Stone Barrington 06-11

drained, switched off the stove. She got a large platter from a cupboard, emptied the pasta into it, then poured the sauce on top of it and set it on the table. She brought some Parmesan cheese from the fridge, grated it over the pasta, sat down, and began serving them.
    “Buon appetito,” Lance said, raising his glass.
    They dug into the pasta.
    Stone ate the food, which was very good, and wondered if Lance was the coolest person he’d ever met, or if he just had no idea what had occurred in his house a couple of hours before. “Who did you say owned the house?” he asked.
    “A fellow in the Foreign Office, name of Richard Creighton; he’s out in the East somewhere, I believe; I pay the rent directly into his bank account. It’s quite a nice house, isn’t it?”
    “It certainly is. It’s fairly lived in, for a house owned by someone who’s never here.”
    “Well, I guess these diplomats have got to have some sort of home to come back to. Anyway, I’m living in it, and I suppose he rented it to others before me.”
    “I’ve done a few things to make it better,” Erica said. “The living room curtains are mine, and I’ve replaced all the bedding in the master suite.”

    “Mmmm,” Stone said. “Wonderful sauce.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “What plans do the two of you have for the next few days?” Stone asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else.
    “We’re in London,” Lance said. “Unless something comes up.”
    “What might come up?”
    “Oh, you never know, sometimes a deal requires travel.”
    “What are Ali and Sheila going to do about their shop?”
    Lance shrugged. “I suppose it’s insured.”
    “The police are going to want to talk to them.”
    Lance stopped eating and looked as if he hadn’t thought of that.
    “I suppose you’re right; Ali can call them in the morning. After all, they weren’t in the shop at the time, so they can hardly be of much help.”
    “I can tell you from experience that the police are looking for them at this moment,” Stone said. “They don’t ignore bombings, and they’ll want to hear who Ali and Sheila think might have done this.”
    “I expect so,” Lance said, resuming his dinner. “Well, that’s Ali’s problem, not mine. I expect he’ll handle it in the morning.”
    “The sooner, the better,” Stone said. “Tell me, do you have a theory about who did it?”
    “Not a clue, old bean,” Lance said, looking perfectly innocent. “I hope Ali will leave me out of it when he talks to the cops.”
    “Do Ali and Sheila belong to some group that another group might be angry with?”
    “What sort of group did you have in mind?”
    “Well, they’re Middle Easterners, aren’t they?”

    “Yes.”
    “I should think that would give you a variety of groups to choose from—Palestinian, Israeli, Osmin ben whatshisname?”
    “I suppose so, but as far as I know, they’re not into politics.”
    “What are they into?”
    “Making money,” Lance replied. “At least, until today. They may want to rethink their business after this; I’m sure they must have lost most, perhaps all, of their inventory.”
    “I expect so,” Stone said. They continued eating their dinner, and Stone stopped asking questions; there seemed to be no point, what with the answers he was getting.

35
    STONE SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY IN the most relaxed fashion possible. He was stuck in his investigation, he had no theories, and he had always found that was a good time to do nothing, to let the brain work on its own.
    He had breakfast in his room, then did the museums: He started at the National Gallery, where he particularly enjoyed the Italian masters, went on to the National Portrait Gallery, which was fun but didn’t take long, then continued to the Tate, where he had lunch in the excellent restaurant before taking in the exhibitions. He walked slowly back to the Connaught—the rain had cleared and the day was lovely—and he was back in his suite when the satellite telephone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “It’s Stan Hedger; do you possess a dinner jacket?”
    “Yes.”
    “I mean, did you bring it with you? I can send over something, if necessary.”
    “Yes, I brought it with me; where am I wearing a dinner jacket?”
    “To dinner at the American ambassador’s residence; I want you to look at some faces.”
    “All right; what time?”

    “A car will pick you up at seven o’clock; when you get to the residence, don’t recognize me; we’ll talk