All Gone

by Joel Goldman

  “As an interested observer, of course.”

  Murdoch nodded. “Of course. How else could you save the day.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  CASSIE STARED OUT THE FRONT passenger window of McNulty’s Audi Q3 as dusk fell on the English countryside, the descending darkness matching her mood. Crashing Lord Tresch’s masked ball seemed like a good idea a couple of hours ago because it was the only idea they had. But the further they got from London, the more terrible it sounded.

  Shaw had recruited Max Dekker, Lionel Kent and Gabriel to steal the Magna Cartas. Gabriel was on the run. Kent was dead. Dekker, whom they’d left unconscious on the warehouse floor, was no doubt in custody by now. That didn’t mean Shaw was vulnerable. He wouldn’t rely only on the three thieves to protect him any more than he had relied on Malcolm Bridges to keep his mouth shut. If Lord Tresch was Shaw, he’d be ready for them. The trail of dead bodies was proof of what lay ahead.

  It was bad enough that she was responsible for Jake, but now she had to worry about McNulty. They’d taken advantage of his patriotic fervor and if he lost his livelihood – or his life – that would be a burden she’d never put down. Judging from the tune he was whistling, McNulty shared none of her concerns. The melody was haunting and beautiful.

  “What song is that?” she asked him. “It’s familiar but I can’t place it.”

  “Greensleeves,” he said. “An old English folk song. Goes back centuries.”

  “Do you know the words?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I’d recognize ‘em if I heard ‘em.”

  “Alas my love, you do me wrong.” Jake said from the backseat.

  Cassie turned to look at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Alas my love, you do me wrong. That’s the first line of the song.”

  McNulty nodded. “Aye, that it is, lad. I remember it now.” He began to whistle and Jake began to sing, breathy and off-key, while looking at Cassie with puppy eyes and covering his heart with his hand.

  “Alas my love, you do me wrong.

  To cast me off discourteously.

  And I have loved you oh so long.

  Delighting in your company.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes and covered her ears with her hands. “Stop before I kill myself!”

  Jake and McNulty ignored her protests and started over, Jake making up in volume what he lacked in talent. Cassie giggled, then broke into full-throated laughter. McNulty was next. He gave up whistling and joined her, pounding the steering wheel as his eyes watered.

  “Hey, I’m serious about my music,” Jake said and continued acapella until Cassie pulled off her shoe and threw it at him. “Okay, okay. I can’t help it if you have no appreciation for the arts.”

  “How is it possible,” Cassie said, “that you know the lyrics to Greensleeves?”

  “Blame my high school choir teacher. But, hey, I also know the words to the Gilligan’s Island theme song if you’d like to hear that. This is the tale of our castaways…”

  Jake stopped when Cassie threatened him with her other shoe. He handed her the first one, brushing her fingers. Cassie let his touch linger, wondering if he was trying pick up her spirits or just being a goof. Or whether he was using the lyrics to Greensleeves to tell her how he felt. One more thing for her to worry about.

  They were on the M40, approaching Oxford, when McNulty’s phone rang. It was resting in the center console. He glanced at the caller ID and didn’t answer. A few minutes later, his phone rang again and he still didn’t answer, not bothering to see who was calling. He kept his expression neutral, but Cassie saw the muscles in his neck grow tense.

  After a third rejected call, Cassie asked, “Is that your boss or your wife?”

  “No such creatures. Long as I keep up my license, I report to no man. Or woman.” Then he told her, “It’s the Public Carriage Office. Likely calling to ask about my whereabouts this afternoon. They can bloody well wait until I’m back from my vacation in Scotland.”

  Cassie picked up his phone and turned it off. “Take the first exit for Oxford. We need to make a stop.”

  Cassie bought half a dozen burner cellphones at a discount electronics store. Back in the car, she explained that the store clerk had recommended a coffee shop with free Wifi and told McNulty how to get there. They settled in a booth with steaming cups. Cassie opened one of the new burner phones and downloaded an app.

  Jake peered over her shoulder and said, “That doesn’t look like the iPhone app store.”

  “That’s because it’s the Global Security app store.” She opened the app and said to McNulty, “Give me your phone.”

  She turned it on and laid it alongside the burner. McNulty’s screen blinked and a message appeared confirming that the two phones were connected. Cassie tapped her keyboard and a ball began to swirl on McNulty’s phone. Beneath the ball, the screen read syncing.

  “What the devil?” McNulty asked.

  “I’m downloading everything on your phone to this new one.”

  “What in the world for?”

  “So you don’t lose your data when we get rid of it. You’re probably right that the Public Carriage Office is trying to reach you because of what happened at the warehouse. That means the police got your license number either from a witness or a surveillance camera. If your phone is on, they can track it and find us.”

  “Then why not just turn it off and destroy the sim card?” Jake asked.

  “Because we want them to follow McNulty’s phone. We just don’t want them to follow us.”

  McNulty scratched his chin. “And you can copy my phone just by letting it sit there?”

  “The app does the copying. Law enforcement does it all the time with what they call an extraction device. My company developed this app which can connect to any device with a Wi-Fi connection and does the same thing. When this is over, I’ll buy you whatever phone you want and we’ll put everything back on it, your contacts, your email, your funny cat pictures, all of it. And, you’ll be able to use your old number. For now, don’t make any calls with this one unless it’s an emergency.”

  McNulty asked, “What about your phones?”

  “I doubt that they’ve identified either Jake or me but we’re keeping our phones turned off.”

  “Can I use the apps on my new phone?”

  “Sure,” Cassie said.

  McNulty opened his police scanner app and set the phone on the table with the volume turned down so only they could hear it. Five minutes later, they listened as Cassie and Jake were identified by name as persons of interest in the double homicide at a warehouse in the Limehouse District.

  “I think that’s our cue,” Jake said.

  Cassie removed the sim cards from her phone and Jake’s and crushed them under her heel. “I don’t care if they find McNulty’s phone but I don’t want them having what’s on ours.”

  On their way to the car, Cassie dropped McNulty’s phone through an opening on the side of an eighteen-wheel truck carrying sheep. Moments later, they were back on the M-40.

  THIRTY-NINE

  MURDOCH DROVE AWAY FROM Inspector Patel’s crime scene in the warehouse mulling his investigation of Malcolm Bridges’ murder. The wife, now widow, had identified the body. The crime scene techs had finished their work and would deliver their preliminary reports tomorrow. Officers were canvassing the area around the car park where Bridges was found, looking for witnesses and video cameras that might have captured useful footage.

  The next step was to reconstruct Bridges’ final days and hours to find the moment that had set his murder in motion. That meant talking with the people who knew him and had last seen him. The wife had given him a handful of names of friends and relatives and he’d arranged with Titan’s HR director to interview Bridges’ co-workers.

  All that was routine, right out of the Catch-the-Killer manual, and would keep him occupied for the next several days. But nothing about this case felt routine to Murdoch since he’d run into Cassie Ireland
at Bridges’ house. He wanted to talk with her next, though he didn’t expect her to be strolling thru Piccadilly waiting to be nabbed on Patel’s person-of-interest alert, not after what had happened at the warehouse. And, if Patel got lucky and found Cassie before he did, Patel would have first crack at her and Murdoch hated waiting his turn.

  Instead of starting on the list Gladys Bridges had given him, Murdoch drove to the British Library hoping that Sarah St. James would know where he might find Cassie. He was certain Sarah had lied to him about the damage to the motion sensors and acrylic covers in the Magna Carta display cases. She might have been covering for herself or Cassie and Jake or all three of them and may be tempted to lie to him again until he tells her that she could be covering for a pair of murderers.

  Before bracing Sarah, Murdoch decided to have a word with Ian Thorpe. He’d dealt with the Library’s Director of Security back in his Arts & Antiquities days. The man was disagreeable, defensive and only borderline competent but may be useful. Thorpe’s secretary, Edna, showed Murdoch into his office.

  “Inspector Murdoch,” Thorpe said. “I haven’t seen you since that business about the forged Martellus World Map. What brings you around?”

  Murdoch took a chair opposite Thorpe’s desk. “Afraid I’m not in Arts & Antiquities anymore. They moved me to the Serious Crimes Command.”

  Thorpe leaned back in his chair, making a steeple with his fingers. “Homicide and all that?”

  Murdoch nodded. “Yes, and all that.”

  “Don’t see how I can be any use to you then. Haven’t run across a single corpse in all my time here.”

  “Don’t be so certain. What can you tell me about Cassie Ireland?”

  Thorpe’s steepled hands collapsed into a stranglehold. “Ha! Not except that she barged in here Monday morning with her knickers in a twist, telling me I better cooperate with her or else.”

  “Cooperate with her about what?”

  He curled his fingers into air quotes. “A security audit of the library. Like I don’t know my job, which is rubbish. You know me better than that, Inspector.”

  “I take it you didn’t retain her services?”

  “You take it right. Sir Robert Howell went behind my back and he had no cause to do that. No cause at all.”

  Murdoch frowned. He’d seen Sir Robert’s name listed in the program for the Magna Carta exhibit. “Does Sir Robert speak for the Library?”

  “He speaks for the Magna Carta Trustees and that’s all but he’s one of those high and mighty that expects the common folk to stand at attention when he speaks. Threatened me with my job if I didn’t cooperate, he did.”

  “What sort of cooperation did Ms. Ireland want from you?”

  “Stay out of her way, was how I took it. That, and she wanted to know which guards had been on duty…”

  Thorpe turned away and didn’t finish the sentence. Murdoch let Thorpe dangle in the awkward silence, then took a chance and finished it for him.

  “The night before the Magna Carta exhibit opened.”

  Thorpe looked at him, mouth open. “How could you know that?”

  Murdoch hadn’t known until Thorpe told him. He felt the electrical charge he always got when a case began to come together and he wasn’t going to let Thorpe ask the questions.

  “Who were the guards and why was she so interested in them?”

  “Lloyd Pugh, Tom Galloway and Jeremy Bristol-Clarke. And she didn’t say why she was interested in them. Just that she wanted to review all the guards’ personnel files beginning with the ones that had been on duty inside the library that night.”

  “Then why did you hesitate to tell me about them?”

  Thorpe reddened. “Because they didn’t clock out after their shift. Made me look bad even though it wasn’t my fault. But I can’t blame them for quitting. The pay barely buys a pint.”

  “They quit?”

  “And never came back. Didn’t answer when I called them and their families said they never came home.”

  Murdoch said, “Did you report them as missing?”

  “Why should I? They quit and left me hanging. That’s all I cared about.”

  “How well did you know Malcolm Bridges?”

  “Sat in meetings with him when they were putting the Magna Carta exhibit together. Talked to him about security. He did a good job.”

  “If the motion sensors inside the display cases were damaged, would you know about it?”

  “Of course. I’d have had them switched out and made sure I knew what happened.”

  “Of course, you would have. I won’t take any more of your time. I would like to take a close look at the display cases without arousing the guards if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll let them know,” Thorpe said. “What’s any of this to do with homicide?”

  “Malcolm Bridges was murdered. Strangled, poor fellow.”

  Thorpe sank back in his chair. “I suppose none of us are safe anymore.”

  “When did you last see Bridges?” Murdoch asked.

  “A week ago. We did a final walk-thru on the exhibit.”

  “How did he seem to you?”

  “Same as ever. Pleasant fellow except when he was badmouthing Titan. Said he loved the work but hated the company.”

  “Did Cassie Ireland talk to you about Bridges?”

  “Not a peep. Are you thinking she had something to do with his murder, because I’d like to see the look on Sir Robert’s face when he got that news.”

  Murdoch rose and waved off his comment even though he’d been asking himself the same question. “I’m suggesting nothing of the kind. Just being thorough. You know how this business goes.”

  Thorpe came around his desk and shook Murdoch’s hand. “Indeed, I do. We’re in the same game, aren’t we now.”

  Murdoch held his tongue. “Of course, we are.”

  FORTY

  THE JAM-PACKED CROWDS that had swarmed the Magna Carta exhibit when it opened had thinned to an irregular flow of visitors, making it easier for Murdoch to closely examine the display cases. He nodded to the security guard on duty who touched his brow in reply, acknowledging Murdoch’s permission to cross in front of the rope barrier.

  He quickly re-confirmed that the motion detectors and acrylic covers were undamaged. There was no visible means of opening the glass hoods, no key locks or keypads and no buttons to push. He stepped back to study the wide pedestal bases. The exteriors looked to be oak, though he assumed it was a veneer covering a steel structure because that would be the most secure design.

  Since the glass hoods couldn’t be opened from the outside, he realized that the pedestals would have to be disassembled to gain access to the Magna Cartas, probably by releasing an internal lock. The veneer was no doubt cemented to the steel and couldn’t be removed without destroying it. He decided that there must be hidden screws holding an access plate in place, screws that could be located with a nail finder. Removing the screws would damage the veneer but less so than ripping it off entirely.

  It was a smart design that was intended for a one-time use. He’d encountered similar models while investigating several museum thefts. When the exhibit was over, the pedestals would be torn down and the Magna Cartas removed. But, if it was necessary to open the glass hoods during the exhibit, it could be done with minimal damage to the pedestals.

  Murdoch knelt next to the pedestal on the far left of the display and ran his hands across the highly-polished surface, searching for any irregularities. He felt a slight depression with his fingertip mid-way down the length of the base, then opened the flashlight app on his smartphone and shined the beam on the oak veneer. And there it was. A small circular defect the size of a screw head patched and touched up, probably with a colored marker. From the other side of the rope, it blended in with the wood grain, attracting no attention. He found three more defects, each another corner in a square. There were similar defects on the other pedestals.

  Someone had opened the display cases. Th
e questions were who and why. The motion sensors may have failed, requiring them to be replaced. If that happened too close to the opening of the exhibit to replace the damaged veneer, there would be an innocent explanation for the defects. Not so if thieves had broken into the cases.

  Murdoch scanned the exhibit gallery. There were cameras and motion detectors, reliable but not impregnable measures. He looked at the ceiling, glad there were no skylights. In the movies, black-suited burglars descended from skylights on nylon ropes, hanging suspended inches above the floor while dodging laser beams but not in his world.

  He’d seen the steel curtain recessed into the ceiling at the entrance to the gallery. Not many people would be authorized to open the gate. From past experiences, he expected that Ian Thorpe, Sarah St. James and Malcolm Bridges would on that list. Bridges was dead and now, more than ever, he was certain that Sarah St. James was a liar.

  Murdoch caught up to Sarah in the hallway outside her office. She stopped when she saw him walking toward her, her suddenly slack jaw confirming that his visit was neither expected or welcome.