‘I see.’
‘Getting pregnant was a horrible mistake,’ said Bex. ‘But I don’t regret the abortion.’
‘You made a decision only you could make,’ said Deira. ‘All I want is for you to achieve everything you want to achieve.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Bex promised. ‘And by the way, you look amazing. The hair. The lips.’
Deira laughed. ‘It’s my Continental look.’
‘Stick with it,’ advised Bex.
‘I will. Take care.’
‘You too. Bye, Deira.’ Bex ended the call.
Deira still felt regret for her niece’s choice. But the regret was for herself and the fictional future she’d dreamed of for Bex’s baby. A future that wouldn’t have happened.
No, she murmured aloud as she put her phone back into her bag, my future is something I have to work on myself.
Later that evening, she and Grace unlocked the final document. This time the message was short.
And so you’ve finished the treasure hunt. I never doubted you, Hippo. Well, maybe I did a bit, but I’m glad you made it all the way through. Your reward letter is C. And now here’s a link to a video that will explain the last steps to you.
‘Another video?’ Grace released a slow breath and turned to Deira. ‘Why does he think . . .’ She tailed off.
‘You don’t have to look at it,’ said Deira, who was scribbling on a piece of paper. ‘You can forget it if you want.’
‘No, I can’t,’ said Grace. ‘But I’ll wait and watch it at the apartment.’
Deira gave her a sympathetic smile, then tapped her pen on the table.
‘I-R-P-A-T-E-C,’ she read from her scribbles. ‘Which is C-E-T-A-P-I-R backwards. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing,’ said Grace. ‘Maybe the answer is in Cartagena.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Deira.
Grace looked at her in surprise. ‘I assumed you would,’ she said. ‘Were you planning to stay here instead?’
‘I want to find out what this is all about,’ admitted Deira. ‘But I don’t want to be in the way if . . . well, who knows what the professor has got in mind for you.’
‘You’ve been with me every step of the way,’ said Grace. ‘I’d like you to come. And to stay in the apartment too,’ she added, ‘in case you were thinking of booking into a hotel or something.’
‘I can’t impose on you,’ said Deira.
‘It’s not an imposition, and you can stay as long as you like.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Grace. She closed the laptop. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter 32
Granada to Cartagena: 294 km
The Lexus made short work of the climb through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada as they left Granada behind. Ahead of them the mountains reflected multiple shades of green against the brightness of the clear blue sky. There were few cars on the road and the drive was easy and relaxed.
Exactly three and a half hours after setting out, Grace pulled the car to a halt outside a low-rise apartment block with a panoramic view towards the sea. The narrow residential street was lined with orange trees, while the traditionally whitewashed apartments all had large balconies brightened by hanging baskets of colourful flowers.
‘Home, sweet home,’ said Grace as she switched off the engine.
‘It’s lovely.’ Deira got out of the car and looked around her. ‘Very peaceful.’
‘That’s why Ken picked it,’ said Grace. ‘He wanted it to be a kind of retreat. We were very happy here.’
She opened the boot and took out both her overnight bag and her suitcase. Deira took her own bags and followed her into the building.
‘We’re on the second floor,’ said Grace. ‘Which is nice, because there’s a sea view from our balcony.’
When Deira stepped into the apartment, she saw that it was more spacious than she’d expected, with a long galley kitchen that led to a square living area, and patio doors opening onto the balcony. The bright blue of the Mediterranean was visible beyond the tops of the gently waving palm trees.
‘Two bedrooms,’ Grace said. ‘This is the guest one – it doesn’t have an en suite, but the master bedroom does, so you’ll have the main one to yourself.’
‘It’s perfect. Thanks.’
‘It’s entirely my pleasure,’ said Grace. ‘I’ve really enjoyed having you along on this trip, Deira. I know I shouldn’t be pleased that you had a disaster with your car, but it worked out well for me.’
‘It’s been fun,’ said Deira.
When they’d finished unpacking, Grace asked Deira if she’d like a cup of tea before looking at Ken’s video.
‘I’m fine,’ Deira replied. ‘I’ll go out while you watch it.’
‘There’s not going to be anything important in it,’ said Grace. ‘You’ve been here for everything else. You should be here for this.’
‘Seriously, Grace. This is probably his last message to you. You need time and space. I’ll go for a stroll and have a coffee or a juice at one of the beach bars. When you’re ready, you can text me and I’ll come back.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Of course I am,’ said Deira. ‘Give me a minute to freshen up and then I’ll leave you to yourself.’
As soon as Deira left the apartment, Grace opened a bottle of red wine, poured herself a glass and sat down at the kitchen counter with Ken’s laptop. She opened the email and looked at the link that would take her to his video. It wasn’t until she’d drunk a third of the glass that she finally clicked on it.
It took some time for the video to load, but eventually it started to play. Once again, Ken looked at her from the laptop’s screen. Although he was wearing the same shirt as before, Grace reckoned he’d recorded this at a different time. He looked even older. Less well. Less like the man she remembered. She took a large gulp from the glass and waited for him to speak.
‘So,’ he said, his voice stronger than his appearance had suggested. ‘You did it, Hippolyta. You solved the treasure hunt, you got to the end and you’re listening to me speak from beyond the grave. Sorry – I couldn’t resist the “beyond the grave” comment. It’s both macabre and humbling to think that I’ve gone and yet my words and my image live on. Not printed, like in books or letters or photos, but real, living images. Maybe that’s what they mean by eternal life now. There’s stuff about us that will never disappear. It’s quite frightening really. You know I’m dead, yet here am I still talking to you.
‘Anyway, to finish the treasure hunt there’s one more thing you have to do. You’ve got all the mystery letters, obviously, and now you have to use that information to get a USB stick. The last piece of information is there. Given that you’ve got this far, I’m sure you’ll work it out. Here’s a little clue, though. You’re not looking for the name of a place. Just a name.
‘I really am impressed with you. In fact, I take my hat off to you. Well, I would if I had a hat. And if I was in a place I could take it off. Good luck. Over and out.’
The video faded, and Grace sat looking at the blank screen for a moment. Then she took out her phone.
Deira was walking along the seafront when she got a text from Grace to say that she’d finished watching Ken’s video. It was nearly an hour since she’d left the apartment, and she’d worried that Grace was finding her husband’s last words difficult to deal with. But when she got back, Grace was as calm and composed as ever.
‘If it was his last message, it was typical Ken – short, sweet and to the point,’ she said. ‘No farewell words, no messages to say he loved me or telling me he was sorry for what he was doing. Just more instructions. I’ve to use the letters to get the final piece of information. But he gave me a clue. He said it’s not a place, it’s a name. Weirdly, though, all I can do is keep thinking of place names. Not that any of them actually fit with the letters in the clue.’
�
��Maybe it’s a person’s name.’ Although she’d kept her voice as matter-of-fact as Grace’s, Deira was sad that Professor Harrington hadn’t been more loving to his wife in his last message. ‘Or the name of a company, perhaps.’ She took a pen and paper from her bag and started scribbling. ‘EPIC ART. Would he have left you a painting, d’you think?’
‘I suppose.’ Grace looked doubtful. ‘He knew about art, or at least he had books about it, but it wasn’t his main thing. You’re the arty person. Is there a gallery in Dublin called Epic Art?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Deira continued to rearrange the letters. ‘But I suppose there could be. Or maybe there’s one called Pic Rate.’
‘A photography shop?’ suggested Grace.
‘Or a book!’ exclaimed Deira. ‘It must be a book. Though with these letters . . .’ She rearranged them again. ‘All I’ve come up with is RICE PAT, which actually sounds like a Chinese takeaway. D’you—’
‘Oh.’ Grace’s eyes widened and she thumped the table gently. ‘It’s not Rice Pat. It’s Pat Rice. How did I not get that before now? He’s one of Ken’s oldest friends. Ken must have confided in him and given him this USB thingy. But why on earth didn’t Pat say something to me at the funeral, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Maybe he thought it was inappropriate. Or the professor told him not to.’
‘For crying out loud!’ There was a spark of real annoyance in Grace’s voice. ‘What are these old codgers like with their secrets and their codes and their plans. If someone had given me a USB for the husband or wife left behind, I wouldn’t feck around with waiting for them to come to me muttering secret codes. I’d tell them and hand it over.’
‘Me too,’ said Deira. ‘But, well. Men. Deep down they all want to be superheroes or super-spies or whatever.’
Grace laughed.
‘So does this Pat Rice guy live in Spain too?’ asked Deira.
‘I don’t think so.’ Grace got the computer and opened Ken’s contacts. ‘Look, here he is. Professor Patrick J. Rice, 18 Lindendale Avenue, Blackrock.’ There was a mobile number and an email attached to the contact information.
‘Are you going to phone him?’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start the conversation,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll send him a message and see what he has to say about it.’
‘Maybe he knows what the professor has left you.’
‘A USB,’ said Grace. ‘That’s all Ken said.’
‘It must have information about your treasure on it,’ said Deira. ‘I hope it’s a lovely piece of jewellery.’
‘I’m honestly not getting my hopes up.’ Grace closed the laptop. ‘Let’s head out and find something to eat.’
After a leisurely meal at a nearby restaurant, they returned to the apartment, where Grace made them a couple of generous gin and tonics. They sat on the balcony and chatted idly about their journey through France and Spain.
‘Knowing Ken, the treasure will be a subscription to some kind of online library,’ remarked Grace when Deira brought up the subject again. ‘Or the Times Literary Supplement.’
‘Oh Grace.’ Deira laughed. ‘I bet you’re wrong. It’ll be something fabulous.’
A nice piece of jewellery would be great, Grace thought as she lay in bed later, but she knew that for Ken, the treasure at the end was significantly less important than the fun he’d had in devising the clues for the hunt. If he were here, he’d tell her that the real treasure was in solving it.
And yet she didn’t really mind. She’d completed the task. Tomorrow she’d scatter the remainder of his ashes.
Then she’d have fulfilled his last wishes. And there’d be nothing more he could ask of her.
Chapter 33
Cartagena, Spain: 37.6257°N 0.9966°W
The following morning, the insurance company phoned Deira to remind her to sign and return the forms they’d sent her.
‘I already did,’ she told them. ‘I emailed them back straight away.’
‘Yes, with a digital signature, but we need hard copies,’ the agent said.
‘Can’t you print them off?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the agent. ‘We need original hard copies with your signature. But as soon as we have those, we can make the payment directly into your account.’
Deira argued that her digital signature was just as good, but the agent wouldn’t be budged. It was hard copy or nothing.
‘I have a printer,’ Grace said when Deira explained the problem. ‘You can sign them here and post them.’
‘It’s going to take a few days for them to arrive. And goodness knows how long to process,’ said Deira. ‘I think I’d better go home and deal with it.’
‘That’s such a faff!’ exclaimed Grace. ‘It’ll be fine. Stay a bit longer.’
‘I’d love to,’ Deira said. ‘But Gavin will have a coronary if he thinks I’m deliberately delaying things, and I really don’t want to make the situation worse. Besides . . . I need to go back and sort out my life. This trip has been like stepping out of it for a while. In fact, I feel like I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes since getting on the ferry. But I guess everything has to come to an end. Is there an airport near here?’
‘Murcia,’ said Grace. ‘It has regular flights to Dublin.’ She looked at Deira thoughtfully. ‘We could fly back together,’ she said.
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Deira. ‘You’ve booked the return ferry with your car, and you can’t abandon it here.’
‘That’s not for ages,’ protested Grace. ‘Plus I was going to email Pat Rice and tell him to send me the USB, but it might be better to get it from him in person. The treasure is probably in Dublin anyway. If you’re going back, we could book a flight together. I can return in a week or so, then drive home when I planned.’
‘Are you sure?’
Grace nodded, and the two of them looked up flights on the computer. The earliest available one was in a few days’ time, so Deira booked a one-way ticket while Grace bought a return coming back a week later.
Then Deira texted Gavin to let him know what was happening. The amount agreed by the insurance company was less than her claim, as they refused to allow for the fact that the Audi had had a package of optional extras included. But Deira felt it was reasonable, which was why she’d accepted it without argument.
You think I’m going to be able to replace the car with that money? You owe me big-time, he texted in return.
If you want to get some legal advice, feel free, she replied. But the settlement is the settlement and I’ll forward it to you as soon as I get it.
She waited for another text from him, but nothing came. She dropped her phone into her bag. A couple of minutes later, it rang with a number that wasn’t in her contacts list.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Deira O’Brien?’ a woman’s voice asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Hi, I’m Bethany Burke. I run Executive Placements.’
Executive Placements was a high-end recruitment firm that Solas Life and Pensions used from time to time. They’d recruited Deira’s last assistant for her.
‘One of our clients is a big-name tech company,’ Bethany told her. ‘They’re looking at their corporate responsibility programme and ways they can be more involved in the community. They’re interested in cultural heritage; they feel that although their company is technology-and future-focused, it’s only right to look at the past and the present and areas outside technology.’
‘Good to hear,’ said Deira.
‘They want to set up a visitor centre in their offices,’ said Bethany. ‘They’re going to devote a really large space to it. They want to have displays and readings and music. They need someone to head it up. They need you, Deira.’
‘That’s . . . interesting.’
‘Their CEO has visited the Solas exhibitions a number of times,’ said Bethany. ‘He was very impressed. He checked out your profile on the company’s website as well as on LinkedIn, and got in touch with
me. We do all their executive hires.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of a move right now,’ said Deira, although even as she spoke, the idea of moving away from Gavin was beginning to take hold. And yet she didn’t want to be the one to leave. As though she was so broken by what had happened that she couldn’t stay. Even if her actions over the previous few months could certainly have led people to think that.
‘It would be really good if you’d be prepared to meet them and talk about it,’ said Bethany. ‘They’re looking at an excellent offer for a person of your experience and calibre. There are stock options and other benefits too.’
Deira knew her current package was a good one. Would a tech company pay more? But did she really want to work for a business that might be considering their corporate responsibility as mere window-dressing? Would that be selling out? Still, she thought, what have I got to lose?
She explained to Bethany that she was away for a few days.
‘Will you be back by Friday?’ asked Bethany. ‘I was hoping to make an appointment with you for then.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Deira.
‘I’ll confirm it when it’s set up and email you all the information I have about the post,’ Bethany said. ‘Good talking to you.’
‘You too,’ said Deira.
She was feeling slightly dazed by the turn of events as she put her phone back in her bag. But she was excited too. And her thoughts now turned to what she’d wear to the first interview she’d done in more than a decade.
On their final night in Spain, Grace suggested to Deira that they go to the Flor de la Esquina for dinner.
‘Everywhere we’ve been so far has been pretty good,’ Deira said. ‘So whatever you suggest is fine by me.’
She’d packed most of her clothes, but had kept out a pair of wide white trousers and a black and white polka-dot top for dinner. She ran her brush through her hair and then applied her lipstick. She’d fallen in love with bright red. She wished she’d discovered it sooner.
Grace was already in the living room, wearing a cerise dress and looking utterly fabulous.
‘Wow,’ said Deira. ‘You always put me to shame, but you look stunning tonight. And I know it’s cheesy and sort of patronising to tell someone they don’t look their age, but Grace, you’re like . . . like Juliette Binoche! That woman has never aged and neither have you.’
The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Page 31