Black Diaries

49. A Quiet Place in the Country

Only minutes later, the plane touched down—interestingly enough, not on the left side of the runway. When I stepped out into the airport hall, I had to admit, I was impressed. From above, London hadn't looked like much—like New York chopped off ten floors above the ground and stuffed in the mixer. But here at Heathrow Airport, it didn't look at all like any mixers had been involved in the building process. The floor was gleaming, glowing under the lights of the arched, white ceiling above. On the distant walls, I didn't see a single piece of offensive graffiti.

"Good morning, ma'am," the nice man at customs told me with a smile and an adorable British accent. "Anything to declare?"

"Nope," I declared.

"And your visit is for business or pleasure?"

"Relaxation."

From the police.

"Then I wish you a relaxing holiday. Welcome to Great Britain!"

He gestured for me to go on.

I blinked. "What? You're not going to search my luggage?"

"No, ma'am. Whyever would I?"

I gave him a bright smile. "Forget it. Thanks!"

And I marched on, whistling to myself. What a wonderful country! So hospitable and understanding to foreign serial killers. Simply wonderful!

Stepping outside into the street, I started wandering, seeping up the atmosphere of the place. Amazingly, I didn't get lost after turning around the first corner or got run over by a left-driving truck. There weren't that many trucks about to begin with, but instead a lot of limousines and estate wagons, and a surprising great number of strange black cars that looked a lot like hearses. Was there an epidemic raging through this place?

But then I saw a passer-by wave to one of the black cars, and it stopped so he could get in the back. So it probably wasn't a hearse. Pity. Such impressive waste disposal would have made the UK even more attractive to a woman of my caliber.

Now, Cassy, I reminded myself, you're not here to start killing men again. You're here to settle down quietly.

Right.

I strolled through the streets for a while, until finally I stopped in front of a quaint little store with pictures of horses, cats and trees in the windows. It wasn't immediately evident which of these the store sold, but all would have made me predisposed to immediately like the store owner. Stepping inside, I found a fat little jolly man behind the counter who looked as if he had stepped right out of a Dickens novel.

"Hi."

"Good morning, Miss." He nodded at me with an absent-minded smile. "How can I help you?"

"Do you sell maps?"

"Not of the city, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I don't want one of those. I'm looking for a quiet place in the country."

"Then you've come to the right place, Miss. Here." Grabbing something from a pile under the counter, he handed me a folded paper. I took it and read the caption: Map of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

"Thank you."

"That would be four pounds ninety-nine, please."

"Um... pounds?"

Damn! I knew I had forgotten something before taking off.

He smiled again. "Your accent... Let me take a wild guess: you've only got dollars?"