ guesthouse. Today.
    In a black cab hurtling across London, I made another go at it anyway. Despite needing to be near the scene of the crime to do a little snooping, I wasn’t wild about the idea of sleeping a measly few feet from where someone had bashed Jeremy’s head in.
    That had been the official cause of death, by the way. Jeremy had been bludgeoned to death. Likely with that oversize stone metlapil . Likely by someone tall, strong, and left-handed.
    â€œIt all comes down to the evidence, doesn’t it?” said DC Mishra’s colleague, George, when I inquired. “That’s what the fellas in forensics tell us, anyway.” He’d dropped his gaze to my hand, then scratched his head musingly. “Yep. Left-handed.”
    I’d clutched my crossbody bag harder in my right hand and then skedaddled, finished with the “few questions” DC Mishra had summoned me back to the police station to answer. Now I returned my attention to the cab driver. I smiled at him.
    â€œYou wouldn’t happen to know of a hotel with rooms available, would you? You black cab drivers have the Knowledge of London. If anybody can tell me where to go, it’s you.”
    â€œNope. Wimbledon’s in town, innit?” Cheerfully, the driver eyed me in his rearview mirror, nodding to recognize my familiarity with the Knowledge—the grueling, comprehensive test that all licensed cab drivers were required to pass. It was rumored to detail more than 25,000 roads and 20,000 attendant landmarks and businesses. That’s why the drivers of black cabs are so skilled. “Everyplace is blocked up solid this time of year. My missus makes extra money renting out our son’s room. He’s away at university. We split the take with him.”
    â€œThat’s enterprising of you,” I said, disappointed. I’d forgone public transport today on purpose, hoping to pick the brain of a black cab driver like him. If you ever find yourself in a strange city, needing a tip about where to go, what to see, or where to eat, ask a cab driver where he or she likes to go. You’ll get the real skinny on what’s good (and cheap) anywhere.
    â€œEvery little bit helps,” he said with a shrug and another grin. “I’ve got a vacation villa in Spain to pay for, don’t I?”
    â€œIt’s smart of you not to leave money on the table, then.”
    â€œCan’t afford it. London’s an expensive city.”
    It was getting more expensive all the time, I knew. Every year, more and more people were squeezed out of living in the capital. Even the royal household was subject to scrutiny. Its treasury had been criticized for spending beyond the yearly Sovereign Grant allotted to pay for the royal family’s expenses.
    The driver rounded a turn and stopped at a busy crosswalk, his cab idling in the sunshine. We watched the people flooding across the designated zebra crossing. Its helpful instructions—painted on the pavement in white—instructed pedestrians to LOOK RIGHT or LOOK LEFT , as was appropriate for those who weren’t used to traffic coming from the “wrong” direction.
    I couldn’t help imagining all those