Golden Relic

by Lindy Cameron

  “That explains the odd, ‘who the hell are you and why are you here’ look that he gave me when I smiled at him earlier,” Sam said.

  “Anyway, considering what we went through in Cairo and Cuzco, I’m even more convinced Vasquez is ‘the one’,” Maggie stated, widening her eyes.

  “But he’s not���”

  “Enrico dear,” Maggie interrupted. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Sam turned to find Vasquez and Adrienne approaching. “Se��or Vasquez,” she nodded.

  “Enrico has only just arrived back,” Adrienne explained.

  “And how is your poor mother?” Maggie asked, all concern and no sincerity.

  “My mother is recovering, thank you,” Vasquez smiled knowingly. “But my time at home was plagued by disaster. My poor cousin broke his nose and collarbone when his car hit a stationary truck. We still can’t imagine how he managed to have such a foolish accident in broad daylight.”

  “He must have been looking at something other than where he was going,” Sam suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Vasquez agreed amicably. “Detective Diamond, I was wondering if I might have a word in private with you about that matter I raised the last time we spoke?”

  “Of course, Se��or Vasquez,” Sam agreed. “How about we adjourn to the bar downstairs?”

  “Good idea. You’re welcome to join us Maggie,” he added, as if it was an afterthought. “You may actually be able to help me out. Would you excuse us please, Adrienne?”

  “Sure thing,” Adrienne said, looking like she’d rather tag along to find out what the mystery was.

  “Was he really your cousin?” Sam asked, once they were settled in a booth downstairs, having made sure none of the other customers nearby were Conference delegates.

  “No,” Vasquez smiled. “But you were quite right, he wasn’t watching where he was going. But enough said about your clever escape.” He pulled a folded but crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out on the table and turned it round so that Sam’s handwriting was facing them. “I found this in your hotel room, after you had checked out.”

  “So?” Maggie said, as if the list of names from the Manco City dig meant nothing.

  “Maggie,” Vasquez sighed, “I know you do not believe I work for my government but please do not treat me like a fool. I recognised some of the names on this list so I made the assumption that the others had some kind of professional connection. Would you like me to tell you what I discovered?”

  “If you wish Enrico, but I don’t see the point,” Maggie smiled.

  “Then humour me,” Vasquez requested. “Of the names I recognised, I knew that Pavel Mercier, Alistair Nash and, of course, Lloyd Marsden were deceased. So I began with Noel Winslow. Being a fan of his mystery novels I tried his publishers first and discovered he had died earlier this year. I then started trying to trace the other names and discovered that Jean McBride had been killed in a car accident. I began to think you had gone a little strange, Maggie, making this,” Vasquez tapped the page, “this list of all your dead friends.”

  “You get to my age Enrico and it hits you one day that all your friends are dropping like flies,” Maggie sighed. “It gets a bit disconcerting.”

  Vasquez shook his head. “I am sure it does but when I found out that Louis Ducruet was alive and working in Turkey and Sarah Croydon had recently opened an exhibition in Wellington I knew this was not a list of the dead. I admit I have found nothing about Jones, Sanchez or Rockly - yet - but I managed to find out a great deal about the late Barbara Stone, whom I had actually met once. And that’s when I knew what this list was about.”

  “Because of Barbara Stone,” Sam verified.

  “Yes of course,” Vasquez said. “When I discovered she and her ex-business partner had been investigated by the FBI for fencing stolen antiquities, I knew that despite your denials you were, are, in fact looking for the Paris hijackers.”

  “Enrico,” Maggie said impatiently, “apart from the fact that I swear we knew nothing of Barbara and the FBI, how could a dead person help us find hijackers that we are not, in fact, looking for?”

  Vasquez scowled at her. “I was hoping you would tell me,” he said.

  “Did the FBI charge her with anything?” Sam asked.

  “No,” Vasquez sighed. “The partner was jailed but there was no real evidence against her, which doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved, but then you know that already.”

  “We had no idea,” Sam stated. “Really, none at all.”

  Vasquez looked deeply puzzled, as if he wanted to believe them but didn’t want to relinquish his theory. “But why else would her name be on this list, with all these people who have had access over the years to the types of artefacts she was suspected of fencing? You can’t really expect me to believe you are not on the trail of the Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet.”

  “Se��or Vasquez you have a very fertile imagination. You are on the trail of the Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet; we are looking for a murderer,” Sam pronounced.

  Vasquez shrugged as if he was giving up. “Then I suppose you are not interested in Andrew Barstoc’s connection to Ms Stone, and the affair she was having,” he said, offhandedly.

  Sam laughed. “Se��or Vasquez, what is this thing you have about Barstoc? You have been throwing him in my face since we first met.”

  “We, my colleagues and I, have long suspected him to be a major player in the illegal trade of stolen cultural property,” Vasquez confided.

  “Well, if you really are a cop, or whatever it is you are, why don’t you talk to him instead of us?”

  Vasquez threw up his palms. “I thought we could help each other out in this matter.”

  “Honestly Enrico,” Maggie snapped, “how do you expect us to believe anything you have to say when you can’t give us any proof. It seems to me you are using your Masters in applied obfuscation to find out what we might know in order to conceal your own involvement in the hijacking.”

  “But���” Vasquez began.

  “No buts, Enrico. I will say this one last time.” Maggie tapped her finger on the table for emphasis. “We are not looking for hijackers and we don’t care about the Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet. If we were, given the appalling behaviour of you and your henchmen in Cuzco, we would be coming after you, not trying to avoid you. What’s more, having your accomplices shoot at us and our aircraft is not a sensible way to go about earning our trust and securing our assistance.”

  “Who shot at you?” Vasquez seemed genuinely appalled.

  “The Turkish gentleman who you claim is a known dealer in stolen antiquities. It is clear to us that you are in cahoots with him,” Maggie stated.

  Vasquez slapped himself in the forehead. “Maggie, I am on your side,” he insisted. “Mr Aydin is no accomplice of mine. He is probably, however, an acquaintance of Andrew Barstoc.”

  “Well of course, he would be wouldn’t he,” Sam said. “And what else were you trying to imply before? Something about Barstoc having an affair with Barbara Stone?”

  “Oh, no Detective Diamond, that is not what I said. Ms Stone attended the opening of our exhibition in San Francisco. She knew the Director of the Museum and was introduced to the whole team. Andrew then visited her in her New Age shop on several occasions.”

  “That’s it? That’s your connection?” Sam asked. “You met this FBI suspect too.”

  “But I am not a suspected trader in stolen artefacts,” Vasquez pointed out.

  “You are in our book,” Maggie reminded him. “So who was Barbara having the affair with? I hope you’re not going to tell us that you saw Lloyd Marsden in San Francisco so you jumped to the most illogical conclusion yet.”

  “Of course not Maggie. Please be sensible,” Vasquez pleaded. “I know for a fact, because I saw them together and it was common knowledge, that Barbara Stone was seeing our Ms Douglas.”

  My god, Sam thought, throw the works another spanner. “Well that’s very interesting, I’m sure,�
� she said calmly. “But what it has to do with anything, I don’t know. I have an idea, Se��or. Instead of following us around, making wild connections between unrelated things, devising bizarre theories, and spreading unsubstantiated gossip about your colleagues, why don’t you come up with some way of proving you are who you say are. If you can do that, I promise when I have solved my murder case, I will give your request for assistance in your hijacking case some serious consideration.”

  Melbourne, Saturday October 10, 1998

  Sam watched Haddon Gould through the one-way mirror as he straightened his jacket. He looked quite refreshed despite his night in a cell and actually smiled as he whispered to his lawyer.

  “So, what do you say Jack? Shall we give it a go?”

  “I don’t know, Sam,” Rigby said doubtfully. “I’m positive he’s right for this. I asked him about the threatening postcard last night, and he admitted to sending that too.”

  “Well he would, wouldn’t he,” Sam said.

  “I gave him no extra information, Sam. He told me which typewriter he used.”

  Sam shrugged. “So, he writes bad poetry.”

  “You’re the one that said the postcard and the murder were connected,” Rigby reminded her.

  “So I was wrong. I can’t be right about everything, Jack.”

  “But of course you’re right about Gould not being the murderer,” Rigby said doubtfully.

  “I’m just trying to save you some embarrassment,” Sam shrugged.

  “Okay, okay. Let’s do it.”

  Sam and Rigby entered the interview room in silence and took their seats opposite Gould and his lawyer. While Sam opened a file and studied the page on top, Rigby turned the tape recorder on, stated the date, time and who was present and then sat back and crossed his arms.

  “Do you remember me, Mr Gould?” Sam asked. “We met the day after your operation.”

  “Yes, Detective, I remember.”

  “You told me that day that you did not strike the Professor. You said, and I quote, ‘and I certainly didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying’.”

  Gould looked boyishly guilty, as if he’d been caught telling a white lie. “Yes, that is what I said.”

  Sam nodded and tapped the page in front of her. “That’s nothing like the statement you gave Detective Rigby yesterday,” she said, with a frown. “I’m puzzled. Why did you do it?”

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Gould’s lawyer advised.

  “It’s okay, John, I want them to know. I’d simply had enough of Lloyd’s manipulating, his double standards, his���”

  “No,” Sam interrupted. “What I meant was, why did you confess?”

  Gould frowned. “Because Detective Rigby here had all the evidence and I knew I could no longer deny that I’d killed the man,” he stated, as if it was obvious.

  “So you killed Professor Lloyd Marsden?” Sam asked.

  “Yes,” Gould stated categorically, and then looked up, along with everyone else in the room, as the door was flung open and Dr Maggie Tremaine barged in as if it was a hotel bar.

  “There you are Sam. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she exclaimed.

  “Maggie,” Sam snapped, as Rigby leapt to his feet, “you can’t come in here.”

  “Why ever not? Hello Haddon, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m being interviewed Maggie. Go away.”

  “Interviewed? What for?”

  “Dr Tremaine, you will have to leave,” Rigby insisted.

  “I’ve confessed to murdering Lloyd,” Gould said, almost proudly. “I’m just explaining why.”

  “Haddon,” moaned his lawyer.

  “You’re explaining why you confessed?” Maggie asked, as Rigby tried to usher her out the door.

  “This is ridiculous,” Sam said. “We’ll have to do this later.”

  “No, Maggie, I’m explaining why I killed him,” Gould persisted.

  Maggie started laughing and shook herself free of Rigby’s handhold. “Don’t be ridiculous Haddon. Are you mad?”

  “Dr Tremaine! I insist you leave,” Rigby demanded.

  “Oh hush, young man,” Maggie snapped. “I can’t believe you’re taking Haddon seriously. This is why you can never find a cop when you need one - you’re all sitting around interrogating lunatics.”

  “I am not a lunatic, Margaret Tremaine,” Gould declared.

  “Yes you are, Haddon. It’s one thing to have hated Lloyd for 21 years because of an affair he never actually had with your wife, but to confess to his murder is completely absurd.”

  “Mr Gould, we’re stopping the interview now,” Sam butted in, turning to glare at Maggie.

  “No,” Haddon declared. “I won’t have that woman call me a lunatic without a comeback. We’ll do this now, with her here too, or I won’t say another word.”

  Sam threw up her hands, Rigby collapsed back in his chair and Gould’s lawyer dropped his head in his hands. Maggie and Gould just stared at each other.

  “What would you know about Lloyd and Anna anyway, Maggie. And how could you begin to know how their affair made me feel?”

  “But Haddon, they didn’t have an affair. Not only was Lloyd completely asexual, that means dear that he had no interest in sex, but he actually lacked the necessary equipment to do the deed,” Maggie said. “Although I suspect the latter was the reason for the former,” she added thoughtfully.

  “What are you talking about?” Gould demanded, as if Maggie was the mad person in the room.

  “Lloyd lost all his important bits in a motorcycle accident when he was 16, Haddon. He couldn’t have sex.”

  Haddon Gould looked like a man going through a crisis of faith. The rug on which two decades worth of resentment had been resting, had just been pulled right out from under him. But he took a deep breath into further denial and said, “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t in love with Anna and wanted to take her away from me.”

  Maggie closed her eyes and shook her head sadly.

  Sam sat back down in her chair, removed an evidence bag and emptied the contents onto the table. “Mr Gould, are you confessing that because you suspected Lloyd Marsden of having an affair with your wife, 21 years ago, that you murdered him by injecting him with strychnine using this poison ring contraption?”

  Gould was sucking in deep angry breaths through his nose as he stared at the ring in front of him.

  “Yes, Detective. That is exactly what I’m saying.”

  Sam scratched her chin and smiled. “I bought this ring at a toy store an hour ago, Mr Gould.”

  Haddon Gould looked quite perplexed. “Lloyd wasn’t poisoned with this ring?” he asked vaguely.

  “You tell us, Mr Gould. Did you murder Professor Lloyd Marsden?” Sam asked.

  Gould just sat there turning the plastic ring over in his fingers. “I wanted to,” he finally said. “I could’ve killed him,” he added, as if he really would have been up to the challenge.

  Rigby sat forward. “I think you’d better run along home now, sir. Thanks for your time.”

  “Do we have your undivided attention now Jack?” Sam asked after Gould and his lawyer had left. “Because we’ll need your assistance this evening and we want you to know what’s really going on.”

  Sam looked around Maggie’s hotel suite at the assembled players for the upcoming charade. She hoped to hell this plan was going to work, because if it didn’t she’d have to resign and go into hiding. Ben Muldoon, Rigby and Rivers were working out the logistics of how their teams were going to operate; and Louis Ducruet, who Sam had met only an hour before, was still in a huddle with Pavel. Louis was a tall finely-built and balding man with a snow white moustache, who had already impressed Sam with his charm and level-headedness. And Maggie had assured her that Louis would prevent Pavel from going completely overboard. They were all waiting for the Boss to turn up for his briefing.

  “This is nerve-wracking,” Maggie whispered.

  “Tell me a
bout it,” Sam said. “Are you planning any expeditions I can join if this is a disaster?”

  “I have a well-prepared escape route for both of us,” Maggie laughed.

  “Sammy, can I have a word?”

  “Of course, Ben,” Sam said making room for him on the edge of the bed.

  “I checked out that stuff you wanted. First up, Adrienne Douglas is as clean as whistle, not even a speeding fine. Barstoc on the other hand is a piece of work. When he was 14-years-old, he was adopted by Daniel Bridger, when Bridger married his mother. Young Andrew was always a loose canon but when his mother died three years later, he went right off the rails. He pulled crazy stunts and was always being picked up for assault and petty crimes. The stepfather kept taking him back until Barstoc was busted for dealing. Get this, he was selling cocaine from his father’s limo to kids at a local school. That was it. End of story for one of the heirs to what I gather is quite a sizeable family fortune.”

  “I assume ‘Barstoc’ was his mother’s maiden name,” Sam said.

  “No, it was her previous husband’s name. She’d been married to a John Barstoc for about two years before divorcing him to marry Bridger.”

  “Who was she before that?” Sam asked, casting a meaningful look at Maggie.

  “Don’t know. I didn’t realise you wanted me to check her too,” Ben said.

  “You don’t suppose?” Maggie asked.

  Sam shrugged. “He’s the right age, same as Vasquez and Escobar.”

  “That’s not all, Sammy. Bridger, the other���” Ben snapped his mouth shut as there was no point competing with Dan Bailey’s noisy arrival.

  The Boss entered a room in much the same way as Rigby did, loudly and as if he was always on a mission. It would be interesting, Sam thought, to see how the two men worked together.