The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Morgan turned off the shower and stepped from the cubicle to grab a towel. Drying himself, he shook his head. It did not add up – to warn a target, then attempt to kill them. So who was behind the sabotage. Dressing in his uniform, Morgan continued to let the pieces swirl around in his head, as he attempted to make sense of what he already knew.

  The telephone extension rang and Morgan picked up the receiver. Ken Barber was at the other end.

  ‘Young Morgan,’ he said. ‘We have opened a possible murder case on that car accident. I will be out with Davo and Springer tonight to interview any witnesses. Have you talked to the Dawson sheila yet?’

  ‘I have her statement,’ Morgan replied. ‘She left her car at the hall on the night and the first thing she knew of the car being involved was when she heard it from a friend the next morning. I doubt that she has anything to do with the tampering with the brakes.’

  ‘I doubt it too,’ Ken replied dryly. ‘But it makes me think she was the target. What do you think of that?’

  Morgan knew that the senior sergeant was no fool and agreed. There was only so much he was able to keep to himself without seriously jeopardising himself if he hindered the investigation.

  ‘Well, put on the kettle and we will see you within the hour.’

  Morgan replaced the phone and walked to his office. He was met by the young policewoman and her male partner, eating potato chips and fried chicken purchased from the local café. They greeted Morgan by pushing the greasy chips towards him.

  ‘I got a call back from a car rental company,’ the policewoman said, wiping her hands on a tissue and handing Morgan the information she had scribbled down. ‘It seems that the car you got the rego off is currently hired by a Ms Sarah Sakharov who is a citizen of the UK.’

  Sakharov. Morgan frowned. Another Russian name. The numberplate he had recorded from the vehicle parked in Monique’s driveway when he went for his run had been put through a computer search of traffic records and come up as a hire car, as he’d suspected. He had called the car hire company immediately with a request for information but the girl on the other end had politely declined unless he could verify that he was actually from the police. He gave her the phone number of the Valley View police so she could confirm it and suggested she could call back. He had waited and then opted to have his shower. The hire car girl had called back in the meantime and the relieving policewoman had taken the call.

  ‘Is there anything we should know about the driver and vehicle?’ the policewoman asked.

  ‘No, nothing really,’ Morgan replied. ‘I thought it might have been stolen,’ he continued lamely, hoping that his explanation would quash any further questions. ‘I am just going to head out and have a look around town,’ he added, pocketing the keys to his police vehicle.

  Morgan drove directly to Monique’s house, hoping that she might be alone. He had an excuse with the investigation into the accident now it was a murder case. When he pulled into the driveway in front of the house he could see no other vehicle and guessed that David must be away. The lights were on in the house and he booked off the air.

  Morgan strode across the driveway to knock on the door. Monique answered.

  ‘Just out to speak with you about your car,’ he said, taking off his cap before entering.

  Monique held open the door for him to pass inside. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ she asked, surprising Morgan with the invitation.

  ‘I, er, am keeping an eye on the calorie intake,’ he answered.

  ‘Pity,’ Monique said with a grim smile. ‘I made David and myself a nice quiche and salad and opened a bottle of good red wine but David seems to have other plans for tonight. It would be a waste otherwise.’

  ‘In that case, I guess it wouldn’t break any regulations for me to help you eat the meal. But, alas, the wine will be out for me.’

  Monique smiled with more warmth. ‘We were just going to eat in the kitchen – if that is okay with you?’

  ‘Anywhere would be fine,’ Morgan answered.

  Monique was wearing a very sexy almost see-through dress that clung to her body. In the back of his mind Morgan felt that there had been some kind of disagreement between the two as her smile was not all that happy. He sat down at the already prepared place at the table and noted the unlit candle beside a posy of wildflowers.

  ‘I presumed that you had come out here on business,’ Monique said, removing a delicious smelling quiche from the old wood combustion stove.

  ‘I went for a run past your place earlier this evening,’ Morgan said as Monique sliced the quiche. ‘And I noticed a car in your driveway.’

  Monique placed a fine china plate in front of Morgan and took a bowl of crisp salad from the refrigerator.

  ‘That was probably Sarah’s car,’ she said, placing the salad bowl on the table and sitting down. Fresh bread rolls and curls of butter accompanied the quiche and salad. ‘She is a journalist working freelance and wanted to do an article on the history of this house. It seems that she picked up the story of Joshua Larkin on the internet and decided that she would combine business with pleasure. She is a folk music devotee. Why? Is something wrong about that?’

  Morgan buttered a roll. ‘You know,’ he said, avoiding the question, ‘this would have to be one of the nicest spreads I have seen in a long time. Thank you. David is a lucky bloke.’

  Monique made no comment confirming Morgan’s suspicion of a rift between them.

  ‘I am a cop and curiosity is a trait they encourage in the job,’ he said. ‘You know that I am concerned for your welfare and anything unusual has to be investigated considering what has happened lately. What kind of questions did she ask?’

  Monique pushed at her quiche with a fork. Her appetite seemed to have diminished. ‘Oh, just what did I know about Captain Larkin and his wife. Was there any substance to the rumour that Maria was in fact Princess Maria of Russia. Questions like that.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Morgan asked, biting into the bread roll and savouring the cold butter on his palate.

  ‘I told her that I knew very little – that her research before interviewing me probably revealed more than I knew.’

  Morgan felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket. Excusing himself, he flipped open the phone to talk. It was Ken Barber and he was waiting for Morgan. Morgan pulled a face of genuine disappointment. ‘I must apologise, Monique, but I have been called back to the station.’

  ‘The second man to reject me and my cooking tonight,’ Monique sighed. ‘I can take a hint.’

  There was just something very vulnerable about her as she stood to escort him to the front door and Morgan felt a desire to hold her to him. ‘I doubt that I would be stupid enough to reject either you or your cooking,’ he said light-heartedly. For a second he thought he saw a flash in Monique’s eyes that dared him to expose his hidden feelings. ‘Well, back to work,’ Morgan said, turning to walk away.

  Monique followed him to the door and waved to him as he drove away. He felt light-headed and cursed himself for not knowing more about the body language of women. He blamed his many years in the tough world of soldiering and the jobs of labouring he’d taken before joining the police force. How did a man know what was in a woman’s mind? He was afraid that if he had acted on his impulse he would have embarrassed – if not frightened – Monique.

  He drove back to the station heavy in thought about the freelance journalist who had turned up on Monique’s doorstep but dismissed his troubled thoughts. Someone was bound to ask Monique sooner or later about the rumours of royalty, especially considering the information about the discovery of the two bodies that had already been released to the media.

  It only took a few minutes to return to the station and Morgan could see the detective’s vehicle parked outside. Ken was standing on the verandah smoking a cigarette.

  ‘G’day, Morgan,’ he greeted. ‘Looks like you have a job. A call just came in that there has been an assault and rob on one of your locals.
Your relief crew are in attendance.’

  ‘Have you got a name?’ Morgan asked, unlocking the front door to the station.

  ‘Yeah, a Mrs Gladys Harrison. There is an ambulance on the way.’

  ‘The museum?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Seems so,’ Ken Barber replied following Morgan into the station, cigarette in hand. ‘I have a strong feeling that it has something to do with the journal she was not supposed to have anymore.’

  Morgan looked sharply at the detective’s cynical expression. Whatever was happening in Valley View was rapidly getting out of hand.

  Petrov Batkin sat at the bench now illuminated by a string of coloured lights casting garish shadows over the crowd milling for the last night of festivities. He opened a packet of cigarettes and popped one out. He was annoyed, if not angry, that the mission he had set out to achieve was far from being resolved. Sarah Sakharov had some explaining to do.

  Lighting the cigarette, Batkin took one puff and noticed the young woman approaching the bench. He did not stand but glared at her as she sat down opposite him with a cardboard cup of coffee in her hand.

  ‘You have spoken to her?’ he asked by way of greeting.

  ‘This afternoon,’ Sarah answered, taking a sip of her coffee.

  ‘She has agreed to work with us and proclaim her birthright?’ Batkin asked, presuming his protégé had carried out her mission to elicit the woman’s cooperation.

  Sarah hesitated. ‘She will consider our request,’ she replied, trying to hide the fact that she had not put any offer to Monique.

  ‘She does not have much time,’ Batkin growled. ‘The British will eliminate her before she makes up her mind. They have tried once and Kildare is still around the town. I have seen him.’

  ‘Monique Dawson will eventually see sense in accompanying us back to Russia,’ Sarah reassured him. ‘But you must realise such a decision is life-changing for her. Nothing will ever be normal in her life again.’

  Batkin looked past Sarah at the families and individual tourists making their way down to the town hall for the last concert of the festival. By midday the next day most of the visitors would have left the town, stripping back the cover of anonymity he had relied on to cover his mission. As a foreigner in a rural Australian town he would stand out – as would Sarah. And the local policeman he had met on his run worried him. Such a man was potentially dangerous. At least Batkin had been able to obtain a small pistol from his group’s links with Russian organised crime in Australia while in Sydney. If worst came to worst he could execute Kildare and be out of the country before the body was even discovered. He doubted that the British intelligence operative would be armed, as it was not the nature of MI6 to allow their agents to carry guns in friendly nations. But it was also not in the MI6 agenda to carry out assassinations of citizens of nations allied to them either. From his past dealings in the murky world of counterintelligence Batkin was baffled by this current MI6 operation. It was one of their black ops but still a puzzle as to its legitimation from the British Prime Minister’s department in the UK. Whatever it was, Batkin brooded, he must conclude his mission to get Monique Dawson to make a public declaration as to who she really was – the direct descendant of a Russian princess and a saint of the Orthodox church.

  ‘What do you suggest that we do to hasten Ms Dawson’s decision to leave with us, short of kidnapping her?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘It may come down to kidnapping to allow us a chance to convince her that we are really her friends and acting in her long-term welfare,’ Batkin answered.

  ‘Do you really think that we could do that?’ Sarah questioned.

  ‘What else would you suggest?’ Batkin shrugged. ‘We lost valuable time when you failed to appear in Sydney to meet me.’

  ‘I was delayed,’ Sarah countered. ‘There was a mix-up with my passport.’

  Batkin accepted the young woman’s explanation and stubbed out the end of his cigarette. It was time to give some thought to the British agent and the Australian policeman. Both would have to be dealt with if he was to get Monique Dawson out of the country.

  Gladys Harrison was in the back of the ambulance when Morgan arrived at the museum. A crowd of curious bystanders had gathered to view the spectacle. The combination of police cars and the ambulance usually meant something serious had occurred.

  Morgan could see from the blood-soaked bandage around her grey hair that the gentle woman had sustained a savage blow to the head. He clambered into the back of the ambulance to sit beside Gladys on a stretcher.

  ‘We have to get Mrs Harrison to the base hospital,’ the ambulance officer attending to her said, ‘But she is going to be all right, aren’t you, Mrs Harrison?’

  Gladys Harrison provided a weak smile of reassurance and Morgan admired her courage. She reached out to him indicating that she wished to say something in private. The ambulance officer slipped into the front to radio to his base, leaving Morgan alone with her for the moment. Morgan leaned forward, his ear against her mouth.

  ‘Whoever attacked me in the museum demanded that I give them Joshua Larkin’s journal,’ she whispered. ‘But I did not tell them where it was.’

  ‘You should have,’ Morgan replied, squeezing her hand. ‘It was not worth your life. Gladys, you said they,’ he continued, ‘was there more than one man involved in the attack on you?’

  ‘No,’ Gladys replied. ‘It was a man and a woman. I did not see them very clearly in the dark but I remember a woman’s voice just before she struck me with something over the head.’

  ‘Got to go,’ the ambulance officer said to Morgan. ‘Do you want to come into Hume City, in the back with Mrs Harrison?’

  ‘No,’ Morgan replied. ‘Got to stay around here tonight, Steve. Last night of the festival.’

  Morgan climbed out the back of the ambulance and closed the doors. A man and a woman, he thought. Who in hell could the pair be? Whoever they were, the blow that had been inflicted was potentially capable of killing the elderly woman. And somehow they were linked to the ghosts at the Larkin house.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Northern Russia

  Early September 1919

  The vastness of the land could be intimidating. Joshua sat at the edge of the great river flowing north. He had kept watch for over half a day and was yet to see any traffic on its waters. Four days had passed since he and Maria had escaped from captivity in the little village to the east and on their dogged journey Maria had said little of her horrific experience. Joshua guessed that she had been raped but did not mention it. Instead, he would talk optimistically about reaching safety in Archangel and his soothing words seemed to have an effect on her. She would at least register interest and at night still nestled into him for warmth against the bitter chill. The short nights were lengthening as winter threatened in the weeks ahead and Joshua was aware that they would not survive their trip if winter came early.

  ‘You have seen nothing,’ Maria said, settling down beside Joshua on the soft, green grass.

  ‘A river this big has to have fishermen and maybe a ferry,’ Joshua replied. ‘Something will crop up.’

  ‘When we reach Archangel I will ensure that you are richly rewarded,’ she said quietly. ‘You have been my guardian angel.’

  ‘I don’t expect any reward,’ Joshua answered. ‘It was my duty to find you … I don’t know why, but it was meant to be. That’s all I know.’ He turned to look at Maria, whose sobs broke the soft stirring of a wind over the grassy plain behind them. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked, gently placing his hand on her arm.

  ‘I do not think that we will live to see Archangel, and if we do I know I must seek out those who will help.’

  ‘Well, we will survive and we will reach Archangel. From there the British government will get you safely to England and you will be able to sort yourself out.’

  ‘What will you do, Joshua?’ Maria asked.

  ‘First, I will have to convince the British army that I am not a deserter, and then I
will have to make a report of all that has occurred since setting out on the mission to find you. I doubt that my friend George or the mad major will be alive to corroborate anything. Then I want to go home to Sydney. I have finished with war. I have heard that my government is giving out parcels of land to returning soldiers to farm. I would like to go back to the country. City life never much appealed to me. I was born on a farm near Goulburn. I only left because my older brother inherited the property when my dad died.’

  ‘You have been many things,’ Maria said. ‘I think God is looking after you.’

  ‘More like the Devil,’ Joshua snorted. ‘Considering how I feel about you.’

  His statement startled Maria. She knew what he meant and shrank away.

  Joshua reached out to her. ‘You must know how I truly feel about you,’ he said.

  Maria rose to her feet, a look of confusion written across her pretty features.

  ‘Stoy!’

  The dreaded Russian word to stop hit Joshua like a lightning bolt. It had come from around a hundred yards away through the tall grasses behind them. ‘God, not again,’ Joshua moaned, reaching for the pistol in his coat.

  He attempted to drag Maria down but she resisted and he could see a strange expression on her face. It was not fear but disbelief.

  ‘They are imperial soldiers,’ she uttered. ‘They are White Army soldiers.’

  Cautiously, Joshua slipped the pistol back into his coat and rose to peer across the plain at the advancing company. He too recognised the uniforms as those of their Russian allies.

  Maria reached down to grip Joshua’s hand. ‘We have been saved,’ she said and with her free hand wiped at the tears of joy rolling down her cheeks.