Golden Relic

by Lindy Cameron

  “No, Detective Rigby, though stranger things have happened. And in fact there was a hijacking of some valuable pre-Columbian artefacts in Paris just yesterday. In answer to your other question, having two or more shipments for exhibitions of this kind is standard operating procedure. The reason is not so much theft prevention as accident prevention or rather, reducing the odds against complete loss should, for instance, a plane carrying priceless and irreplaceable objects go down in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, never to be seen again.”

  “Well,” Rigby announced getting to his feet before Prescott could launch into another aside, “that will probably do for now. We’ll be back if we need anything else.”

  “And to keep me apprised of your investigation?” Prescott asked hopefully, glancing meaningfully at Sam as they both stood up.

  “Of course Mr Prescott,” she replied.

  “Oh there was one other thing,” Rigby remembered. He opened his folder, pulled out an evidence bag and placed it on the desk. “Do you have any idea who or what Professor Marsden might have meant by this?”

  Prescott inspected Marsden’s note and tried to make sense of the scrawl by mouthing the letters. Finally he tried a few combinations: “hanosgoo, hancsgoc, hanfgoo,” and then shrugged. “I’m sorry, I have no idea.”

  Rigby reclaimed the bag. “We’ll need to look at your personnel records to see if there’s any names that come close.”

  “Of course. I’ll get Anton to organise it for you,” Prescott said, showing them to the door.

  Once they were out in the hallway Rigby consulted the list Rivers had given him and suggested they split the task to save time.

  “I’d like to check out Marsden’s office and talk to this Robert Ellington,” Sam requested.

  “Fine,” Rigby agreed. “I’ll track down the others. Rivers, you go with Sam.”

  Sam looked at Rigby askance. “You seconded him to your team Jack,” she reminded him.

  Rigby gave her the same look back. “There’s no need to get your knickers in a twist. I need him with you because he is on my team. I know how you work Sam. You keep too much up here.” He tapped his finger on his temple. “I need a pair of eyes and a mind that remembers to write things down occasionally so I have some idea of what I don’t see and hear first hand.”

  “All right, already,” said Sam. “Now whose knickers are all twisted?”

  “You and Rigby seem to know each other quite well,” Rivers commented as he followed Sam, who followed Anton’s directions to Marsden’s office.

  “I haven’t seen him for two years, but we worked closely together for six months on the Carjacker case,” Sam explained.

  “The serial killer?”

  “Yeah. The Bureau joined the hunt when it was discovered the killer hadn’t confined his activities to Victoria. It was actually Jack and I who tracked Neville Strickland down to that fleapit hotel where he shot one of his hostages before turning the gun on himself.”

  “I remember that siege lasted nearly three days,” Rivers said. “Cultural Affairs must seem pretty tame, if that’s the sort of work you were doing before - tracking serial killers.”

  “You sound like you think it’s an adventure, Rivers. It’s not. It’s awful work. I’d much rather there weren’t any serial killers to track. Luckily Australia doesn’t produce too many men like Strickland. He was a really sick individual, and I don’t mean insane. He knew what he was doing, and what he did to those women was indescribable. You’d have to see it to believe it and, believe me, it is not something you ever want to see. I transferred to the Anti-Drug Task Force after that case.” Sam looked at Rivers, then added, “Which I suppose, when you think about it, is really just a police response to a different form of serial killing.”

  “Ludicrous. Ludicrous,” came a voice from behind them. “One would think they were professional enough to pay attention. I should have done it myself.” The words, delivered as if they’d been fired from a Gatling gun, were obviously being spoken to the person they were being spoken by. A man with unbelievably wild grey hair, and wearing a suit that looked like it had been retrieved from the still-to-be-ironed basket, overtook them in the corridor.

  “I’m late, I’m late for an important date,” Rivers whispered to Sam, as the man, still talking to himself, darted into what turned out to be Marsden’s office. Sam and Rivers followed him in.

  Bookshelves, interspersed with filing cabinets, covered most of the walls, including the floor-to-ceiling window. Two desks, and their surrounding mess of things in boxes, sat on opposite sides of the room facing the centre. Framed photographs crowded a section of wall behind what Sam guessed was Marsden’s desk, next to which was a cluttered pinboard hanging precariously from a bent coat stand.

  “Robert Ellington?” Sam enquired.

  “Of course,” he snapped, losing control of the manila folders he was trying to stack on the other desk. Sam bent down to help him pick them up but it wasn’t until Ellington was completely happy with the repositioned pile that he acknowledged her presence.

  His eyes looked left, then right, then squinted at Sam. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “No. I’m Special Detective Sam Diamond, from the Australian Crime Bureau, and this is Constable,” she hesitated, but her new sidekick chose that moment to stare at the ceiling. “Rivers,” Sam continued. “We’re investigating the death of Lloyd Marsden.”

  “You mean murder. The word around here is that it was murder. Poor old Lloyd. Do you think he suffered? I hope he didn’t suffer.”

  “I don’t know. But if I could ask you a few questions about Mr Marsden���”

  “Professor,” Ellington interrupted. “He liked to be called Professor; God knows why. It’s a bit pretentious in this day and age, don’t you think? Call me plain old Bob, I say. On second thoughts, I probably wouldn’t answer since no one has ever called me Bob. I wouldn’t know who you were talking to, would I? But Lloyd was a trifle old-fashioned, and just because the rambunctious old bastard is dead doesn’t mean we ignore his wishes.”

  “Robert.” Sam used his first name to try and get him back on track. When he smiled as if she’d recognised him in a crowd, she continued. “We understand you saw Professor Marsden at some stage yesterday.”

  “That would be correct. Sam,” he smiled. “We had breakfast together, as usual, in a cafe near Flinders Street station. We walked together as far as the Library, where I left him and continued on here. I also saw him just after lunch, about 2.30, when I had cause to go to the Library myself. I’m researching blacksmiths and boilermakers at the moment for a future exhibit on trades during the early days of the colony. I just nodded hello to Lloyd on that occasion, as he was talking to that twerp Trevor Brownie.”

  “The assistant financial administrator?” Sam wandered over to Marsden’s desk.

  “One of the assistants,” Ellington confirmed. “A sycophantic, jumped-up little sluggerbug who acts as if the Museum’s money comes out of his own piggy bank. Sorry. Sorry. But I don’t have much time for middle-management types who have invariably, and inexplicably, risen above their limited talents.”

  “It’s a universal problem, Robert,” Sam agreed, sitting in Marsden’s chair. The desk top was an inch deep in scattered clutter, some of which had spilled onto the floor, and one of the drawers was half open. “Is this normal or has the Professor’s desk been searched?”

  Ellington glanced over. “Quite normal, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been disturbed. Lloyd had a mind like a steel trap but no sense of order.”

  “Do you have any gloves, Rivers?” Sam asked. The Constable stopped taking notes, fished in his uniform pocket and handed her a pair.

  “You obviously knew the Professor well Robert, perhaps you could tell us about him.” Sam began picking through the leftovers of Marsden’s working life. In a comparatively ordered pile on her right, topped by a shopping list, was a variety of museum-related invoices and inventories, plus a hardware store’s catalogu
e, a pile of what looked like chocolate sprinkles, and a red phone bill bearing Marsden’s name and a South Melbourne address. Sam scanned the phone bill and handed it to Rivers who dropped it in an evidence bag.

  “Actually, I didn’t know Lloyd all that well,” Ellington was saying.

  “But you said you had breakfast with him ‘as usual’,” Rivers quoted from his notes.

  Sam investigated the half open drawer. It was full of chocolate bars and empty wrappers, and a box of half-eaten donuts and cakes - a sugar-junkie’s variety of jam-filled, chocolate-topped or smothered in icing sugar or cream.

  “Lloyd and I had been eating breakfast in the same establishment for 15 years. Earlier this year, when a bus load of tourists invaded the place, we had to sit at the same table and discovered we share a passion for the horses. We’ve been breakfasting together ever since.”

  “It took you 15 years to share a table?” Sam attacked the pile in front of her, finding newspapers, museum publications, and manila folders filled with notes and printouts about the collection Marsden was responsible for relocating.

  “That was Lloyd’s choice. He was a private, thoughtful man not given to socialising.”

  “But you were sharing an office as well,” Rivers commented.

  “Only for the last two months. I have been working for this institution on and off, mostly on, for nigh on 40 years. Lloyd has been here, but mostly off doing field work or fulfilling his teaching commitments at Melbourne University, for the past 30 years. A long time yes, but our disciplines rarely connected. I know a great deal about his work and reputation but little about his personal life.”

  Sam opened the long, deep drawer in the middle of the desk. “Whoa!” she exclaimed.

  “What is it?” Rivers stepped forward eagerly.

  “Ah,” Ellington said. “Lloyd’s only other passion outside of his work; that I know of.”

  “A man after my own heart,” Sam declared. The drawer was full of cryptic crosswords, all cut from newspapers and in various stages of completion. Sharing the space was a dictionary and a well-thumbed thesaurus.

  As she shut the drawer, Sam noticed something protruding from under the large blotter that protected the surface of the desk from the paraphernalia and food scraps on top of it. Clearing everything back she lifted the blotter and set it down on the floor.

  “Make a list, Rivers,” she advised. “Three Mars Bar wrappers; an airline ticket dated for this Saturday, in Marsden’s name - destination Lima, Peru; a dry cleaning bill - with pick-up for tomorrow; a prescription for malaria tablets - already filled; a catalogue for the ‘Rites of Life and Death’ exhibition; and three betting slips, from Sandown last Friday.”

  Sam opened the full-colour catalogue which featured pictures of artefacts and photographs of ‘real-life’ funerary and fertility rituals. On the inside cover, next to an article about the purpose of the exhibition, was a mugshot of a broodingly-handsome man, of the Heathcliff variety. The caption read: Dr Marcus Bridger. MA, PhD, FSA.

  Sam turned several pages of sponsors’ ads, until the catalogue settled open, through previous use, on the captioned photos of the other exhibition team members and the show’s worldwide itinerary. The fold was full of icing sugar, as if Marsden had eaten his lunch over it, so it was reasonable to assume that it had been he who used a marker pen to highlight some of the overseas tour dates.

  Sam replaced the blotter on the desk and nodded to Rivers. “Better get forensics in to check any prints found at the crime scene against any that shouldn’t be here.”

  Sam returned her attention to Ellington who had been patiently sitting at his desk. “Do you know of anyone who knew Marsden well?”

  “Pavel Mercier,” he replied instantly. “And Maggie of course. They were the only people he spoke of with any kind of fondness or familiarity. They worked together over the years.”

  “And who are they?”

  Ellington scuttled over to the bookshelves next to Marsden’s desk, drawing Sam’s attention to two shelves of hard and soft cover publications, the spines of which wore the names Professor Lloyd Marsden, Dr Pavel Mercier and Dr Maggie Tremaine, either independently or as co-authors in various combinations. The titles ranged from the readily understandable - such as Time Stands Still: An Exploration of Archaeology; The New Technologies of History; Inca Roads to Power; Aztec Glory, Aztec Blood; and Adrift in a Sea of Sand: The Ruins of Tanis; - to the more esoteric: An Interlude in Hatshepsut’s Kitchen; Sip��n and Chim��: Benefactors of Tahuantinsuyu?; and Anthropomorphic Entities and the Andean Supernatural Realm.

  “That’s quite a body of work. Are they on staff here or do you know how to contact them?”

  “Well, you can’t contact Pavel at all; he died in Peru last year. That’s him with Lloyd in the large picture behind you. It was taken a good 20 years ago though, so you wouldn’t recognise him now even if he wasn’t dead.”

  Sam swivelled her chair to take a look at the gallery of framed photographs. “What about Dr Tremaine?”

  “Ah Maggie,” he sighed heavily. “Formidable woman. Formidable. Endearing too, but formidable. And I mean that in the sense that she inspires admiration while being, quite often, well, difficult to deal with.”

  “And she is, where?” Sam prompted.

  “Sydney University. She’s actually on staff here at the Museum, but took a 12-month post in Sydney to teach archaeology while what’s-his-name is on leave.” Ellington headed back to his desk but stopped abruptly, spun around and said, “No, actually I tell a lie. She’s in Paris. Yes, that’s right. She went to a conference in Paris, from Sydney.”

  “Is this the same Maggie who was involved in the ‘Inca trinket fiasco’?” Sam asked, recalling Anton’s conversation with Prescott.

  “The very same. So you’ve heard about that then.”

  “Not really,” Sam replied. And I don’t need to, she thought. “One of the pictures seems to be missing from the wall here.” She pointed out the empty hook.

  “So it is,” Ellington agreed. “That’s odd. No, there it is on top of the cabinet beside you.”

  Sam picked up what turned out to be an empty frame, labelled ‘Manco City 1962’.

  “That’s odd,” Ellington said again.

  “I’ve got one last question Robert, and then we’ll let you get back to work. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Professor Marsden?”

  “You mean did he have any enemies? Strong word isn’t it? Lloyd had the tendency to rub people the wrong way. And he did a lot of rubbing, and pot stirring, around here because he didn’t exactly agree with the Museum’s vision for the future; just ask Prescott. But enemies? No, not that I’m aware of. Certainly not anyone who’d want to stab him to death.”

  “Stab him?” Sam echoed. “He wasn’t stabbed Robert.”

  “Oh. Shot?” When Sam smiled and shook her head but wasn’t forthcoming with the facts, Ellington shrugged. “On the other hand, I’m wondering if Lloyd had some kind of premonition.”

  “Why?”

  “Last Friday, over breakfast, we were talking about families or at least I was, Lloyd has no living relatives. Anyway quite out of the blue Lloyd secured a promise from me, gladly given, that should anything ever happen to him I was to contact his lawyer. Immediately.”

  “To do what?” Sam asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” Ellington replied, searching his pockets. “I was simply to contact the man and inform him of ‘whatever had happened’.” Ellington handed a business card to Sam.

  “Have you spoken to this James T. Hudson yet?” Sam asked, noting Hudson & Bolt had offices in Melbourne and Sydney.

  “Of course. Lloyd had said ‘immediately’. As soon as I had confirmation that the rumour of his demise was true, I rang Hudson.”

  “So, what is your first name,” Sam asked Rivers as they left Ellington to his mutterings and went in search of Rigby.

  Rivers groaned. “You promise you won’t laugh?” Sam crossed her heart. “
Hercules.”

  “Really?” Sam raised her eyebrows and swallowed hard. “And how did you come by that?” she managed to ask.

  “My father. Never read a book in his life but, remember Epic Theatre the old Sunday afternoon TV series of movies about blokes like Ulysses and Jason and the Argonauts?”

  “Dubbed into English, as I recall.”

  Rivers nodded. “My Dad loved those movies. He was a Championship Wrestling fan too, so I guess I’m lucky I didn’t get named after Titan the Terrible. It’s useful on the Internet though. I can use my own name and people just think I’m a nerd with a hero complex.”

  “Dia���mond.” Rigby’s bellow bounced off several walls as Sam and Rivers rounded a corner. “Oh, there you are.”

  “Jack, this is not a squad room. It would be courteous to keep your voice down.”

  “Good idea,” Rigby nodded. “Now, I’ve spoken to Brownie and the PR lady, but Gould, the curator, is off sick today. Anton has just directed that Vasquez guy to a room down the hall. So what do you say we do him together and compare notes on the others later. Rivers, you can chase up that personnel list.” Rigby headed off down the hall.

  “We found a plane ticket in Marsden’s name,” Sam said, jogging to keep up with Rigby’s long stride. “He was flying to Peru this Saturday.”

  “Was he now?”

  “And, I think we should check out his home next. He had no family but he may have a cat or something that should be informed.”

  “Already organised. I sent some guys there 15 minutes ago.”

  Enrico Vasquez looked like he expected to be put through a clich��d ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine. He kept flexing his shoulders, as if he was preparing himself for a good whack with a phone book, yet his expression was composed and determined. There was no guessing what was going on behind his dark eyes which, while they seemed to be looking everywhere at once, did so without making him appear nervous.

  His dark hair, thin moustache and pleasant face brought ‘Zorro’ to Sam’s mind, except that Se��or Vasquez was short and stocky. While his expression had registered amused indifference when introduced to her, his reaction to Rigby was typical of a phenomenon that Sam had always found curious. Shaking hands was not something cops do, as a rule, with suspects or witnesses, but Sam had noticed on many occasions that men shorter than about six foot felt they had to bond with Rigby. Vasquez was no different. He offered his hand automatically, although he stepped back as he did so, as if increasing the space between them would make him feel taller. Sam had yet to figure out the psychology of this, whether it was deference, submission or merely an attempt to stake out some territory.