The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series)

by Carrie Bedford

  “What restaurant?” Leo asked.

  “Le Papillon, the French restaurant where we were planning to eat this evening. That part I get. But who is safe in a library? And where?”

  I waited impatiently as Leo hummed Stairway to Heaven. He always hummed seventies tunes when he was thinking something through.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Ethan told me recently that his company is overhauling all its security systems, their computers mostly, but also adding physical protection on site. I suppose they work with a lot of confidential political and financial information. Anyway, Ethan said the company had installed a safe at work to store his important papers and research materials. It’s in the book cupboard.”

  “Oh, that library,” I said. Ethan’s office adjoined a walk-in cupboard that he’d fitted out with shelves to hold all his work-related books and magazines. He jokingly called it his Library with a capital L.

  “So there’s something in the safe… but how do I get into it?”

  “Well, I’d bet his passcode is his date of birth.”

  “Really? What makes you say that? It could be anything.”

  “He had a safe put in at his house as well. All that security stuff must have got to him. Do you remember when we went to his house for the wake after his father’s funeral? He showed it to me then. Personally, I think it’s overkill. I keep my valuables in my underwear drawer.”

  “You don’t own any valuables, Leo.”

  “Good point. Anyway, when he showed it to me, he keyed in his birthdate. 30-07-83.”

  “Well, it’s worth a try. I’ll ring you back later to let you know what I find out.”

  Walking back up the hallway to Ethan’s office, I passed the janitor, who smiled and moved his vacuum cleaner to one side to let me pass. The machine smelled of dust and warm metal.

  Even with the janitor close by, I didn’t like being in Ethan’s empty office. My skin prickled with goosebumps and my stomach was doing flips. The sooner I found whatever was in the safe and got out of there, the better. I pushed open the door to the book cupboard, fumbling around for a light switch. When the overhead lights came on, I saw neatly arranged bookshelves along two walls. There was no obvious sign of a safe so, starting at the top, I pulled out a few books at random along the length of each shelf. Finally, I found the safe hidden behind a series of heavy hardback volumes with titles like Analysis of the European Financial Stability Mechanism. Fun reading no doubt.

  The beige steel door was closed and a red light blinked to show that the safe was locked. Fingers shaking, I worked on Leo’s assumption that the code would be Ethan’s date of birth, and keyed it in, hoping the format was ddmmyy. It worked. The lock clicked and a green indicator light flashed. My heart beat fast in anticipation as I reached in to withdraw the contents.

  The only item was a large book that fit so tightly in the small metal interior of the safe I had to use two hands to pull it clear. It was a leather-bound volume with gold letters tooled on the cover. But I didn’t have time to examine it because a noise in Ethan’s office startled me. Sliding the book into my shoulder bag, I peeked out, relieved to see it was the cleaner, dragging his vacuum into the office. I pushed the safe door closed and rearranged the books in front of it. Then I coughed loudly as I turned off the light, so that I wouldn’t scare the janitor when I appeared at the door of the cupboard. Enveloped in the roar of the vacuum, he gave me a cheery wave when he saw me. I paused, trying to decide whether to bring Ethan’s briefcase with me. But he hadn’t requested it, so I left it on the credenza and went out into the hallway.

  I checked my watch. It was just after eight. The restaurant where I was supposed to meet Ethan was a ten-minute walk away, so I sped up, anxious to get there and find out what Ethan was up to. His text was very mysterious.

  The rain had stopped, and the streets were busy with Friday night revelers piling into pubs and restaurants. My stomach growled. I already knew what I was going to order at Le Papillon. The cassoulet was excellent.

  When I got there, I waited while the maitre d’ turned away a couple in front of me, wrinkling his nose when they explained they hadn’t reserved. He smiled when he recognized me, however, and led me straight to a table for two in a quiet corner of the busy restaurant. Ethan wasn’t there, but I sat down anyway, hoping he wouldn’t be long.

  “Would you care for a drink?” the waiter asked. I ordered a glass of Sancerre. Gradually, my shoulders relaxed and my heart slowed down. I didn’t really understand what was going on, but I’d find out soon enough.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was none the wiser. Ethan still hadn’t arrived. And he wasn’t answering my texts. The maitre d’ had started casting sour looks in my direction. After another thirty minutes of waiting, I paid for my wine and hurried out of the restaurant.

  Out on the pavement, I stood, indecisive. I was hungry and confused. It seemed best to go home. I’d keep trying to reach Ethan from there.

  I walked slowly through a misty drizzle to the Westminster Tube station and took the circle line towards Bayswater. The carriage was full, so I had to stand, gripping a handrail, trying not to imagine the layers of germs left there by other sweaty palms.

  When the train stopped at Gloucester Road, I had an idea and jumped off. It was only a two-minute walk from there to Ethan’s house. Although it seemed unlikely that he’d be home, I’d check to be sure. His behavior this evening had been so mystifying that I’d be happy to pick up any clue as to what was happening.

  He lived in Kensington on a quiet side street near Cromwell Road. Having been there many times, I knew my way around his flat on the ground floor of a converted Georgian house. And I had a key, courtesy of the time he’d picked up a stray cat and then left for a conference in Switzerland two days later. He’d persuaded me to go over to feed the poor thing for the week he was away. His landlady, Joyce, deciding that the kitty needed more— or better— company than Ethan could provide, had since adopted it as her own.

  She lived in the flat upstairs from Ethan’s, but kept an eagle eye out for the comings and goings of her tenant. I hoped she’d be asleep when I got there, so I could get in and out without having to explain what I was doing. She’d be worried sick if she found out Ethan was missing.

  The door into the building wasn’t locked, which made me hesitate, but I pushed it open to find the hall empty, lit by a nightlight. I slipped in and closed the door behind me just as the main hall light came on, revealing Joyce, standing at the top of the stairs, resplendent in a pink dressing gown and matching slippers. Her silvery hair was tied neatly in a bun and she wore reading glasses on a chain around her neck.

  “Is that Claire?” she asked, peering down the stairs at me.

  “No, it’s Kate, Ethan’s friend.”

  “Of course. Sorry, dear, my eyes aren’t so good. Is Ethan with you?” She descended the stairs slowly, one step at a time. “I didn’t hear him come in tonight.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, maybe he’ll be back soon. I’m going to wait for him if that’s okay. I’m sorry if I got you out of bed.”

  “Oh I never go to bed. I sleep for an hour here and there in the armchair with Mr. Bubbles.”

  “Who?” Of course, Mr. Bubbles, the cat. No one knew what his name had been before he’d been rescued, but Ethan had called him Fred. Appalled, Joyce had re-christened the kitty, and the two of them had become the best of friends.

  “I won’t be here long,” I said. “I’ll see you soon. Oh, and I’ll lock the door when I leave. You must have left it open.”

  Joyce frowned. “I don’t think so. Anyway, you go ahead. I want to get back to my program.”

  She began the climb back up to her flat while I walked down the long hall, my boots clicking on the black and white tiled floor. When I reached Ethan’s flat, I took out the keys, and then paused. There were scratches on the wood around the lock. Had they been there before? I wasn’t sure. Unsure what to do next, I took a step back and dug into my bag for my m
obile. I pressed the buttons for 999, but didn’t hit the dial button. With the phone in my hand, I unlocked the door and reached inside to turn on a light. After a few seconds, hearing no sounds inside, I peeked around the door into the living room.

  It looked much as it usually did, orderly and immaculate, the way Ethan liked it. A black leather sofa gleamed, devoid of cushions or throws. A bookcase on one wall harbored hundreds of books, mostly to do with political and financial analysis, all arranged alphabetically. I checked the kitchen, which also sparkled, the surfaces clear of any clutter apart from a kettle, toaster and coffee machine. Breathing more easily, I put my phone in my pocket and went back into the living room, where I noticed a copy of The Economist lying on the floor under the coffee table. I picked it up, put it with several other magazines on the table and lined up the edges to make a neat pile.

  Puzzled by the uncharacteristic placement of the magazine, I took another good look around the room. On the second shelf of the bookcase, one hardback leaned at an angle. On closer inspection, I noticed that several books on that shelf were out of place, with Churchill’s six volumes of The Second World War arranged in the wrong order. Odd. There was no way Ethan would have done that. Had someone else been in the flat?

  The hair stood up on the back of my neck. It was time to go home.

  “Mr. Bubbles?” I heard Joyce calling out in the corridor. She padded into the room. “He must have sneaked away while I was talking to you just now. He does that whenever he has the chance.”

  “I haven’t seen him,” I said.

  “Did you open a window?” she asked, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her. “There’s a draft isn’t there? We should shut it again before you leave.”

  “I didn’t—” I stopped, not wanting to alarm her. “Let me take a look.”

  Joyce followed me into the bedroom, where the windows were closed. In the bathroom, however, a window gaped open, a black rectangle in the white wall. It was small, but it would have been possible for someone to crawl through. I climbed into the bath and stood on tiptoe to peer outside. A short drop to a flower bed below meant it would be easy enough to land there without coming to harm.

  “That’s not like Ethan, to leave a window open,” Joyce said.

  I agreed. Recalling the unlatched front door to the building, the scratches around the lock on Ethan’s door, and the small but telling disorganization of the books, I was certain now that someone had visited the flat before me. Or maybe at the same time as me. I thought I would have felt the draft when I came into the flat, just as Joyce had. Did someone slip out of the back window when I was in the living room? That thought made me shiver more than the cold air coming through the opening.

  I slid the window closed and locked it. “There,” I said to Joyce. “All done. Let me take you back up to your flat and make sure you’re settled in.”

  Joyce’s lips trembled. “We can’t go upstairs until I find Mr. Bubbles.”

  She hurried back into the hall, calling for the cat, and I followed, my bag over my shoulder. A loud purring sound preceded the appearance of the overweight tabby, which wrapped himself around my legs. Joyce scooped him up and held him close to her chest. “Mr. Bubbles, you naughty boy, scaring Mummy like that. Now you come with me.”

  I walked Joyce upstairs and waited until I heard her locks click before heading back down. Careful to turn off all the lights and lock the street door behind me, I walked out into the chill of the night, where the streetlights flickered, wreathed in a lurid orange mist.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Standing in a pool of light from a street lamp, I wondered what to do next. It seemed that I should tell the police about the possible intruder, but when I took my phone out of my pocket, I saw it was out of power. I’d been so distracted today at work that I’d forgotten to charge it. Still, I recalled seeing a police station on this road, less than half a mile away. I’d walk there and take the Tube the rest of the way home.

  The walk gave me time to think things through. Ethan wasn’t the most reliable friend in the world. He’d get caught up in something he was working on, or even just thinking about, and forget that the rest of us mere mortals still existed. But this was different. The odd texts, the strange book in his safe, his disappearance. The more I replayed it all in my head, the more convinced I was that I’d seen him getting into that taxi outside his office. And he had an aura. That wasn’t good. He needed help.

  When I reached the police station, I told the officer on duty that I needed to report a possible break-in and also a missing person. He took some basic details before telling me that I’d have to wait because they were short-staffed and he was run off his feet. As I seemed to be the only other person in the station, I found it hard to believe, but I took a seat as instructed. The waiting room was chilly and drab. The fluorescent lights made my head ache. And all the time, my thoughts ran in circles like mice in a wheel, making no sense of anything that had happened. Where the hell was Ethan? And what did his aura mean?

  I’d started seeing auras not long after my mother died unexpectedly two years ago. Three months after her death, I’d seen her while I was out walking on a country road close to my dad’s house in Italy. She’d spoken to me, trying to comfort me. Needless to say, I’d fallen apart with shock and grief for a while, and then the aura sightings had started. It had taken a while for me to realize that they signified imminent death. For want of a better word, I called them auras. But whatever name I came up with, I wished they weren’t there. I tried to ignore them when I saw them over people I didn’t know, on trains, in shops, on the street. I’d learned early on there was no sensible way to walk up to a stranger and tell them I knew they would die soon.

  But when that creepy moving air appeared over friends and family, as it had done on several occasions, I had no choice but to get involved. I’d been successful in diverting catastrophe a few times, but not always. People close to me had died.

  “Miss Benedict?” The duty officer beckoned. “Follow me.”

  He showed me into an office decorated in shades of tan and beige. A man in a brown suit and taupe tie motioned me to sit down. I sat in a straight-backed chair on the other side of his cluttered laminate desk.

  “Sorry for the delay,” he said. “I’m Detective Lake.”

  He was a compact man with unremarkable features apart from his eyes, which were large, brown and round. They reminded me of a cow’s, although his were distinctly more alert and intelligent.

  “So you want to make a missing person report?” he asked, glancing at the form the duty officer had given him.

  “Yes, my friend is missing, and someone broke into his flat.”

  “I see.” He wrote something on the form and then looked up at me. “Do you want a coffee or something?”

  “No,” I began. Then I nodded. I guessed that he’d like a coffee and I needed his help. I’d be as cooperative as possible.

  “Hey, Cooper,” Lake called out. “Let’s get two coffees, please.”

  While he waited for the drinks, Lake wrote a few more lines with a cheap ballpoint pen, the tip scratching against the paper. It only took a few minutes for Cooper, the duty officer, to bring two mugs to the desk.

  “You’ll like it,” Lake told me. “The chaps here bought me a new-fangled coffee machine for my retirement a year ago. One of those single-serve things that makes tea as well. After one week at home with the missus, I was bored to death and came back to work. Brought the machine with me. Now everyone here’s my best friend.”

  I sipped the coffee. It was good.

  “All right.” Lake leaned forward over the desk. “Your friend has been missing since when?”

  “Early this evening. About three hours,” I said. “I know that’s not long, but I’m quite sure he’s in trouble.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  I told Lake about Ethan’s empty office with the lights still on, the open window, his briefcase on the credenza and the text message
telling me to retrieve a book from his safe.

  “I found the book and took it to the restaurant. I waited there for nearly an hour and he never turned up,” I finished. “Here.” I picked up my bag, took out the book and laid it on the desk. Lake glanced at it but didn’t comment.

  “You had a reservation at this restaurant?” he asked.

  “Yes. We often go there for dinner.”

  “You two are dating?”

  “No, we’re just friends. I have a boyfriend, but he’s traveling right now.”

  Lake lifted an eyebrow a couple of millimeters. “And how long have you known Dr. Hamilton?”

  “Years. Ever since primary school. He and my brother were— still are— friends.”

  “I see. And Dr. Hamilton works at…” He glanced at the form again. “The Adams Institute?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “He’s been with the Institute for about a year. He’s a political scientist and he focuses on global economic indicators or something like that.” I looked at the volume lying on the desk. This was no modern textbook. It looked ancient, its leather cover worn at the edges. I touched the soft hide, which felt like velvet. My fingers itched to open it, to see what was inside.

  “That was the book you found in his safe?” Lake asked. “What is it?”

  I turned the book so he could see the title. “Della Pittura,” he read out loud.

  “It means ‘About Painting,’ I think. But I don’t know why it was in Ethan’s safe. He’s not that interested in art, as far as I know.”

  Lake pulled a pad of lined paper towards him and wrote the title down on his notepad before pushing the book gently back towards me.

  Then he scrawled some more notes. That was a good sign, I thought, that he was taking me seriously. The police station was remarkably quiet. I’d imagined it would be buzzing with activity on a Friday evening, but all I heard was the tick of a large clock on the wall and the low hum of a photocopier sitting on top of a filing cabinet.