by Janet Pywell
‘How is that possible?’ Joachin asks.
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. Unless he or someone swapped it.’
‘There are three daggers, and no one knows which is the original?’ he says.
‘It does seem a little far-fetched,’ I agree.
‘Unless Jeffrey Bonnington is involved.’ Peter leans closer to the screen.
‘This is ludicrous!’ Joachin explodes. ‘Why on earth would he be involved? The man’s a successful multimillionaire and sits on the board of one of the most important pharmaceutical companies in the world.’
‘They’re all drugs,’ I mumble. ‘Whichever way you look at it!’
‘Impossible.’ Joachin shakes his head.
Peter replies, ‘I suppose it does seem a bit crazy.’
‘Look, we have to follow the evidence, so let’s see where it takes us. We know that Jeffrey Bonnington has a massive property portfolio, and according to Raymond Harris, the building Sandra has been using for filming is prime real estate. If it’s sold to a company who builds luxury housing and homes for wealthy Russians, or if it gets sold to the local government for social housing – either way, this affects the voting public. It could sway elections. Raymond Harris could gain voters if the block is made into apartments for the homeless or anyone under the poverty level. His stance on this has made him very popular.’
‘And the opposition?’ Joachin asks.
‘The other political party obviously want the rich and wealthy investors in their area – for the rich man’s vote.’
‘Could this be linked to why Bonnington has invested in Dixon House?’ Peter asks. ‘Do you think Matt could be involved?’
I say, ‘I have brought Matt up to date with everything, including my conversations with Raymond and Mulhoon. We’ve kept him in the picture the whole time.’
Peter looks at me. ‘I can’t believe Matt would be involved. He loves those kids – the Parks – all of them.’
Joachin says, ‘You can’t trust anyone.’
‘So, what’s the next step?’ I ask. ‘Do we have your permission to find Liz Hunt?’
‘I checked the database of Raymond’s staff and none match that name.’ Peter taps the stubs of his finger against the table.
‘I think we need to go back to Jeffrey Bonnington.’ I stare at Joachin, waiting for him to explode, but instead, he answers cautiously.
‘The elections are tomorrow. The government don’t want a scandal, but I guess that’s what Mulhoon asked you to do. Tread carefully …’
‘Because you tread on my dreams,’ Peter recites Yeats’s poem, and I giggle.
* * *
I stand at the window, staring out across the river and the illuminated London skyline. There’s something both exciting yet weirdly frightening about cities, the thrill of so many different buildings, architecture, colours, people – life. Cities seem to pulsate, but I know the evil that lurks under the glamour of the tourist sites, in the backstreets behind the neon signs. Behind each expensive restaurant is a dark alleyway filled with trash, rats, and fear.
I think about how I was tied up by the Asian and the Turk, and it’s only by repeating the images in my head – of them falling, shot dead – that convince me I’m safe.
I sit on the sofa and watch Peter type away on the keyboard. He looks tired, and periodically he stretches his neck and his shoulders, so I pick up my phone and dial Monika’s number. She answers on the third ring.
‘Hi, are you okay?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, and you?’
‘Fine.’
‘I want to tell you some good news, Monika, in case you didn’t see the news on TV. We caught the bad guys – the awful ones that hurt you, the Turk and the Asian.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. It’s all over.’
‘Will they go to prison?’
‘They’re both dead.’
She gasps, and I imagine her covering her mouth.
I add, ‘It will be on the Internet news. It happened in Suffolk this afternoon.’
‘Good. I’m pleased they’re dead.’
‘You must know that the law will win, Monika, you must know that. You must believe that there are good people who will help you and protect you.’
‘Matt’s good. He spoke to Adam’s foster parents, and they have said I can stay here, with them and Adam. They’re lovely.’
‘Good. I’m pleased.’
‘I was looking at training today. Marjorie, Adam’s foster mother, was helping me look at nursing and stuff.’
I smile. ‘So, you’re thinking of a career in nursing again?’
‘Yeah, I think I’ll be eligible for a bursary.’
‘Fantastic, Monika. That’s excellent news. You can turn your life around. It will be a challenge, but it will also be an amazing opportunity.’
‘Yeah, I think I’ll like it.’
‘How’s Adam?’
‘He’s okay. But he’s talking about joining the army. He wants to be like Peter.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want him going off to wars and doing dangerous stuff. He’s way too emotional. He’s also really talented like as an artist. Can you speak to him sometime and persuade him that the army isn’t for him?’
‘I’ll ask Peter to talk to him, how’s that?’ I suggest.
‘Cool, thanks.’
We speak for a little longer, and when I hang up, I call across to where Peter is still at the table working.
‘Liz Hunt is just a name. It could belong to any volunteer, male or female.’
‘That’s the worrying thing,’ he replies.
* * *
I pour myself another glass of wine.
In the corner of the room, the TV is on mute, but the ten o’clock news is showing pictures of the warehouse where I was held captive earlier this afternoon.
I turn up the volume. Then there are a few images of the Turk – it turns out he was a wanted armed criminal. The news channel then shows pictures of the Asian. The newsreader goes on to say how the two men were trapped in a warehouse in Suffolk and shot by police. My name and Peter’s have been deliberately kept out of the news, but the politicians are delighted with the rapid police response team.
‘What’s bothering you, Mikky? Are you frightened after what happened today, and you don’t want to go to bed?’
‘No, I’m thinking about the craftsman. We could hack into his account and find out who paid him for the daggers?’
Peter sits back, folds his arms across his chest, and regards me thoughtfully for a while. ‘I did, and it’s not there.’
I smile. ‘You already looked?’
Peter nods seriously. ‘I’ve also been onto Martin McVey’s Bond Street and mobile banking, and there’s nothing.’
I sit down at the table opposite him. ‘What about email? They must have had some form of communication?’
‘Just checking now, but there’s a lot of emails to trawl through.’
‘Just supposing the original dagger was stolen and replicated, it wouldn’t be easy breaking into a property owned by Jeffrey Bonnington, would it?’
‘You mean a London property?’
I smile. ‘You’ve checked, haven’t you? Does he have one?’
‘He has a home in Holland Park.’ Peter returns my smile. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing for the past few hours?’
‘Don’t be smug!’ I punch his arm.
Peter laughs.
‘Do you think Jeffrey Bonnington is in on it? Could he have lent the dagger to someone?’
‘Someone he trusts?’ Peter shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Or maybe he got the replicas made himself?’
‘Why?’
‘To encourage the cult. I don’t know, perhaps to stir up trouble, to create a dangerous underworld that would have a knock-on effect with the local property market?’
‘Just to help Raymond Harris and his political career? What’s the point? What does Jeffrey
Bonnington get out of it?’ Peter asks, shaking his head dismissively.
‘Circumstances can be deceiving.’
‘But he’s a multimillionaire, Mikky. What’s in it for him? He’s not going to risk jail, is he?’
‘No,’ I muse. ‘But there must be a common link, or else how did whoever it was manage to get hold of the dagger?’
‘Mikky, remember it’s only you who has been clever enough to put that thought process together. The Met police have no idea that the authentic dagger is worth $3.3 million.’
‘Do you think we should have told Mulhoon today?’
‘Mikky, you were in no fit state to think and speak rationally earlier today. Let’s sleep on it, and we can tell Mulhoon in the morning. Maybe we need his help to get through to Jeffrey Bonnington.’
‘Great!’ I smile. ‘That’s a positive plan. At last. Now I can sleep.’ I walk past Peter and kiss the top of his head on my way to the bedroom. ‘Night, night, my angel.’
Chapter 16
“Crime has no color. Crime has no type. Crime has no gender. The reason why crime doesn’t end. It is being categorized to certain individuals that people who really commit it, get away with it, right under our noses.”
De philosopher DJ Kyos
The following morning, I shower and dress in my familiar jeans, T-shirt, hoodie, and biker’s boots. My body is sore, my arms and legs ache, and my shoulders and neck feel as though they have been squeezed in a steel vice.
I swallow two paracetamols with orange juice, followed by a strong coffee.
Peter is already in his familiar position at the table.
‘It’s election day,’ he announces, nodding at the television. He pushes a new mobile toward me. ‘You’ve got the same number and I’ve updated all the contacts and files from your backup.’
‘Thank you.’ I take the iphone. ‘I’m fed up with all the politicians.’ I reach for the remote and mute the sound. ‘Liz Hunt,’ I mull the words over, running the name over my tongue like a fine wine. ‘Where else can we check her out?’
‘I’ve done my best, Mikky. But there are no leads.’
‘Liz Hunt. Peter – why does that name sound familiar to me?’
‘I don’t know; maybe it’s because it’s been going around in your head?’
‘Liz Hunt could be a cover name for anyone. It’s a wild thought, but could Raymond be having an affair?’
‘If he was, I think the press would be onto that by now.’
‘We need to be able to tie up Liz Hunt with Raymond’s office; and tell me something else, Peter – why did she have two replicas made? And, assuming the original is in Jeffrey Bonnington’s collection, and one replica is with the police, where is the second one?’
Peter lifts the mug of coffee I slide over to him to take a sip.
I muddle through my thoughts, thinking out loud. ‘I know, Peter, I know! Liz Hunt stole the original dagger and then replaced it with a fake, and the second fake dagger she gave to the Asian. Which means she still has the original shah’s dagger. Why would she replace it? What do you think?’
‘I think you’re on the right track.’
‘She’s a thief? Like me?’
‘You’re not a thief anymore.’
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Scanning Liz Hunt in the criminal underworld to see if she has a record.’
‘Do you want to know what I’m thinking?’
‘It’s a false identity?’ He grins.
‘What?’
‘Well, of course that isn’t her real name, but I’m thinking – what if she did steal the dagger and Jeffrey Bonnington isn’t aware that it’s stolen?’
‘Or maybe he lent it to her?’ Peter suggests.
‘You’re right, Peter. There’s only one way to find out. I’m going to phone him.’
I scroll through my contact list and find his private phone number that Marina Thoss gave to me. I’d used it to arrange our meeting in Basel. The ringing tone echoes in the room, and I’m surprised when he answers it.
‘Jeffrey Bonnington?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Mikky dos Santo, we met in Basel last week.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to bother you; I know that you’re in the Caribbean, but I have one question for you regarding the shah’s dagger—’
‘Where are you?’ he interrupts angrily.
‘In London.’
‘So am I, I arrived last night, and you were right – the shah’s dagger is missing!’
* * *
It doesn’t take Peter long to find Jeffrey Bonnington’s house in Holland Park. It’s a large, impressive three-storey townhouse with a black front door and brass knocker. We climb the steps to the front door and survey the cul-de-sac below us with approval.
‘This is probably worth £10 million,’ Peter whispers, as the door opens.
‘Come in, come in.’ Jeffrey Bonnington looks flustered and quite relieved to see us. ‘I’ve delayed calling the police until you came, but I went into my study this morning … Look, come and see.’
We follow Jeffrey Bonnington’s rotund figure as he marches down the polished oak floor toward a room lined with antique books and display cases containing an assortment of lethal-looking weapons.
‘Don’t look so surprised! I’m not a murderer, just a collector.’
He stands at an old cabinet, pulls down the door, and reaches inside, and I take the opportunity to glance at Peter, who is already sizing up the room. I know he’s checking the security, but there appear to be secure locks on the windows and discreet wall cameras.
‘The alarm system is linked directly to the local police,’ he says, looking at Peter, and then he hands me the shah’s dagger. ‘But it hasn’t gone off.’
‘Well? What do you think?’
I turn the sharp weapon carefully in my hands, aware of the curve of the sharp blade and the gemstone handle. I read the inscription that I’ve memorised, and I’m also familiar with the emblems and font sizes, and after a thorough inspection, I look back at Jeffrey Bonnington.
‘It’s not the original.’
‘I know it isn’t. I just wanted you to tell me that.’ He sighs and puffs out his cheeks.
‘Have you got insurance?’ asks Peter, who’s never appreciated the amount art collectors pay. He stands at the window and looks down into the small, secluded, landscaped garden.
‘It’s not about the money. I want to know who’s stolen it!’ Jeffrey growls.
He opens his palm, and I return the replica dagger carefully to him. It might not be the original, but it’s still lethal. He places it back inside the drawer and turns a small key, which he puts in his waistcoat pocket when he’s finished.
‘How could they have got in?’ I ask.
‘It all looks secure.’ Peter studies the small garden. ‘No windows were broken. No sign of forced entry.’
‘It is secure. No one could possibly have got in. It’s more secure than any Swiss bank. It’s impossible to get in here.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Peter stares back at Jeffrey Bonnington.
‘Did you ever lend it to anyone?’ I ask.
‘Lend it? Absolutely not. And, besides, if I had, I’d make sure I jolly well got the original back again. This is a fake. A good one, but nevertheless, a worthless fake.’
Peter turns from the window. ‘I thought you told us you were going to the Caribbean for Christmas?’
‘I was, I am, but … well, quite frankly, you worried me. So, I decided to call in here on my way. This is my London residence. Then I saw last night on television about some drugs gang members having been shot, and I thought there might be some truth to what you told me.’
‘How often do you come here?’ I ask.
‘A few weeks in the spring and again in the summer. I intend to spend more time here now I’m cutting down on my meetings in Switzerland. I’m not working as much – but what does that have to do with anything? Me being here
or not hasn’t made any difference, has it?! I’m going to call the police.’
‘Do you know anyone called Liz Hunt?’ I ask.
Jeffrey Bonnington shakes his head slowly.
‘Liz Hunt? I don’t think so …’
‘Perhaps you should call Chief Inspector Mulhoon,’ Peter says. ‘I think you need to tell the police exactly what’s happened, but unfortunately, because we are with Europol, we have no jurisdiction over anything that happens here. In fact, Mr Bonnington, because you reported us the last time we met, we are in serious trouble with the Met.’
Jeffrey Bonnington looks surprised and then hurt. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just an unusual set of circumstances and … and … well, I’m sorry.’
I tap Jeffrey Bonnington on the arm. ‘If we can help you, we will, but Peter is right. You need to call the police.’
As if by telepathic agreement, Peter and I begin to walk to the front door and Jeffrey Bonnington follows behind us.
At the front door, I stop and hold out my hand. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t help you more.’
Jeffrey Bonnington looks confused, and his palm is warm and dry when he shakes my hand. He seems visibly upset, and I wonder if it’s because he loved the shah’s dagger, or because he realises someone has stolen $3.3 million from him.
We are halfway down the steps to where our van is parked when he calls out, ‘Liz Hunt?’
I pause on the steps and turn.
‘That couldn’t be in any way related to my niece?’
‘Your niece?’
‘Well, it’s a long shot, really. My sister’s daughter …’
I walk back up the steps.
‘Where does she live?’
‘My sister Linda and I fell out years ago. She was very angry when my father left me as the sole inheritor of the family property. She was married twice, and her last husband was called Hunter. She passed away several years ago, maybe fifteen years ago? And I met her daughter for the first time at Linda’s funeral. We didn’t have much in common, but the resentment was still there, so I wanted to make it up to her. I invited her and her husband for a holiday to Switzerland. She’s also visited me here a few times when we’ve been in London.’ He sighs. ‘But then our relationship seemed to fall apart, and we saw less and less of each other. I do what I can, of course—’