by Mark McKay
Chapter 9
Almost twenty-four hours after his visit to the police station, Nick received a call from Inspector Shah.
‘We traced the licence number. It is a Mercedes registered to a Mr Abdul Hassan, here in Kolkata.’
‘Can you give me an address?’
The Inspector’s tone hardened. ‘You have no authority here, Mr Severance. We will send a man around to make enquiries.’
‘I understand. Let me go with him as an observer. If this Abdul Hassan knows something, I need to know it too.’
After a moment’s deliberation, Shah conceded. ‘Alright. Come to the station in one hour.’
He was taken straight to Inspector Shah’s office on arrival. Shah waved him to a seat.
‘What connection do you think this vehicle has with Ms Slade?’ he asked.
Nick shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. I would just like to know why she bothered to make a note of it.’
‘One of my men will be along shortly, you can drive out with him.’
‘Thank you. I spoke to a Mr Singh at the ASI. He promised me that he would get someone to investigate the site at Chipra. I don’t think he’s in much of a hurry, though.’
The Inspector tapped a finger on his desk. ‘Very well, I will get someone along there too.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘We are prepared to work with you in finding out what happened to Ms Slade. As long as we remember that this is a missing person’s investigation and not a treasure hunt.’
‘Of course. Ms Slade is my first priority.’
The Hassan residence was fifteen minutes away by car. It was a small bungalow, bordered by an iron railing fence. There was an entrance gate to one side which opened to allow vehicle access, but the parking space inside was empty and the gate was locked.
Nick and the young constable with him peered through the railings at the shuttered windows. The gate was the only way in.
‘Nobody here, Mr Severance.’
‘Do you think a neighbour might know where he is?’
The constable went off to make enquiries. Ten minutes later, he was back.
‘The woman next door hasn’t seen him for a few days. But that isn’t too unusual. He buys and sells things, so he is often travelling.’
‘What sort of things, did she say?’
‘Foodstuffs. Rice, spices.’
Sounds innocuous enough, Nick decided. ‘Is he married?’
‘He lives alone, sir, that is all she said.’
There was nothing more they could do. The constable promised to do a drive by every evening until Mr Hassan showed up.
‘Will you take me to the Ganesh Medical Centre?’ Nick asked.
The constable cast him a questioning stare. ‘Is there a problem? Someone is ill?’
‘Yes, and I need to ask him a few more questions. In connection with the disappearance.’
‘In that case, yes of course.’
When they arrived there was another receptionist on the desk. He told her he’d previously visited Mr Marsh and wondered if he could see him again. She summoned Dr. Cameron.
‘Back again?’ The doctor looked tired. ‘More business, I take it.’
‘Exactly. How is he?’
‘Ah.’ Dr. Cameron fiddled with his stethoscope for a moment. ‘He went into a coma last night, I’m afraid.’
‘Is there nothing you can do for him?’
‘No, there isn’t. We tracked down the poison. It was produced from a beetle larvae, apparently Kalahari bushmen use it on their arrows. It’s slow acting on larger animals and there’s no known antidote.’
Where the hell did she get that from? Nick wondered. ‘Have you informed his relatives?’
Cameron nodded. ‘He has a brother in London. I believe he’s on his way here now.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’ Nick turned to leave.
‘Actually, I think he left something for you. A business document, he said. It took a lot of time and effort to produce, I almost forgot.’
‘Can I have it?’
Cameron walked over to the reception desk and spoke to the girl behind it. After some shuffling of papers and opening of drawers, he returned.
‘Here you are.’
He handed Nick a plain white envelope, addressed to DCI Severance.
‘Good thing you came back,’ said Cameron. ‘I didn’t have a clue where to send it.’ He raised his eyes. ‘Scotland Yard perhaps?’
Nick smiled. ‘As a last resort.’
‘Was it police business that got him poisoned, then?’
‘Not exactly. He managed that without our help.’
He shook Dr. Cameron’s hand in farewell and made his way out.
‘How is your friend?’ asked the constable as they drove back to the city centre.
‘He wasn’t my friend. And he’s probably going to die.’
Nick opened the envelope. The single sheet inside was hand-written, legible if a little shaky in places. He began to read.
‘To DCI Severance, London Police. As it has become evident that I am not long for this world, I wish to make the following statement. In June 2014, I received a Sanskrit manuscript from Simon Wood of SOAS in London, which when translated told of a tomb that Ashoka built for his son in the third century BC. It hinted at the whereabouts of this tomb and that it might contain objects of value. I had already received another manuscript on the same subject a month earlier, from a gentleman in Cambridge. At that time I informed a business acquaintance in France about the possibility of finding and extracting these objects and preparations were underway to secure the necessary equipment. Mr Wood’s arrival made it necessary to speed things up.
Although I engaged in this transaction for monetary gain, I had no knowledge of any intent to murder Mr Wood. Responsibility for that rests with David Le Roux and his assistant Sylvie Dajani, my partners in this enterprise. I regret Mr Wood’s death and if this document can be used as evidence at a later date in a court of law, then I will have made some small amends for my part in it. I believe that Sylvie Dajani poisoned me when we met to discuss my fee, and at that time she was staying at the Hyatt Regency hotel, in Kolkata. I would appreciate any efforts that can be made to find her and Mr Le Roux and question them on the matter.’
It was signed and dated. Nick sighed. It answered the question of Sylvie’s supposed whereabouts, which he would have asked the first time had Dr. Cameron not rushed him. And it also explained the death of the Cambridge man. They didn’t want a trail leading from him to Kolkata. And it could almost certainly be used as evidence. Whether Sylvie was still at the Hyatt was another matter. He needed a photo of both her and Le Roux and then he could visit the hotel and see if anyone remembered either of them. The only person with photos would be Bonnaire. He turned to the constable.
‘Can you drop me at the Green Street hotel? And let me know if Mr Hassan turns up.’
Back at the hotel, he read the statement to Bonnaire over the phone.
‘I don’t know about Le Roux,’ he said, ‘but Sylvie Dajani has definitely left France.’
‘Merde,’ exclaimed Bonnaire. ‘She must be on a false passport. I will visit the gallery again and see if there is anyone still there.’
‘And I need photos, Michel. Best quality you have. You do have some, don’t you?’
‘Yes, we have some images I can send you.’
Nick brought Bonnaire up to speed on all of his recent activities and then they agreed to talk again once Bonnaire had looked into the matter in more detail. Nick didn’t think he would find much, all the action was happening right here. He was still no closer to finding Rebecca, either.
He had his laptop booted up and ready, waiting for Bonnaire’s email, when his phone rang.
‘It’s Inspector Shah, Mr Severance. I had someone in Patna drive to Chipra. You were right. There is a tomb there and it has been looted. The golden lions you showed me are gone.’
Nick felt a frisson of excitement. Now, surely, the
authorities would have to act.
‘Someone must have seen something, Inspector.’
‘We are asking questions right now. I can tell you that the Ministry of Culture will not be happy about this. In fact, I would like a copy of the photos you showed me. We can have a press release in the Times of India by tomorrow, or the day after.’
This was more like it. He got an email address and forwarded the photos from his phone. His confidence surged, the pace had suddenly moved up a notch. Next stop, the Hyatt Regency.
When Bonnaire’s photos came through he transferred them to a memory stick and then went to a print shop to get good quality hard copies. He had them done in black and white. One showed Sylvie walking down what he assumed was a Paris street, elegantly dressed and well groomed, much as he remembered her. The other was of Le Roux in the gallery, facing the camera and talking to someone who had their back partially in shot. They were clear images and probably surreptitiously captured, as the two subjects seemed to have no notion they were being photographed.
He thought he should capitalise on Inspector Shah’s increasing enthusiasm for the case and asked if he could borrow Constable Goswami again. Once he’d related the contents of Marsh’s letter to Shah, the Inspector was more than willing to offer his constable’s services. Nick knew he wouldn’t get very far as a civilian if he asked the staff at the Hyatt to look out for these two and then call him if they showed up. He needed the full force of the law on his side and the co-operation that the sight of a police uniform so often engendered.
The lobby of the Hyatt Regency was enormous. Its polished parquet floor stretched from the entrance doors towards a long, curved, varnished reception desk. In front of the desk a rectangle of shimmering sea-blue lit up the floor space, cast by the tinted skylight above. It was as though some magician had dipped his hand into the ocean and suspended a portion of it in the floor. If the rest of the place lived up to its luxurious lobby, then this was probably a six star hotel. Five was clearly inadequate.
The staff were as polished as the floor. They politely looked at the photos Nick presented and then at each other.
‘The lady has a room here. We don’t know the gentleman, though.’
‘She’s here now?’ Nick felt his pulse quicken.
‘No sir. She has a reservation here till the end of the week, but she has not been here for a few days.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘She just said she would be away for a while.’
‘What name is she registered under?’
‘One moment.’ The receptionist consulted his monitor. ‘Ms Rashida Duval, sir.’
‘I’d like the address she registered under and her passport details. You ask for copies, don’t you?’
The receptionist looked uneasy, but a stern glance from Constable Goswami persuaded him.
‘I will print you copies. If you would just take a seat, I will bring them over.’
A few minutes later, he came across to where Nick and Goswami sat.
‘It’s all here, sir. Is there a problem?’
Nick took the printouts and cast a quick eye over them. ‘No problem, as far as you’re concerned. When she reappears I want you or whoever is on the desk, to call this number.’ He handed the man his card. ‘Can you do that?’
The man looked from Nick to Goswami and back again. Goswami said something Nick didn’t understand and the man nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
They walked back to the car. He had to assume Sylvie would return before the end of the week but she might choose not to of course, for whatever reason. He perused the copy of the passport page as they drove back. It was a French passport, in the name quoted by the receptionist. Clearly forged, or perhaps she led another legitimate life as Rashida Duval and had applied through the usual channels. Sylvie was proving to be a woman of many parts, some more unsavoury than others. He would forward this information to Bonnaire, at least they could look out for her coming back into France using this name. Here in Kolkata, the only option he had was to hope she returned to the Hyatt and to be close behind her when she did. When they got back to the station he reported to Shah.
‘This is becoming a most interesting case, Mr Severance. Abduction and missing treasure, it is an unusual combination.’
Shah seemed to be enjoying himself. Nick suppressed a smile. ‘I suppose so, not your average missing person case.’
‘Have you had any further thoughts on why Ms Slade was taken?’
‘I still can’t work it out. Given the way these people operate though, there’s a good chance she’s no longer alive.’
‘But the woman you’re waiting for at the Hyatt, she will know?’
‘Yes, I think so. Rebecca found the tomb and they found her. Mr Marsh is the link. If and when Sylvie Dajani comes back to the Hyatt, will you lend me two of your men? And they should be armed. This woman is dangerous.’
‘Consider it done. Ring me directly, no matter what time it is. I will have them pick you up and drive you.’
‘Thank you.’ Nick stood up to leave.
‘I almost forgot,’ said Shah. ‘Tomorrow, buy a copy of The Times of India. I’m told the story of the looted tomb and your photos will be on the front page. Then the whole country will be looking for your lions.’
Nick considered it a mixed blessing. Of course it would make life harder for Le Roux, but it might also provoke some rash action on his part and Rebecca, assuming she was still alive, could suffer as a consequence. He bid Shah goodbye and took a taxi back to the Green Street. For now, it was just a waiting game.
He didn’t have to wait long. That evening, around 10.30, he had a call from the Hyatt reception desk. Ms Duval had returned two hours ago. He had to apologise to Inspector Shah for the lateness of the hour when he made contact, but true to his word the Inspector had two uniformed officers collect him shortly afterwards. It was nearly 11.30 when the police car pulled up in the hotel forecourt. The two officers had been instructed to arrest Sylvie and take her to the station, where Nick could pursue his enquiries under the auspices of the Kolkata Police. Both men had handguns, but it was plain from their attitude that they weren’t expecting trouble from a mere woman, regardless of Nick’s warning to the contrary.
At the reception desk, one of the officers asked for a copy of the pass key to Ms Duval’s room. Once he had this, he turned to Nick.
‘Our instructions are that you are to remain here while we arrest the suspect,’ he said.
Nick began to protest, but he was cut short. ‘If you don’t agree, then we are leaving now.’
‘Alright. What room is she in?’
‘Room 306,’ said the receptionist.
Nick found a chair with a view of the lift and watched as the doors closed behind the two policemen. He would have to assume they knew their business and would detain Sylvie with a minimum of fuss. The lobby was hardly busy, just one or two people wandering in or out. He watched as the lift indicator counted off the floors, until it stopped at three. Folding his arms, he settled back in the leather upholstered chair. In a few minutes those doors would open again and Ms Rashida Duval would have some explaining to do.
A few minutes became fifteen. He was becoming restless, what were they doing? To hell with it, he thought. He got up and advanced towards the lift and then saw it was on its way down. He figured that it must be them and if not, he would go straight up and find out what was going on.
The door opened and the lift was empty. Odd. He got in and pressed the button. Just as the doors began to close, he heard the receptionist say something. Was it addressed to him? He managed to insert his foot into the gap between the doors and trip them open. He leaned out and looked to his right, towards the desk some 30 feet away. There was a woman standing there, suitcase nearby, clearly checking out. He realised that he was wrong and that whatever the receptionist had said was directed at her. He was just about to retreat into the lift when he saw the receptionist look his way.
Nick could see the barely concealed panic on the man’s face. He took another look at the woman, whose attention was suddenly drawn to him when she turned her head to see what the receptionist was looking at.
It was Sylvie. How the hell had she got down here? He began to walk towards her and it took a few steps before she remembered who he was. He saw the shock on her face and then she reached into her bag and pulled out a gun.
‘Stop there.’
He stopped. ‘Where’s Rebecca Slade?’
‘I have no idea who that is.’ She glanced across at the receptionist. ‘Take my suitcase.’
The man hesitated, until she turned the gun on him. He stepped out from behind the desk and picked it up.
‘Stay where you are DCI Severance, or this man dies.’
Sylvie positioned herself so the receptionist was between her and Nick. She ordered the man towards the door. There was no one else in the lobby to distract her. Nick stayed rooted to the spot until they disappeared through the entrance door and then he sprinted after her. He burst through the door to find the receptionist staring forlornly at the back of a Mercedes, accelerating off the forecourt. Nick had just enough time to register the licence plate.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked the clearly shaken man.
‘Yes sir, yes,’ the receptionist replied, his hand to his chest.
‘Do you have a pen and paper?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Pen and paper. I want to write the licence plate number.’
‘Inside.’
They went back inside. Before they reached the desk, Nick realised there was no need to write anything down. He’d seen the number before. In Rebecca’s notebook.
He swore. Where were the bloody policemen? Had they taken a wrong turning?
‘She came down the stairs, sir,’ said the receptionist, once he was safely stationed behind the desk.
‘So I gather.’ He ran back to the lift, which hadn’t moved and took it to the third floor. Then he found room 306. The door was shut and there was no sign of Kolkata’s finest. He had to go back and get another pass key before he could get in.
The door opened into a spacious living area, with separate doors on the left for bedroom and bathroom. The two officers lay dead on the living room floor. They hadn’t even drawn their weapons. One had been shot in the head, he could see that much, and the other had blood oozing from his chest.
Nick hadn’t heard a thing and if there were other residents nearby, it would appear that they hadn’t either. Sylvie had calmly killed two Kolkata police officers and then packed her bags and decided to check out, as if nothing had happened. The woman was ice cool. The only crumb of comfort he could take from this whole bloody mess was in the knowledge that by killing two policemen she had just ensured that every cop in India would be looking out for her. He left the room and walked back to the lift. It was time to call Shah and give him the news. He wasn’t looking forward to it.