Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2)

'Inspired. Now, can you think of any linking factor – except the intended victim – that connects the three attacks?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Positive. I've thought it through a thousand times. Nothing.'

Landen thought for a moment, tapped a finger on his temple and smiled.

'Don't be so sure. I've been having a little peek myself, and, well, I want to show you something.'

And there we were, on the platform of the Skyrail station at South Cerney. But it wasn't a moving memory, like the other ones I had enjoyed with Landen, it was frozen like a stilled video image – and like a stilled video image, it wasn't very good; all blurry and a bit jumpy.

'Okay, what now?' I asked as we walked along the platform.

'Have a look at everyone. See if there is anyone you recognise.'

I stepped on to the shuttle and walked round the players in the fiasco, who were frozen like statues. The faces that were most distinct were the Neanderthal driver-operator, the well-heeled woman, the woman with Pixie Frou-Frou and the woman with the crossword. The rest were vague shapes, generic female human forms and little else – no mnemonic tags to make them unique. I pointed them out.

'Good,' said Landen, 'but what about her?'

And there she was, the young woman sitting on the bench in the station, doing her face in a make-up mirror. We walked closer and I looked intently at the fuzzy, nondescript face t

hat loomed murkily out of my memory.

'I only glimpsed her for a moment, Land. Slightly built, mid-twenties, red shoes. So what?'

'She was here when you arrived, she's on the southbound platform, all trains go to all stops – yet she didn't take the Skyrail. Suspicious?'

'Not really.'

'No,' said Landen, slightly crestfallen. 'Not exactly a smoking gun, is it? Unless' – he smiled – 'unless you look at this.'

And in a trice we were at the Uffington White Horse on the day of the picnic. I looked up nervously. The large Hispano-Suiza automobile was hanging motionless in the air not fifty feet up.

'Anything spring to mind?' asked Landen.

I looked around carefully. It was another bizarre frozen vignette. Everyone and everything was there – Major Fairwelle, Sue Long, my old croquet captain, the mammoths, the gingham tablecloth – even the bootleg cheese. I looked at Landen.

'Nothing, Land.'

'Are you sure? Look again.'

I sighed and scanned their faces. Sue Long, an old schoolfriend whose boyfriend set his own trousers on fire for a bet, Sarah Nara, who lost her ear at Bilohirsk on a training accident and ended up marrying General Pearson, croquet pro Alf Widdershaine, who taught me how to 'peg out' all the way from the forty-yard line. Even the previously unknown Bonnie Voige was there, and—

'Who's this'' I asked, pointing at a shimmering memory in front of me.

'It's the woman who called herself Violet De'ath,' answered Landen. 'Does she seem familiar?'

I looked at her blank features. I hadn't given her a second thought at the time but something about her was familiar.

'Sort of,' I responded. 'Have I seen her somewhere before?'

'You tell me, Thursday.' Landen shrugged. 'It's your memory – but if you want a clue, look at her shoes.'

And there they were. Bright red shoes that just might have been the same as those on the girl at the Skyrail platform.

'There's more than one pair of red shoes in Wessex, Land.'