by Gordon Cope
Where was the next statement? Kenyon dug through the pile until he found an envelope from Lloyd’s Bank, then ripped it open. It was the record for the month of June. Kenyon scanned down the page until he came to June 27; Lydia had withdrawn one hundred thousand pounds in cash that day. It had to have been for “Archie Lump.” He returned to the address book, but there was no one by the name of Lump listed in it.
Kenyon searched through the older statements from March and April. The most cash Lydia had drawn out of her account at any one time over the previous year was five thousand pounds. The one hundred thousand pounds was definitely unusual. Who was Archie Lump?
“’Allo, ’allo!”
Kenyon started in surprise. Happy Harry was standing in the doorway. The cabby flexed a thumb over his shoulder. “Taxi’s out front. You ready to go?”
Kenyon suddenly remembered his lunch with O’Neill. He glanced at his watch; it was almost 12:30 PM. “I’ll be right out,” he said.
Harry stared at Kenyon closely. “You all right, then?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need a minute to clear my head.”
Harry left, and Kenyon took a moment to gather up the Filofax and bank statements. He locked Lydia’s office door and headed toward the front of the gallery. He doubted Tanya would be much interested in getting something to eat after he told her his news.
Twelve
Kenyon sat quietly in the back of Harry’s taxi as the cabby wheeled through central London. He stared out at the busy boulevards, oblivious to the double-decker buses, street buskers, and crowds of tourists. His mind was still numb from the discovery of Lydia’s murder. He shook his head angrily, trying to draw himself out of the shock-induced lethargy.
Gonelli was right; most murderers knew the victim. Certainly, Ilsa had a motive: Lydia was fooling around with her husband. And Legrand’s sneaky trick of tailing Kenyon back from Tanya’s was suspicious as hell. And as far as Bruno Ricci was concerned, Kenyon trusted the gallery manager about as far as he could throw him.
But none of that added up to murder in Kenyon’s book; especially when you considered the trouble the killer had gone to in order to cover up his crime. It was too well planned, too methodical.
Too professional?
Kenyon sat up straight in his seat. Was this the work of a hired assassin? The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. A late-night attack on a lonely country road meant there would be no witnesses, the use of the laser pen all but guaranteed nobody would spot the murder. But that kind of planning went far beyond a Mafia hit-man; you would almost expect someone with CIA training to come up with the plan.
Someone like Charlie Dahg?
It was just possible, thought Kenyon. He worked it through in his mind. Lydia was killed around midnight on Saturday, July 2. Because of the eight-hour time difference, Dahg could have caught an early morning flight from Heathrow on Sunday, and still been in San Francisco that afternoon in time to meet Simon at the hotel.
But why would he kill Lydia in the first place? What possible connection did she have with the stolen software, other than the fact she was Kenyon’s aunt? No, it just didn’t make sense. He warned himself not to get lost down some dead-end conspiracy nightmare. He needed to look for the facts.
Traffic was slow, and it took the cabby almost forty minutes to reach Tanya’s office. Harry shook his head. In all that time, Kenyon hadn’t uttered a word.
“You sure you’re all right, guv?” Harry asked as Kenyon got out of the cab.
“I’ll be fine,” Kenyon said. “Wait for me.”
O’Neill was waiting in the reception area when Kenyon entered. The pretty lawyer had taken off her solicitor’s robe to reveal a light, raspberry-colored cotton dress. “You’re late,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
“Sorry, we got held up in traffic.”
“Not to worry.” O’Neill began moving toward the front door. “I’m sure they’ll still have two pints left when we get there.”
Kenyon reached out and took her by the arm. “Tanya, there’s something we have to talk about, first.”
His tone was enough to make the solicitor stop dead in her tracks. “What is it, Jack?”
Kenyon glanced over his shoulder at the clerk, who was suddenly very interested in their conversation. “Not here. Let’s go back to your office.”
Puzzled, O’Neill led Kenyon down through the maze of corridors to her office. When they entered, she closed the door, then crossed the room and sat behind her desk.
Kenyon leaned against the closed door. He stared at O’Neill, suddenly unsure what to say. He wondered how close had Tanya been to Lydia. She had wept at the recollection of her funeral; how distraught would the lawyer be to learn her friend had been murdered? He stood for several seconds, mute.
O’Neill’s look of concern slowly became mixed with impatience. “Well, what is it, Jack?” she asked.
He licked his lips, then rushed it out; “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Lydia was murdered.”
O’Neill tilted her head to one side, as if she hadn’t heard quite right. “Murdered?” she repeated. “I don’t understand. She died in a car crash. It was an accident.”
“No,” said Kenyon. “That’s what they wanted everyone to believe. Someone forced her off the road and killed her intentionally.”
“Did the police tell you this?” O’Neill said, her eyes wide.
Kenyon shook his head. “I discovered it when I was opening up some mail in Lydia’s office.” He explained the letter from the Organ Donor Foundation, and his talk with Dr. Merton.
O’Neill struggled hard to retain her composure. “Did you contact Scotland Yard?”
Kenyon nodded. “Yeah, I told them.”
“What did they say?”
“They said there wasn’t enough evidence to warrant an investigation.”
O’Neill shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not so difficult. Scotland Yard doesn’t like somebody coming into their turf and telling them how to do their business.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’d rather ignore a murder than admit they fucked up.”
O’Neill stared at Kenyon, incredulous. “I can hardly believe that.”
“Oh, you can believe it, all right. I’ve seen it happen a dozen times when the FBI comes into a case. Some cops would just as soon let the bad guys walk than let the Feds in.”
O’Neill picked at a pen on her desk. “What are we going to do?”
Kenyon stared into O’Neill’s eyes. “If Scotland Yard won’t help, then I’m going to find the killer myself.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to need as much information as I can get about the last week of her life.”
“What kind of information?” asked O’Neill.
Kenyon sat down. “I’ve got some of the stuff: bank statements, credit card and telephone bills, but I need more. I need to build up a profile of her last days.”
O’Neill squared her shoulders. “How can I help?”
“How about the auction she organized at Ilsa’s home the night she was killed?” asked Kenyon. “Do you have any information about that?”
O’Neill thought for a moment. “Would an invitation list help?”
“That’s a good start. I’ll also need anything else you can find.”
O’Neill picked up a cardboard file box from the floor and pulled out a booklet. She handed it to Kenyon. “This is the auction brochure. It shows all the items up for bid that night, and who donated them.”
Kenyon opened the brochure at a random page and glanced inside. It showed the color photograph of a small bronze statue of a nude dancer. The text below the photo explained that the figure had been carved in wax by the French artist Degas, and cast after his death. At the bottom of the text was written, “Suggested opening bid: £100,000.”
Kenyon suddenly remembered the notation in the Lydia’s Filofax. “Ly
dia took one hundred thousand pounds cash out of her banking account just a few days before she was killed,” he said. “Do you have any idea why?”
O’Neill looked up from digging around in the cardboard file box. “No, I don’t.”
Kenyon continued. “There was also a name, Archie Lump.”
O’Neill opened her mouth several times to speak, but nothing came out.
“Are you all right?” asked Kenyon, alarmed.
O’Neill groped for a second before replying. “I’m sorry, I just can’t think. This is all so much . . .”
Kenyon came around the desk and took her in his arms. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” She pointed at the box. “What’s the point of all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you doing this?”
Kenyon stared at O’Neill intently. “To find her killer.”
“Finding Lydia’s killer won’t bring her back,” she said, struggling against him.
Kenyon let go and stood back a pace. “Don’t you want to see her murderer caught?”
O’Neill folded her arms, rubbing them as though against the sudden cold. “I’m frightened.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping closer, “everything will be all right.”
O’Neill looked up into his eyes. “Jack, leave this to the police.”
“I can’t. They won’t do anything.”
“Please. Just leave it alone.” O’Neill placed a hand on his arm.
Kenyon backed away, confused. He’d thought Tanya was Lydia’s friend. “What are you really frightened of?”
“A week ago, you didn’t even care if Lydia existed.” O’Neill pointed a finger in Kenyon’s face. “Now you just come in here, a complete stranger, and you want to crawl inside her skin and rip her apart.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t her money enough for you?” asked O’Neill. She began to cry. “Must you destroy her, as well?”
Kenyon was filled with a flood of anger and frustration. He gripped the top of a chair, then turned and rushed from the office and down the hallway, out into the clear sunlight.
Destroy her? he thought. How does wanting to find out who her killer is destroy her?
Harry was sitting in his cab, the driver’s door open to the curb, talking on his cell phone. He looked up as Kenyon bolted outside, and quickly shut the phone. “Oi, what’s this?” he called out, as Kenyon climbed into the back seat.
“Go!” shouted Kenyon.
Harry glanced at the solicitor’s office, but no one was pursuing. “Right you are, then,” he said, turning on the diesel. “Where to?”
“Just get me out of here.”
Harry turned the cab into the road and motored off. “Bad news?” he asked.
Kenyon looked up at the rearview mirror, meeting the cabby’s eyes. “The worst.”
Harry glanced at the traffic, then back at Kenyon. “Sometimes it helps to talk, mate. Why don’t we find a nice spot an’ go for a lager. The round’s on me.”
When Kenyon didn’t reply, Harry took it as a yes. He wheeled around a corner and parked adjacent to a pub called the Final Drop. Its sign featured a hangman’s noose.
The Final Drop was located within the shadows of the tall spires of the Royal Courts of Justice, and most of the pedestrians were either solicitors attired in black robe and wig, or defendants dressed in business suits.
There were several wooden picnic tables outside in the sun. Harry went inside to order, while Kenyon sat and stared at the street.
The cabby returned with two pints of lager and sat down opposite Kenyon. “Cheers,” he said, tilting his glass. “Now, what’s eatin’ you?”
Kenyon shook his head and mutely stared into his beer.
“Don’t you worry about me repeating anything,” Harry admonished. “We cabbies have an unwritten rule; never blab wot’s done in the cab.”
Kenyon still remained silent. He felt reluctant to talk, not because he didn’t trust Harry, but because he didn’t want the humiliation of not being believed.
Harry nodded over his shoulder toward the cab. “I seen a few things in this taxi, my son, you just wouldn’t believe. Things made of rubber.”
Kenyon couldn’t help but look at Harry.
The cabby, noticing Kenyon’s interest, continued. “I once got it in the back of me neck with a leather whip, I did. Nearly drove into the Thames.”
Kenyon smiled, in spite of his mood. “What I have to say isn’t pretty.”
“Neither is me mom when she takes her teeth out, but I still love her.”
Kenyon sighed. “My aunt, Lydia, was murdered, and nobody in London believes me.”
“That’s ’cause you ain’t told me, yet,” replied Harry.
Kenyon explained how everyone thought Lydia had been killed in a car accident, but his subsequent discovery of the letter from the Organ Donor Foundation proved it was murder. “I mean, it’s bad enough that the cops didn’t believe me, but Tanya, Lydia’s friend, thought I was nuts. She said I was trying to destroy Lydia. How can I destroy her?”
The cabby shook his head, equally perplexed. “Maybe it was just too much of a shock to her,” he said. “Did you think of that?”
“No, I didn’t.” In his mind, Kenyon ran through the encounter again, and realized how insensitive he had been to her feelings. “I feel like a brass-plated asshole.”
Harry waved his hand. “She’ll be all right. Give her a bit. She’ll see it your way.”
Kenyon took a long drink. “I hope so. I’m going to need her.”
“If it means anything, I believe you.”
Kenyon smiled. “Thanks. It does.”
“Listen, I’ll help.” The cabby tapped his thumb against his breast. “Old ’Arry, here, he knows this town, like. You just ask me anythink.”
“I don’t know.” Kenyon stared at his beer for a moment. “You ever hear of a guy named Archie Lump?”
“Sure have,” said Harry.
Kenyon was delighted. “Who is he?”
“Just the biggest bookie in town, is all.”
Thirteen
Harry drove the taxi west for several miles, finally pulling off the main road onto a quiet side street. “This here’s Belgravia,” said the cabby.
Kenyon surveyed the neighborhood. Belgravia had the look of old money, and lots of it. The streets had long, ornately planted parks running down the middle of the boulevards, and Rolls Royces and Ferraris were parked by the curbs. Large baskets of geraniums and petunias hung from wrought-iron light standards. Except for a Royal Mail postie pushing a three-wheeled cart, there were no pedestrians on the sidewalks.
Harry pulled the cab over to the curb in front of a large, well-kept home. The residence appeared identical to the rest of the mansions along the street; white, four stories high, with grey-and-rose granite pillars flanking a large black door.
On closer inspection, however, Kenyon noticed the CCTV cameras mounted in the vestibule and under the eaves of the house.
“Archie Lump’s one heavy bookie,” said Harry. “Whatever you want to bet on, he’ll take it.”
“I thought gambling was legal in the UK,” said Kenyon. “Can’t you just go down to a betting shop on the corner?”
“Yeah, but then it’s all recorded,” said Harry. “This here’s for folks who don’t want no tax man looking too closely at what they got, if you get my drift.”
Kenyon understood. A drug baron who wanted to throw a few million away at craps had to choose his venue carefully if he didn’t want the Feds on his tail. “What’s Lump like?”
Harry chewed on a toothpick. “Smooth, but don’t let that fool you, mate. He’s got a mean streak, he does.”
“How mean?”
“A few years back, some stockbroker in the city run up a couple hundred grand on credit with Archie, then tried to welch when he lost his dosh in the market crash. They found him swinging on a rope under Waterloo bridge.”
“I take it the cops didn’t think it was suicide.”
Harry snorted. “Tough to hang yourself with your eyeballs in your back pocket.”
Kenyon couldn’t help but think of Lydia’s blinded eyes. Had she been killed over unpaid gambling debts? It didn’t make sense: she had paid out one hundred thousand pounds. Did she owe Lump more? Kenyon opened the door. “If I’m not out in an hour, send in the Marines.”
Harry laughed. “Don’t you worry none; I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
Kenyon groaned at the bad pun as he got out of the cab. He walked up the tiled stairs to the front mansion and pressed the doorbell.
A few seconds later, a female voice came out of an intercom box. “Who’s calling, please?”
The agent stared into the camera lens in the box. “Jack Kenyon. I’m here to see Archie Lump.”
“One moment, please.”
Kenyon stood at the doorway staring back at Harry’s cab for almost a minute before he heard the electric buzz of the lock being released.
“Please step inside, Mr. Kenyon.”
The agent advanced into the vestibule. A large, burly man dressed in a three-piece suit was sitting at a desk behind the door. He stood up and, without formality, frisked Kenyon for weapons. He then picked up a small bug detector and ran it over Kenyon’s clothing. Satisfied, the man returned to his chair and pressed a button under his desk. “The reception room is first door on your left,” he said, pointing down the hall.
Kenyon’s footsteps echoed down the hall as he advanced into the building. From somewhere deep inside the house he could hear phones ringing and people talking. The first door on the left was inlaid with intricately cut glass. He opened it and stepped into a large reception room that had been decorated in shades of blue, with elegant curtains gathered back in gold tassels to let in the light. It was well furnished, with Regency chairs and side tables gracing the walls. An informal setting of stuffed chairs sat in the bay window.
It seemed as though the room had been purposely laid out to exhibit an impressive display of artwork, ranging from early impressionist to post-abstract modern. Kenyon strolled around, idly examining the pieces, until he came to a still life. He stood before the oil painting, fascinated. It depicted a bowl of fruit, a vase, several flowers, and a small statuette, all done in a primitive brush-stroke, but with a complexity and understanding of color that transfixed the observer.