‘You heard that? How?’
‘I didn’t – Holgate told me. The neighbours let us into Martin’s flat. There was a break-in. His computer was stolen. The Japanese woman Martin was supposed to meet got injured by the thief, though she’s vanished since as well, so I can’t ask her what the hell’s going on. As for Peter Ellery, Holgate showed me a photograph dating from 1977 in which he appears, along with Caro, April, Martin and Alison Parker. The resemblance to me is obvious. As it must have been obvious to you and everyone else all my life.’
‘Christ. I need a cigarette. Wait here.’ Miranda went off in search of a smoke, calling back to Nick from the adjoining room. ‘None of this is down to me, Nick. Caro decided you were better off not knowing Peter was your father. I can’t say I blame her.’ She returned, lit cigarette and pack in hand. She offered him one. He shook his head. ‘Well, now you know.’ She sat back down. ‘Feel better for it, do you?’
‘I’m coming to terms with it.’
‘Not sure I can help you do that.’
‘Peter Ellery’s still alive, isn’t he?’
‘Marty believes he is.’
‘And so do you.’
‘Do I?’
‘Why did you phone Martin?’
‘I was worried about him.’
‘With good reason, apparently.’
‘I meant I was worried about his state of mind.’
‘Any idea where he’s gone?’
‘None at all. Listen, Nick, I’m sorry you had to wait so long to find out the truth about your paternity, but that’s down to Caro and April. It wasn’t my decision. It was nothing to do with me. So I really don’t know what I can say. Maybe Peter drowned with Alison. Maybe he didn’t.’
‘Why would someone steal Martin’s computer, Miranda? I mean, let’s consider the possibilities. Breaking and entering is fairly heavy-duty stuff. And this particular bit of breaking and entering was for a specific purpose. What does Martin know that’s so important – so damaging – that the people he knows it about go to such lengths to cover it up?’
Miranda took a long drag on her cigarette and shook her head. ‘I simply can’t imagine.’
‘Really? Didn’t your earlier visitor fill you in?’
‘How could he? He has nothing to do with this.’ She hesitated, floundering to find some faintly plausible explanation for her association with such a man. ‘What he was doing here is none of your business.’
‘You’d be right about that but for the fact that before she vanished Mrs Takenaga – the woman who came all the way from Japan to talk to Martin – gave the police a description of the intruder at his flat. It matched your … Irishman … to a tee.’
Miranda stubbed out her cigarette and gazed at Nick long and hard.
‘Who is he really?’ Nick pressed. ‘Who does he work for?’
‘Not me. Since you ask.’
‘Then who?’
Miranda’s gaze faltered slightly. Something seemed to give way inside her. ‘If Peter didn’t drown with Alison – if he’s still alive to this day – he’s obviously decided, for reasons of his own, to turn his back on his old life, his old identity, on everything Peter Ellery was until June 1977. It takes a lot to do that. There needs to be a good reason to make the effort, I’d say. To write off everything about yourself. To start again. To rebuild your life. With a new name, a new personality, a new you.’
‘Do you know why he might go to all that trouble, Miranda?’
‘No.’
‘I reckon it has to be about what happened at Nancekuke that night. Peter and Alison broke into the base looking for secrets about the nerve gas being produced there. Alison ended up drowned. One of the guards was shot. And Peter … disappeared.’
‘I don’t know anything about a guard being shot. Where’d you get that from?’
‘Holgate.’
‘He’s just an old hack peddling conspiracy theories.’
‘Maybe. But you said yourself there had to be a good reason – a compelling need – for Peter to run away from his former life.’
‘Yes. And I’m suggesting that means you should think twice about looking for him. If he’s alive, he either doesn’t know you exist or he knows and doesn’t want to have anything to do with you. It’s hard, I know, but maybe you should … let it go.’
‘Are you trying to warn me off?’
‘I’m trying to give you some good advice, Nick, that’s all. Think about taking it.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘I can’t help you.’
‘I think you can.’
‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you go on like this.’
‘If I tell the Exeter police I saw the man they’re looking for in connection with the break-in at Martin’s flat and the assault on Mrs Takenaga here, at your house, they’ll want to ask you some questions. He was seen by one of the neighbours as well as Mrs Takenaga, by the way. And he does have a pretty distinctive appearance. Do you want me to do that?’
She looked straight at him. ‘I’d certainly rather you didn’t.’
‘Then tell me who he is. Tell me who he works for. Tell me what you know. Because you know something, Miranda. That’s as clear as day.’
‘I know you’d be better off forgetting all about this.’
‘But I’m not going to. I don’t think I can.’
‘That’s a pity. For both of us.’ She studied him closely as she drew on the cigarette. ‘You know, Nick, you never think, when you’re young, that the things you do – the crazy things, the unwise things, the downright wrong things – are going to catch up with you when you’re older. You think they’re over and done with. And they can seem like they are. For years. For decades. For the greater part of your entire life. And then …’
‘How can I find my father?’
‘I’m thinking of going away for Easter. I reckon I deserve a break. Maybe you should give yourself a break too.’
‘That doesn’t sound like an answer to my question.’
‘Well, some questions can’t be answered, can they? But … if you do want to go somewhere … I could suggest a destination. In return for being … left in peace.’ She caught his eye. She was offering him some kind of deal. That was what it had come down to between them.
‘Where?’
‘I need to fetch something. Wait here.’
She left the kitchen and he heard her climbing the stairs. There was a creak from the floorboards of the room above him. He couldn’t tell what she was doing. He picked up her coffee cup and sniffed it. There was a definite aroma of whisky cutting through the coffee. She was hiding it well, but she was under a lot of strain. And Nick wasn’t the cause of most of it. What kind of message had the Irishman delivered to Baroness Cushing? And who was the message from?
He heard her coming back down the stairs. She walked into the kitchen, empty-handed. She crossed to the French windows leading out into the garden and signalled for him to follow.
A few seconds later, they were standing on the patio, with birdsong and breeze around them. There was a wrought-iron table and a pair of chairs close by.
‘Any particular reason we’ve come out here?’ Nick asked.
Miranda didn’t answer. From her tracksuit pocket she took a small slim grey metal case and laid it on the table. Perhaps, he thought, that was her answer.
‘What’s this?’
‘The case is shielded against all forms of scanning,’ she replied, hardly speaking above a whisper. ‘It’s the sort of shielding some people are using for their credit cards these days, but this one’s at the triple X end of the scale. Open it.’
Nick eased the case open. Inside, nestling in a frame, was a black card with a single word printed in the top left corner in white capitals. EMERGENCE. He took the card out of the case and turned it over. There was nothing on the back. The material felt odd. He couldn’t have said with certainty whether it was plastic or metal.
; ‘I need a clear understanding with you, Nick,’ Miranda went on. ‘After this, I don’t hear from you again, OK? And I especially don’t hear from the police.’
‘That depends what you’re giving me.’
‘Admission to an auction. To be held next Wednesday at six p.m.’
‘What kind of auction?’
‘You’ll have to go and find out.’
‘Where’s it being held?’
‘Do we have an understanding? Date, time, place, admission. That’s all I can give you. Anything else is … not mine to reveal. So, are we agreed?’
Nick looked down at the card in his hand. Emergence. What did it mean? What was being auctioned? ‘This will lead me to my father?’
‘Are we agreed?’
Her expression gave nothing away. Nick had to make a choice. But he sensed that in the final analysis there was really only one. He nodded. ‘We’re agreed.’
‘Good. Laugavegur three, Reykjavík, Iceland. That’s the address.’
‘And—’
‘And nothing.’ She took the card gently from his hand, replaced it in the case and clicked the case shut. ‘Don’t show that to anyone until you use it at the auction.’
‘But—’
‘Goodbye, Nick.’
It was nearly noon when Wada woke. Annoyed with herself for sleeping so long, she hurried out and followed the free map she took from the lobby to the nearby Hotel Arnarson, which looked a few degrees smarter than the Sol, but still a long way from swanky. She was pretty sure she recognized the reception guy by his voice as the more helpful of the two men she’d spoken to on the phone. According to his lapel badge, he was called Bjarni. And it soon transpired he recognized her voice as well. After offering Wada his personal apologies for the weather – ‘Horrible, but that’s spring in Iceland’ – he frowned slightly at her and said, ‘Did we speak on the phone recently? I feel I know your voice.’
‘I called to ask about my friend Martin Caldwell.’
‘Ah. Of course. Yes. You did not leave your name.’
‘I am Wada.’
‘Have you heard from Mr Caldwell, Miss Wada?’
‘No. That is why I have come to Iceland.’
‘Well, maybe the police have news of him. I can give you the name and phone number of the officer dealing with the matter.’
‘That would be kind. Thank you.’
Bjarni looked at his computer and jotted the information down on a hotel card. ‘I can contact the officer for you if you wish.’
‘There is no need to do that.’ Wada was hoping to avoid all contact with the police if she possibly could. They were likely to have more questions for her than she had for them. ‘On the phone, you mentioned other people have been seeking information about Mr Caldwell.’
‘Quite a few, Miss Wada. We have had several calls, in fact. It is strange. Most of the callers did not leave their name. Except one. I guess you may want to speak to that person, yes?’
‘I do.’
‘Well …’ He consulted some kind of day-book. A second hotel card was handed to her. ‘Here you are.’
‘Thank you.’ Wada looked down at what he’d written. An Icelandic-sounding name – Erla Torfadóttir – and a phone number. ‘Do you expect to hear from the police again?’
‘Possibly. You wish me to tell them where you are staying?’
‘I would prefer you …’
‘Not to?’
‘For now, yes. Until I have …’
‘Spoken to Erla, maybe?’
‘Yes.’ Wada smiled gratefully. ‘Exactly. Until I have spoken to Erla Torfadóttir. And then …’
Bjarni smiled back at her. ‘And then you let me know.’
THIRTEEN
AS SOON AS he arrived home, nick booked a flight to iceland for Monday and a four-night stay at a hotel in Reykjavík. It was all ridiculously expensive at such short notice, with Easter pending, but he no longer cared about such considerations. Nor had he decided exactly what he was going to tell Kate, but he had the rest of the weekend to persuade her he hadn’t lost his mind. He didn’t want her worrying about him, so there could be no question of revealing everything he’d discovered.
Kate’s family was a model of middle-class English normality. It was obvious her parents loved each other and neither of them had ever been married to anyone else. There were no children of a previous relationship, just level-headed Kate and her two level-headed sisters. Nick’s background was outrageously unconventional by comparison.
Around the time Kate’s flight was due to land at Gatwick, Nick settled on a version of events he thought she’d find it possible, if not necessarily easy, to understand. Martin Caldwell had decided the time had come to tell Nick who his real father was and that the man in question was going to be present at an auction in Reykjavík on Wednesday. Nick had decided to meet Caldwell in Reykjavík, attend the auction, introduce himself to his father and see what came of it.
He phoned April, who promised to tell Kate nothing, if she pressed her for information, beyond confirmation that she and Caro had misled Nick about the identity of his father.
‘I’m going to be away for a few days,’ he explained. ‘I don’t want Kate fretting on my account.’
‘Where are you going, Nicky?’
‘To find him.’
‘You’re going to come back safe, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘I don’t know. But—’
‘I’ll be fine, April. This is something I have to do. Once I’ve done it …’
‘Everything will be like it was before?’
‘Of course. Just make sure Kate doesn’t have any cause to be anxious about me.’
‘I’ll give her none, Nicky. You can rely on me.’
‘I know I can.’
‘Just tell me you’ll be careful.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
He heard her sigh gently. ‘I suppose that’ll have to do.’
Wada sat in a coffee shop in the centre of Reykjavík, waiting for a response to the phone message she’d left for Erla Torfadóttir. The weather was cold and drizzly, the clouds hanging low over the grey city and the silvery arm of the sea it faced.
The city was certainly popular with tourists. There were swarms of Americans, Chinese and assorted Europeans on the streets – even some Japanese. As Wada huddled over her bowl of soup, she wondered what had drawn so many people here. Glacier-trekking, geysers, hot springs, volcanoes and the Northern Lights, according to the adverts on the back of her map. They wouldn’t have drawn her.
But then travel for its own sake had never attracted Wada. She didn’t like breaks in routine. They discomposed her. And she was certainly discomposed now. Though that wasn’t going to stop her doing what she needed to do.
When her phone rang, she answered it even before she saw the caller was Erla Torfadóttir.
‘Hello?’
‘Umiko Wada?’
‘Yes. Erla?’
‘Yes. I’m Erla. I got your message.’ She sounded young, but not exactly carefree. There was a ragged edge of anxiety to her voice. ‘About Martin Caldwell.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘We met last week. We were supposed to meet again.’
‘I was supposed to meet him also. In London. He did not turn up.’
‘And you’ve come to Iceland looking for him?’
‘Yes. Can you help me?’
‘You’re Japanese, Umiko?’
‘Yes. I travelled to London from Tokyo to meet him.’
‘You must have had a good reason to make such a long journey.’
‘I did. Can we discuss this face to face, Erla?’
‘Maybe. But … I need to know … do you work for a Japanese company?’
‘No. I do not.’
‘We have to be careful.’
‘I am always careful. Can we meet?’
There was a long pause, then Erla said, ‘Reykjavík Roasters, Brautarholt,
one hour from now. It’s a coffee shop. OK for you?’
‘OK.’
Wada was tempted to call Dobachi before she met Erla, to see if there was any news of the police investigation into Kodaka’s killing. But she reminded herself, as she marched along the waterfront promenade with the drizzle thickening around her, that she wasn’t supposed to be in Iceland and she wasn’t supposed to be pursuing the mystery of her boss’s death at all. She was on her own. And it had to stay that way.
Reykjavík Roasters was crowded with students tapping at laptops and iPhones and gaggles of young mothers with toddlers in pushchairs. Wada took her coffee to the bench by the window and gazed out as she sipped it, eyeing the passers-by and trying to guess which one might be Erla. Numerous candidates walked past in the form of willowy young blonde-haired Icelandic women, but none of those who entered the coffee shop approached her, though as the sole Asian on the premises she was easy to spot.
Then her phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘This is Erla. You can see a Euromarket across the street, yes?’
There was a convenience store on the other side of the road. From where she was Wada couldn’t be sure of the name, but she reckoned that was the place Erla meant. ‘I see it.’
‘I’m just coming out.’
As Wada watched, a young woman stepped into view from inside the shop. She was, as Wada had expected, tall, young, slim and blonde. She was wearing jeans and a yellow anorak. She looked in Wada’s direction and started walking.
‘Follow me.’
Erla ended the call there and put her phone in her pocket. Wada abandoned her coffee, shrugged on her coat and set off after her.
Erla kept up a steady pace and didn’t look back. Wada closed the gap between them, then slowed slightly. She thought it best not to catch up.
They crossed a side street and arrived outside a large, modern three-storey building decorated in garish shades of red, blue and yellow. It was the Stúdentagarđar, according to a large sign on the wall. Wada’s guess was that it was a student hall of residence, which explained why there’d been so many students in Reykjavík Roasters.
Erla entered a central courtyard and climbed the stairs to the second floor, then followed the open walkway along to the door of flat 240. She still didn’t look back, though she must have been aware Wada was following her. She let herself in, but left the door ajar.
The Fine Art of Invisible Detection Page 13