The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery by Annelie Wendeberg

only health insurance.
    On her search for her friend, a few people told her that he might have been caught burgling. She had thought of that earlier, but found no way to prove or disprove this theory. Theoretically, she can make an enquiry at the criminal court or at the police main quarters. Practically, she can’t. She has a German accent and no papers that can prove her identity. Using her male identity is out of the question. Anything connecting Dr Anton Kronberg to St Giles can eventually land her in prison. Tomorrow, she decides, tomorrow I’ll pay someone to go the Central Criminal Court for me .
    The disappearance of the knife-man, though, seems entirely unexplainable. But what should she do once she meets him? Politely ask him questions on Poppy’s whereabouts? How laughable!
    She groans and comes to a sudden halt, feeling strangely too hot. Her skin is itching, her thoughts seem sluggish.
    Her gaze rests on a billboard. Her eyes don’t take in the letters or the illustration. She imagines herself emerging from behind the too-small hiding place, her privates burning from overuse, a customer throwing a coin at her feet, and she picking it up eagerly. Will she end up like this, once someone discovers what she does for a living?
    Anna shakes her head and rakes her fingers through her hair. Her mind has a tendency to take her onto a too-wild ride, no matter how much it reflects on reality. She wonders what’s wrong with her today. These useless thoughts don’t get her anywhere but too close to fear and despair. Prickling runs down her body. Might have caught the latest summer cold , she thinks when she steps around a corner and a knife meets her throat.
    ‘Good evening.’ A whisper close to her ear. A hand curls around her elbow. She’s pushed through a doorway and into a corridor. The house smells of mould and of excrements from rats and humans.  
    It’s so dark she cannot see more than a silhouette. The man is of normal build, and a few inches taller than she. His voice is softer and higher than that of the drunkards frequenting the establishments in Clark’s Mews. She detects the odour of expensive soap and the scent of virgin silk and wool — not the yarn produced by tearing up tattered remnants of clothes, then spinning the shreds to weave them into “new” fabric. The man in front of her smells of money. Lots of it.
    Apparently by accident, his hand brushes over her left forearm and finds the outlines of her small jackknife. ‘What is this?’ he asks, his fingers probing her sleeve and extracting the tickler.  
    With a snort of contempt, he drops it to the ground, then slips his hand over her other arm, her stomach and waist, but no more weapons are to be found. ‘I heard you are looking for me. This is most unusual, don’t you think?’
    She doesn’t answer. Her knees and thighs are pressing together in reflex.
    ‘I have been informed that a woman is making enquiries about me. It’s usually I who chooses the women. Now it appears as though a woman picked me. I’m honoured,’ he continues. The tip of his knife is resting where her pulse drums against her skin.   Her lower abdomen contracts. ‘But don’t you think your behaviour inappropriate?’
    ‘What?’ she asks, for nothing else takes shape in her mind. She’s too busy analysing as much as she can. His high, white collar shows dimly in the dark — the top hat, the light coat, the silvery glint of his walking stick’s knob.
    The back of his hand strikes her across her cheek. A warning that brings a sting, but is, in itself, harmless. The knife makes contact again. ‘Say,’ he begins and probes between her legs, ‘you wouldn’t be bleeding, would you?’
    ‘I rarely do,’ she answers and her silly mind begins calculating when her last menstruation was. About a year ago. She had been ill then.
    ‘Very unfortunate.’ He drops his hand and wipes it on the front of her dress. ‘What do you want from me, then? You don’t