by Mark McKay
Chapter 2
Jamie hadn’t cracked the password by the time Nick got back to the station. He decided to exercise the obvious option and asked Jamie to contact the phone company to get a full list of calls made and received over the last month, though it was entirely possible Simon had used a local SIM card in India. If that was the case, it would be a very short list.
The two men he’d sent to the Neptune had found no sign of a discarded burka, but they had taken a copy of the hotel register and the CCTV tapes. They were now in the process of eliminating some fifty guests from the enquiry and though this would be a time consuming exercise, Nick was quietly relieved that the number was relatively low. The Neptune was a ‘boutique’ establishment. In his opinion, the murderer had simply gone in to change, but the donkey work still needed to be done. With Yvonne and Jamie he now had four people working on the case. But before he could decide just how many bodies he needed for a functional team, he wanted to understand just how broad the scope of this investigation might be. Rebecca Slade should be able to assist him in that respect. He called her and arranged a meeting for the following morning.
‘Tell me about Simon.’
Rebecca had met him in the reception area of the School for Oriental and African Studies, near Russell Square. They were now seated in her research office on the first floor, a small room with two desks pushed together at its centre and a sea of books lining three walls. The fourth wall was taken up by six filing cabinets, the tops of which were occupied by carved wooden images of the Buddha in various poses of meditation. More books and papers scattered over the floor space threatened to engulf the desks and made easy movement around the place a slightly hazardous business.
‘I know it’s a mess,’ she said as she followed his wandering gaze, which then settled on her.
He thought she must be a little younger than Simon – mid-thirties. She had what he considered to be an intelligent face, with steady enquiring eyes and an expression that made you think she was just on the verge of asking you something. A curious, attractive face. What he hadn’t expected was the Gothic look - her jet black shoulder length hair with a wide streak of purple dyed in at the front and the simple black velvet choker round her neck. She wore rich red lipstick and just a touch of mascara, black jeans and a simple white blouse. The effect was quite striking, he decided.
‘Well?’ she asked, with a slight smile.
‘Well what?’
‘Do you approve?’
He laughed. ‘Sorry. You’re not quite what I expected.’
Her smile receded. ‘What do you want to know about Simon, exactly?’
‘What kind of person he was. What he did here, why he was in India. That sort of thing.’
‘Where to start… We’d both done South Asian studies and Sanskrit language here. I had a BA, he had a Masters. Then we moved on to this research scholarship for a further three years. This is year two.’
‘Researching what?’
‘The Mauryan Empire, essentially. One king in particular.’
‘I know nothing about this stuff, can you give me the short version?’
The hint of a smile again. ‘It’s not exactly general knowledge. OK, in India in the third century BC there was a king named Ashoka. He ruled nearly all of India for about thirty-seven years. He was the third king of the Mauryan Empire, which we think began around 317 BC. It ended about fifty years after Ashoka died.’ She got up and started pacing the room, no mean feat with the minor obstacle course littering the carpet. ‘We knew nothing about Ashoka until British explorers working for the East India Company started unearthing things in the late eighteenth century. It was as though he’d been written out of history. Is this too much information?’
‘No, carry on.’
‘He converted to Buddhism early on in his reign, apparently on remorse following a nasty war. Anyway, he left what were called rock and pillar edicts all over India, proclaiming his faith and how the people should act in light of their new state religion.’ She seated herself once more. ‘A lot of the history was pieced together from ancient accounts of that time that were discovered. But we have a stock of manuscripts that may give us more detail about that period, and Simon and I were working our way through them.’
‘I see. So how does this tie in to the greatest archaeological find since Tutankhamun?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Her eyes betrayed a glimmer of excitement. ‘Occasionally we get sent manuscripts, old books and whatever. People go through a recently deceased relative’s estate and they find things. A man in Cambridge sent us a package of manuscripts in Sanskrit that he’d found in his father’s possessions. But he thinks they might have been in the family much longer. Apparently his grandfather was a member of the India Society in Calcutta, in the mid 1800’s. It was, and still is, a centre of oriental study. We think he must have brought these manuscripts back to England.’
‘And Simon was looking at these?’
‘Yes. There were only three manuscripts. Two had nothing to do with our area of interest, but the third one was extraordinary. We know from previous sources that Ashoka had two children from his first wife Devi, a boy and a girl. But this document tells a story of a third child, a second son named Baladitya. According to this account he was Ashoka’s favourite. But he died aged five.’ She got up again and crossed the room to the filing cabinets. ‘Simon translated all this, I have a copy if you want it.’ She opened a drawer and began searching the files.
‘Thanks, but you haven’t told me anything to get excited about yet.’
‘Let me quote you the interesting part. Listen: “On the death of Baladitya, Ashoka was overcome with great sadness. He called for the building of a tomb one Yojana’s distance south of his capital, Pataliputra. The tomb was dug deep into the earth and approached underground, through a hall of lions. Four further lions of great splendour guarded the resting place of Baladitya, one to keep watch in each of the four directions. A stupa was then built above the spot and crowned with a golden wheel of the dharma. Ashoka ordered that no more be said or written of the boy now or in the future, so that his resting place should remain undisturbed for ages to come.” Now, that got us interested.’
‘And a stupa is..?’
‘It’s a half-spherical mound, usually built to contain relics of the Buddha or to commemorate some event in the Buddha’s life. Legend has it that Ashoka built 84,000 of them.’
‘I see. So Simon then did what, exactly?’
‘He decided to take a working holiday, I guess. This revelation of a third child, coming out of nowhere and not being mentioned anywhere else; he knew there was nothing out there to back it up. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be true. So he decided to see if he could find this stupa. He sent a copy of the translation to the India Society and asked for their help.’
‘Then what?’
‘Someone called Alexander Marsh emailed him, some ex-pat, thirty years in India and so on. Secretary of the Society, I think. Said although it was a fascinating story, they doubted its authenticity. But Simon insisted on looking into it, so Marsh said he could refer Simon to a guide if he wanted to try and find the site. Gave details of accommodation in Kolkata, as it’s now called. A week later and Simon was off.’
‘And did he not contact you while he was there?’
Rebecca shut the cabinet and returned to her seat, translation in hand.
‘I got an email about once a week. Actually, he did nothing much for the first two weeks, just immersed himself in other “interesting bits and pieces” as he put it, at the Society’s offices. Acclimatizing himself to India. Then the third week he went up to Patna, which was Pataliputra in Ashoka’s time. Started looking for stupas, one yojana south of Patna. That’s about eight miles in our language.’
‘Did he find anything?’
Rebecca sighed. ‘Well the problem is in the word “south”. Was it due south, south west, south east? If you put the point of a compass on Patna and draw an a
rc eight miles south, it becomes a lot of ground to cover. I heard nothing from him in week three and then last week all he said was that he might be on to something. All would be revealed when he saw me yesterday. Except he didn’t...’ She suddenly got up and stood at the window, with her back to Nick. For half a minute there was a gaping silence between them.
‘Do you know anyone called Rashida?’ Nick asked.
She turned back to face him and he saw she had tears in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Were you close?’
‘We knew each other for two years. He was a lovely guy, I just don’t understand it. We were colleagues, nothing more. Who’s Rashida?’
‘According to Charlotte, he was meeting her at Liverpool Street station. She had another piece of the puzzle, which is apparently what Simon said.’
‘That name means nothing to me.’
‘OK.’ Nick got up. ‘I’ll take this translation. And here’s my card. It has my email address, can you forward Simon’s emails to me?’
‘Yes. What happens next?’
‘I’ll let you know when I’ve had time to digest what you’ve told me. Do you mind if I call you with more questions?’
‘Of course not. I must speak to Charlotte too, maybe I can help with funeral arrangements and stuff. God…’
‘Do you know Charlotte well?’
‘Not that well. She would drop in here sometimes and we’d all go out for a beer or two. We get on OK.’
‘I’ll be in touch then. Bye for now.’
He left her staring without apparent interest at her computer monitor as he closed the door behind him.
He asked Yvonne to contact Charlotte, to get access to whatever Simon might have brought back with him. ‘And you’re looking for a SIM card too, or another phone that he might have used in India.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Find out what contact he had with Charlotte while he was away, specifically emails, and get them forwarded to us. Get a list of all Simon’s friends and find out where Charlotte was at 8.30 on Tuesday morning.’
Jamie was the next port of call.
‘Thought you’d be here earlier.’ Jamie pulled across the still vacant chair from Nick’s last visit. ‘You want his call list, I take it?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Given up on cracking the password for the moment, but it’s academic anyway. Here’s your list.’ He passed Nick a one page printout.
It was definitely a short list. Simon had returned on the Friday and in the intervening five days he’d received and made only a handful of calls. There was nothing listed for the preceding month.
‘Here’s the Monday night call,’ said Nick. ‘Any more info on this number?’
‘Pay-as-You-Go number. And not a UK number either.’
‘So where’s it from?’
Jamie consulted a Word document on his terminal briefly. ‘It’s a French number. It was used somewhere near Montmartre, in Paris, to call Simon. That’s all I know right now. I’ve got a request in with France Telecom to monitor it, but at the moment it’s switched off.’
‘Or thrown away.’
‘We’ll see. If it’s used again, we’ll know when and where.’
‘So the call was made in Paris. Plenty of time to get from there to here for Tuesday morning, I’d say.’
‘I bet she went Eurostar,’ offered Jamie.
‘Mmm, OK. Let me know if the phone is used again. Keep trying the password, I want to see his contact list.’
The call from Paris gave him something to work with. Nick returned upstairs and dropped in on his two colleagues, who were feeding the details of the Neptune’s recent guests into the police database.
‘Just about done sir,’ said one as Nick approached.
‘Good. See if you can find anyone who came in late on Monday evening. Anyone French or with a French address.’ He turned to the second Detective Constable. ‘And I need the Eurostar passenger list for all services from Paris to Kings Cross after…’ he paused and consulted the printout, ‘6pm our time, 7pm French time.’
‘Will do.’
As he made his way back to his desk, his mobile rang. It was Lauren.
‘Am I seeing you later?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be there. Usual time?’
‘Yes. Can we grab a bite afterwards?’
‘Good idea. Can’t talk now, though. See you at the dojo at 7.’
‘OK, bye.’ She rang off.
He smiled to himself. She often rang to remind him about training nights. His working hours could often be rather unpredictable but he made a point to try and keep Wednesday and Friday evenings free, for Aikido practice. He’d been studying the martial art for some five years now and had achieved some proficiency. He had reached first dan black belt status only a few months ago, but he knew Aikido was a lifelong journey, which made it all the more challenging and enjoyable. Two of the key principles were relaxation and non-involvement of one’s ego, using the force of the attacker to gain the advantage. Success was really a process of getting out of your own way as it were and letting intuition backed by training do the work.
Lauren had appeared at the dojo one evening, about two years ago. She said she had a little experience and the instructor paired them off to practise a particular throwing technique. Nick thought it would be something of a mismatch, that his height and weight would make life difficult for this 5’6” smiling blonde in front of him. Much to his surprise she threw him effortlessly and when he hit the mat applied a faultlessly executed arm lock. He quickly revised his opinion. She was thirty-two then and had been involved with Aikido for twelve years, or so. She always seemed to be there when he went to training and after a while he asked her out. They’d been seeing each other ever since.
He looked forward to meeting her later. A meal and some chat about something other than police work would be a welcome diversion. And she often came back to his place for the night after training sessions, which could be even more diverting.
Later that afternoon, DC Sharpe, who had been the one charged with finding any French guests, came across to Nick’s desk.
‘Only two people of interest, sir. They checked in at 10.45 on the Monday evening and checked out again on Tuesday morning at 11.’
‘They were together you mean?’
‘Separate rooms, same company. A Mr David Le Roux and a Ms Sylvie Dajani. They both registered using the same company address in Paris.’
‘Have you checked it?’
‘Yes sir.’ Sharpe consulted his notes. ‘It’s a fine art dealer, he’s the director. And I cross checked them with the Eurostar passenger list. They came into London on Monday and went back Tuesday evening.’
‘Good work. Did we get CCTV footage from the hotel?’ Sharpe nodded. ‘In that case, see if you can get a still of them checking in or out for me, will you?’
Someone would have to go to Paris and get a statement from Le Roux and Dajani. That would require some assistance from the French police. Nick put a call through to his International Liaison Officer, Charlie Stevenson. He explained his request.
‘OK, Nick. Put it all in writing for me and I’ll pass it on to the Police Judiciaire in Paris. I suppose you want to do this as soon as possible?’
‘Ideally.’
‘I know a captain in the Brigade Criminelle. He speaks good English. I’ll call him and as long as we can assure him the paperwork is on the way, he may agree to help you straight away. Well, in about a week, I’d say. He will set up the meeting between you and your suspects and he will be present when you interview them.’
‘They aren’t suspects, yet. Just need to know what they were doing and when they were doing it.’
‘Then do you need to go to Paris yourself?’
‘Yes. I’d prefer to do it face to face. Better for my peace of mind.’
‘OK, I’ll get back to you.’
He rented a flat in Chislehurst, two bedrooms. It was
a half-hour journey from the City by train and he liked the fact that in fifteen minutes by car he could be in the heart of the Kent countryside, the so called Garden of England. The flat was above an antique shop in a parade of shops and he had no neighbours to worry about. He liked the privacy that offered and it meant he could come and go at all hours, which fitted the routine of his job, without disturbing anyone or being disturbed. That evening, after training and dinner with Lauren at a nearby Italian, they sprawled lazily in his lounge with a bottle of red, discussing the case in as much as he was able to.
‘Are you involved in investigating the guy who was shot on Tuesday?’ she asked. ‘You must be, it was practically on your doorstep.’
The press officer had issued a release and the Evening Standard had carried the story on the Tuesday evening, so he’d wondered if she would raise it.
‘It’s my case. All I can tell you is that because we’re short staffed, I’m doing all the leg work right now. Only about five people in the team presently and they’re working on other things, too. Fortunately, I’m not.’
She topped up his glass. ‘You know the art of management is delegation, don’t you?’
‘You should know.’
Lauren worked for a management consultancy, advising on enterprise resource planning, which was a cute name for streamlining and integrating all of your business functions and processes. In theory she could be posted anywhere on assignment, but had managed to keep herself busy in London for the most part, at least since Nick had known her. With her consultancy background she took a theoretical interest in how murder investigations were managed and might better be managed, and sometimes took him to task over his reluctance to delegate his workload.
‘I just don’t want you to overdo it, that’s all,’ she said. ‘You detectives work ridiculous hours at times.’
‘When we have a definite suspect, I’ll hand over to an Investigating Officer and just direct things. At the moment there isn’t too much to go on. Let’s not talk shop.’
She moved closer to him on the sofa. ‘There’s something you should know.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’m late this month.’
She had his attention. ‘Ah, well maybe you’re just late.’
‘I’m never late.’ She was looking at him steadily, gauging him.
‘How can we have possibly managed that? You take your pills, don’t you?’
‘Maybe I missed a day. I don’t know. I’ll give it a week and then do a test.’
Children had never been on Nick’s to do list. Or more to the point, he’d never seriously considered the prospect of fatherhood. He felt slightly unsettled. He could see that his lack of immediate enthusiasm for the idea was not being well received. He made a stab at retrieving the situation.
‘We never talked about kids. In fact, we really haven’t discussed where this relationship might be going.’ Not a great response.
She was alternating between irritation and guilt now. ‘Just thought you should know.’
He put his arm around her. ‘It’s a surprise, that’s all.’ Then changed the subject. ‘I think I’ll be in Paris next Thursday or Friday. Can you arrange a long weekend? It’s work, but it won’t take very long.’
She allowed herself the distraction and smiled. ‘A long, romantic, dirty weekend?’
He grinned back. ‘Of course. Beats Brighton don’t you think?’