Wading Into Murder by Joan Dahr Lambert Page B

small one, a half-pint,” she added hastily, recalling the correct term. “Do you have a recommendation?”
    “Our Glastonbury special is popular,” he told her. “It’s a pale ale called Courage, not too strong. The ladies seem to like it.”
    “Excellent,” Laura agreed. “Could you bring it to one of these tables?” She didn’t have the nerve to elbow her way through that crowd of men and get it for herself, as was the custom here. Maybe after a glass or two of Courage, she would.
    She looked longingly at the table furthest from the bar but decided on a closer one where she could hear if the conversation about babies resumed. Pulling out her map of the town, she pretended to study it so the men would think she wasn’t listening.
    The bartender brought her drink to the table and she paid him absent-mindedly, still deep in her map. Returning to his post, he propped his elbows on the bar and waited expectantly. His pose helped. The customers began to chat amiably again.
    One of the men shook his head. “Terrible thing,” he intoned dramatically. “Two little babies, taken just like that!” He snapped his fingers hard to demonstrate. “Girls, both of ‘em. Straight outa’ the maternity hospital this time, not one of those touristy places like the other one. Last night, they did it. Right in front of the bloody coppers’ noses. Morning papers are full of it.”
    “Bastards!” one of the men said succinctly.
    Laura heart sank at the thought of still more babies destined for an unknown and probably horrible fate. On the other hand, this was helpful information, and if it had only just happened, she might be able to help if she found out more about it.
    “Good hospital, too, I’ve heard,” another man contributed. “Oughta be able to take care of the poor little things better’n that. I know what I’d do if anyone stole my kid. Bloke would be dead before he hit the street.”
    The other men nodded emphatically. “String 'em up,” another suggested. “Cut off their bloody damn balls, too.”
     “Up north someplace, wasn’t it?” the bartender asked.
     “Nah. Near here, my missus said. Bristol. She reads all that stuff. Can’t get her away from it long enough to cook the bloody food.”
    Laura stiffened. Didn’t Amy and Margaret work in Bristol?
    “Another case like that in Dublin last year,” a man with an Irish accent told the others. “I was there then. Papers were full of it for a while. Both girls that time, too, but they didn’t bother with hospitals or tourist places. Taken right outa their prams instead when the Mum was in a store. No one ever saw ‘em again. No ransom notes, nothing. Just vanished.”
    “Bloody world’s falling apart when you can’t keep kids safe,” his companion grumbled. “Don’t have girls myself. Glad, too. All those wierdos hanging about. Ought to lock ‘em up where they can’t hurt anyone.”
    Another man came in and the conversation shifted to football, European for soccer. Laura headed for the door. She could find out more about the thefts in the papers, and Lady Longtree and William must have reached the hotel by this time.
    The streets were emptier now, almost too empty. Laura’s skin began to prickle, as if once again she were being watched. There were footsteps behind her, too, footsteps that seemed to stop whenever she did.
    She went into a late-shop and watched out the window, but saw only a dog-walker and an elderly woman, stooped and slow, making her way from one trash bin to the next. Maybe she was the source of the footsteps. The woman discovered a half-eaten bag of fish and chips and disappeared down an alley with her prize, clucking with satisfaction.
    “Damn,” Laura muttered to herself. “That’s my alley.” Venturing out again, she stood at the mouth of the alley, which was indeed the one behind the shops where the Bernsteins had lingered. There was no sign of the bag lady now.
    Laura crept stealthily down the alley. No