Mary Dear - Redux

by de Gallegos, Alfredo

  ‘Thank you Ellie,’ she smiled, as the nurse came back into the room carrying a small, rose-coloured fabric box and placing it on the table next to Miss Edwina. Elliott watched her open the box with her old fragile hands and thought it strange that such a small box could contain one person’s whole life.

  She pulled out a black leather notebook and looked at it for a second or two as if seeing it for the first time and then she handed it to Elliott. ‘Thank you Miss Edwina,’ he said as he stared at the logo, a strange one that he had not come across before—but similar in some ways to the ones he had seen in countless films and book covers.

  Now here he was holding the genuine article. Elliott opened the book and found two folded foolscap pages of handwritten notes on both sides. It was British Army notepaper and appeared to be interview notes referring to an interrogation of a prisoner. The book itself contained some sort of inventory and on the inside front cover was what looked like a set of coordinates.

  He needed more time with it, more time than he had to spend with her. ‘Miss Edwina, this book...it’s fascinating...it would be so useful to me if I could borrow it. I’d guard it well; I know how precious it must be for you.’

  She looked vacant, as if her mind was somewhere else and Elliott wondered if she had not heard his question. Her answer astonished him.

  ‘You can keep it young man. It’s what took my Edward away. I never felt I could just destroy it but I would really be so glad to be rid of it. I mean...that would not be disloyal to Edward’s memory. Would it?’

  ‘Of course not and I promise that I will tell you whatever I find out... if you wish?’

  Miss Edwina smiled for only the second time since Elliott’s arrival.

  ‘Well you’d better hurry up young man. I’m not sure I will be around much longer.’

  Elliott was amazed to find that Miss Edwina still had a sense of humour and he gave her his best smile. ‘You’ll outlive us all, Miss Edwina, and thank you. Thank you for everything.’ Elliott thought that she looked almost relieved to be rid of the black notebook and asked her one last question. ‘Did your brother write to you before he died?’

  ‘Yes, he wrote me just one letter in which he told me he was finally free to go find what he had been looking for and that he was very excited. He promised he would write again but never got the chance. It was when he was on his way to Lima in search of it that God took him away. His plane crashed in Ecuador or Peru...I’m not sure which now...and all on board including my dear Edward were never heard of again.’

  Edwina went quiet for a moment with a faraway look that spoke volumes. Elliott stayed a little while longer letting her chat about old times, keeping her company really, and again he promised to tell her if he found out anything more about her brother’s death. She thanked him adding that just knowing a little more than she knew before she died would be a comfort to her. He left her sitting alone clutching the little letterbox to her chest, rocking gently to and fro and lost in a world of her own. Elliott hoped that, wherever that world was, she was with her Edward. He didn’t know quite why, but meeting Miss Edwina had moved him more than he thought was possible.

  Elliott sat in his car clutching the book in one hand and his mobile in the other. He knew the person he needed to speak to, one of his drinking pals who he’d last seen on his visit to The Royal. The thought of that place brought memories of his recent meeting flooding back. How had he got himself tangled up with a gangster like Briggs, and Billy and his fucking pet? It was all too much. He decided to put it out of his mind. Elliott phoned Charlie Woodruff’s mobile and found him at his local pub, the Australian in Milner Street. He told him he needed to see him and they agreed to meet there the following day at noon.

  Elliott turned up on time on an unusually sunny morning. Though Wednesday is not a particularly busy day, the pub was fairly crowded with office workers, and tourists sitting outside making the most of the warm sunshine. As he approached he spotted Charlie waving at him and he waved back.

  A pint of Guinness was waiting for him so Charlie must have guessed he’d be on time. ‘Good morning, and how’s the high roller today?’

  ‘Don’t fucking go there. That’s a painful memory and I’m not out of the woods yet,’ he scowled pretending to be angry, ‘call yourselves friends. Why the hell didn’t you stop me?’

  ‘Stop you? You know what you’re like when you’re in full gambling mode; not even fucking Rambo can stop you. Just be thankful we put you in a cab and sent you home.’

  ‘Well thanks a bunch,’ he said with a sheepish smile.

  Charlie looked at his friend and slowly shook his head, tut-tutted but offered no more on that subject. He didn’t wish to rub salt in the wound. God only knows what he’d have thought had he known about his friend’s recent encounter with Briggs. Perhaps it’s just as well that he didn’t.

  ‘Cheers! Here’s to the hair of the dog!’ Charlie raised his glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, downing half of his Guinness in one.

  ‘Needed that, did you?’ Charlie said, looking amused.

  ‘You better believe it.’

  They had chatted casually over a ploughman’s lunch and then Elliott got down to business.

  ‘Charlie, I need your help with a bit of chart plotting, that’s your speciality isn’t it?’

  Charlie had been wondering when Elliott would get to the punch line. He knew all about his mate’s penchant for foreign travel. ‘So, where are we off to this time?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.’

  Elliott told him he had come across some interesting information while researching for a new project he was involved with and it concerned a set of coordinates, since Charlie was the only cartographer he knew...

  ‘Okay, I’ve a bit of time. What say you we go down to my place?’

  ‘Lead the way,’ Elliott said getting up.

  Charlie lived just round the corner in Lennox Gardens. They got to number 10a, the fine Victorian four bedroom town house Charlie lived in.

  Charlie went up the three steps to the door opened it and let his friend in. ‘Come on in Elliott, you can leave your jacket in the hall if you like, it is a bit stifling in here today.’

  Elliott took his jacket off and hung it on the coat stand by the door and followed his friend who was already walking up the stairs to the first floor reception room.

  ‘Nice. I didn’t know you’d set up shop here.’

  ‘Yes. Since I started freelancing I’ve been kept very busy. Working from home has been a bit mad. I needed a bit more space than the box-room upstairs and had to sacrifice the living room. I got my chart table in here and...well, what do you think?’

  ‘Very nice indeed,’ Elliott repeated. The place had an Indiana Jones feel to it and Elliott felt right at home.

  ‘Well now, let’s have a look at those coordinates of yours.’

  Charlie walked over to one of the drawers and opened it. He pulled out a large map that he brought over to the chart table. With Elliott’s help, he secured it with metal clips and pulled a large magnifying glass from a drawer underneath. After studying the chart a moment or two, his finger zeroed in on what, to Elliott, appeared to be an empty piece of the Pacific Ocean until he borrowed the magnifying glass and had a closer look.

  ‘Well I’ll be dammed! I know that place but it’s not possible!’

  ‘But it is,’ said Charlie and they both read out the name:

  Cocos Island.

  Elliott’s meeting with Charlie had been most revealing but he needed to organize his thoughts. He had to take stock of what he knew and what was mere conjecture. Only then could he plan what his next step should be. But what exactly did he know?

  Well, he was pretty sure that when Edward Hannah got on that plane in Guayaquil he was on the first leg of a journey that would take him straight to Cocos Island. That much, he felt, was certain and it was equally certain that it had absolutely nothing to do with the possible burial site of t
he Gold Virgin. The trail that had started with Hannah may have ended with him the moment he’d died but the mystery of the black notebook seemed quite straightforward; after all, he had all the facts. And what of it, if his initial interest had been the Gold Virgin? The fact that it had led him to the discovery of the black notebook was a happy coincidence and one that provided him with the opportunity of finding not just one but two treasures. The questions that had troubled him all but resolved and he ticked them off one by one in his head:

  1. Who was the original owner of the black notebook?

  2. Who wrote the coordinates?

  3. How did Hannah come to get it?

  4. What, if anything, did that tell him about the inventory?

  5. What is in Cocos Island at the point indicated by

  the coordinates?

  The answer to 1 was Wilhelm Klein and his brother Dieter. Question 2 was easy; it had to have been Wilhelm. The answer to 3 he had learned from the notes in the notebook, Keating had come into possession of the book when Dieter passed it on to him during his interrogation and he in turn had given it to his friend Hannah for safekeeping. Edward Hannah had given it to his sister Edwina before he left England. The answer to 5 must be whatever was referred to by the inventory.

  As to what the items referred to in the inventory actually were he did not know except that the Nazis had gone to a great deal of trouble to steal them.

  Guayaquil was where Miss Edwina had told him her brother had worked for a short while. Guayaquil it was then. Good a place to start as any. Besides, Elliott felt he owed her something for giving him the black notebook and a kind of duty to at least try to find out what had happened to her Edward. It was a good deed and one that would be much appreciated by her...after all; she didn’t have much longer on this earth and besides, he realized, he was fond of the old biddy.

  One problem remained. He was brassic. He’d have to pay a visit to his friendly bank manager and if old Bowler didn’t stomp up, he’d have to put up the cottage in Trowbridge as security for a short-term loan, but that was absolutely only in the last resort. He needed the money and hoped Briggs never found out. He felt lucky and he was sure this was the turning point in his finances. Whatever lay ahead, he was sure, would make him rich.

  Chapter Six

  Costa Rica, 2007

  Costa Rica appeared below as TACA’s A320 Airbus began its descent into Juan Santamaria, the country’s main airport. It was named after the brave drummer boy from Alajuela who died in the Battle of Rivas in 1856, defending his country against the invading forces of the American privateer William Walker.

  Sandwiched between Nicaragua and Panama, Costa Rica looked green and lush. From his window seat, Joe Martin followed the plane’s shadow as it raced over the ground skipping over the rooftops. The Airbus was being buffeted by strong cross winds. The airframe shook and juddered with each gust, accompanied by mournful mechanical moans and sighs as the pilot lowered the landing gear. Joe noticed a few nervous passengers exchanging anxious smiles.

  In the cockpit, Capitan Fuentes moved the side-stick and began final approach, the air traffic controllers’ calm voice clearly audible on his headset over the sound of the engines as he gave the Captain his final landing instructions.

  Capitan Fuentes started the pre-landing checks with his co-pilot and set the ILS, ADF and Markers, finally setting his radio altimeter, arming the auto brakes and checking his missed approach procedure. From the cockpit he could see the runway ahead as little cotton-wool clouds flew past his window. With the flaps extended and his speed brakes armed, he brought the jet down with a gentle thud. The plane touched down followed by the usual rumble of tyres on the tarmac and the loud noise of the engines’ thrust being reversed.

  The aircraft slowed down throwing Joe forward against his seatbelt. The runway flew by past his window. He saw the white terminal building in the distance and heard, above the noise of the engines, the sound of the crackly in-flight PA playing Tango Azul, briefly muted by the cabin crew announcing their arrival in Costa Rica, where the local time was 9.45.

  They taxied to their designated spot and once at the parking gate the Captain switched off the beacon and the fuel pumps. Finally, with a muffled ping, the seatbelt sign disappeared just as the engine whine faded down to nothing. Capitan Fuentes took off his headset and lay back in his seat. It had been another routine landing at an airport he knew well.

  They taxied to their designated spot and the Captain switched off the seatbelt sign.

  There was the usual stampede to get to the overhead lockers before anyone else and out of the plane as soon as possible. Joe sat back in his seat looking at the other jets on the tarmac with their KLM, Iberia and Virgin livery, though most of the planes were the DC-4´s and Boeing 737´s from the national airline LACSA.

  As he waited for the crowds to race each other to the exit door, he gazed out of the window at the ground service crew hurrying to the jet to begin taking the luggage off and ready the plane for the next leg of its journey. His mind drifted back to the events of two weeks ago that had brought him to this small Central American republic.

  Joe had been at the Blackfriars, his local, enjoying his pint of the usual and grabbing a quick bite to eat before going back to work. He liked the wedge-shaped pub built in 1875 near the site of a thirteenth century Dominican Priory that gives its name to the area. It was particularly handy as it was within walking distance of his office in New Fetter Lane.

  He felt his mobile vibrate inside his shirt pocket, reached for his handset and glanced at the caller ID on his old Nokia before taking the call. He greeted Mary, his sister-in-law, in the usual manner and with all the warmth that he felt for her. She sounded agitated and distressed and her speech was garbled and incoherent. Joe moved quickly out of the pub and into the street all the while trying to calm her and asking what the matter was.

  ‘It’s Timmy, he’s gone missing and I cannot get any sense out of the authorities in Costa Rica.’

  Tim, as everyone else called him, was Joe’s nephew that he had taken under his wing after his brother’s untimely death in a car accident five years previously. Joe knew Tim was on holiday in Costa Rica; he’d had lunch with him before he went and he’d been very excited about his trip.

  ‘Calm down Mary, take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Joe, you know what Timmy’s like, he always calls me when he’s away, I mean he knows that I worry, the last I heard was almost ten days ago. He was in Puntarenas, scuba diving with the locals and I haven’t heard a word since,’ she was trying to keep calm but it wasn’t working.

  Joe knew Tim was an experienced diver, only last year he’d worked with Jean-Michel Cousteau’s Ocean Futures foundation studying great whites near the fishing village of Gansbaai in South Africa. He could handle himself. Still the silence was strange.

  Mary continued, a little calmer now, ‘I guess I just panicked, I called the Home Office...well you know...they were helpful and kind, told me they’d get back to me soon but I still have not had a word from them or Timmy, I’m at my wit’s end as to what to do, I really am.’

  Joe knew Mary was prone to panicking. Tim was all she had since his brother died. It was understandable and, though he didn’t tell her, such a long spell without a word was unusual.

  ‘Well don’t worry any more about it now; I’m sure he’s fine. Just leave it all to me, I’ll find Tim for you,’ he heard himself say in a voice that was more confident than he felt.

  The sound of Joe’s reassuring voice was a tonic to Mary; he promised that he would stay in touch and, in any case, would drop by at the weekend to see her with all the news he had.

  True to his word, he called the Home Office in London and they suggested he should speak with Ian McBride, the British Ambassador in Costa Rica, as he was on the ground he would have more information. He then called on the Costa Rican Embassy in Lancaster Gate and got pretty much the same advice. Feeling that he was not getting much further
himself and that a visit to Costa Rica might be inevitable he decided to give Tim a week to make contact and, failing that, he would go to San Jose and start looking for him. The week had come and gone with still no news so he had made his travel arrangements. Joe was due to take early retirement that year and when he informed his office about what had happened and that he needed to take some leave straight away they simply told him to take as long as he needed and that they would see him on his return.

  Joe had not known how long his visit to Costa Rica would be so had bought a ticket with an open return—more expensive, but there was nothing else to be done in the circumstances. He found the best deal he could at short notice and took an afternoon flight to Madrid for an overnight stay. He emerged in the arrivals hall to find his friend Vicky leaning on the barrier at the front of a bunch of people waiting to greet the new arrivals. He waved at her and she pointed to the main entrance so he skirted round the crowds and finally come face to face with his friend.

  ‘Hola Vicky!’ he said with a big smile and gave her a huge hug.

  ‘Hi Joe, it’s been too long,’ she said and hugged him back as he kissed her on both cheeks.

  They set off to the car park with Joe following her, pushing a wonky trolley that seemed to have a mind of its own.

  ‘God, it’s hot here. What is it, forty-five?’

  ‘This isn’t Sevilla,’ she laughed, ‘it’s more like thirty five but it was hotter yesterday.’

  He’d forgotten what Madrid could be like. They collected her Seat Ibiza and drove to her flat in Lanuza. Vicky was a smooth driver, slipping in and out of traffic, changing lanes and attracting more than one blast from an angry horn and the odd dirty gesture from frustrated male drivers. They made it into the centre in one piece. She had a garage, one of the few to be had in Madrid. Joe picked his single piece of luggage, an old leather Mulberry suitcase, from the boot of the Seat and followed her up the three flights of stairs to her apartment door. Old buildings with lifts in Madrid, he remembered, are in short supply.