Overdue Item

by Peter Menadue

  The detective trotted down the stairs and smiled. "How are you?"

  She'd slept quite well the previous night. "Calming down. What about you?"

  "Oh, I'm fine. In fact, I rather enjoyed the whole thing."

  "You mean, the shoot-out?"

  "Yes."

  "You're kidding?"

  A boyish smile. "Nope. Most cops are terrified they'll go their whole careers without exchanging gunfire. I don't have to worry about that anymore. Nice to get it out of the way. I know that sounds a bit weird, but that's how we think."

  She laughed. "It's too bad, I guess, that you didn't get a neat little flesh wound. Then you'd be a wounded hero as well."

  He missed the joke and looked sombre. "Yes, that would have been nice. Hopefully, next time. Come upstairs: Detective Sergeant Cochrane's waiting."

  As they climbed the stairs, he said: "You know, this has been a good case for me."

  "How?"

  "Cochrane's going to recommend me for transfer to the Homicide Squad."

  "Will his recommendation be enough?"

  "Should be."

  "Congratulations."

  "Thanks."

  Dryden showed Julia into the same small interview room as before, where Cochrane already sat in a chair. They shook hands and Cochrane asked how she felt.

  She smiled. "I'm fine. How about you?"

  He shrugged. "Fine. The shoot-out didn't bother me. I'd already been in a few. But, when I got home, my wife gave me hell for getting into danger. Blamed me for the shooting. I said: 'Don't worry, next time I'll throw my pistol away and surrender'. She said: 'Good idea.'"

  Julia was warming to the detective sergeant. Beneath his outer layer of gruffness was another layer of gruffness and then a nice guy.

  "How's little Philip?"

  "Good. His mum took him to see a child psychologist who said he'll be OK. Kids are very resilient. Fortunately, his mum doesn't want any publicity - thinks it would be bad for the kid."

  "She's right. So, tell me, you going to use Philip's evidence to charge Cheshire with murder?"

  "Nope, no point. Philip's just eight years old. His evidence wouldn't stand up in Court. We'll extradite Cheshire back to England and let the Poms try him for murder. Scotland Yard says they've got a water-tight case."

  "What about the Markovs?"

  "Victor will be released from hospital in a few days and join his son behind bars. Their futures ain't bright. Judges don't like guys who point pistols at librarians and shoot at cops in public libraries. They certainly won't need appointment diaries for the next ten years. Now, let's get your statement out of the way."

  She sat and helped them prepare her written statement about the shoot-out. As usual, Cochrane asked most of the questions and Dryden did the typing.

  After Dryden finished typing up her a statement, she read and signed it. She said goodbye to Cochrane, who shyly thanked her for her efforts, and Dryden escorted her down to the front entrance of the Police Station.

  He said: "Thanks. You've been a great help. We'll be in touch."

  "OK. Out of curiosity, have you identified the old guy who got murdered yet?"

  "Afraid not. In fact, I suspect we never will."

  "That's very sad. Someone loved him, once."

  "Very true."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Julia had arranged to meet Gary that evening at The Three Lions. He was already at their usual table when she walked in. For once, he'd shaved properly and was reasonably well dressed, wearing a crumpled blue velvet jacket, leather tie and jeans.

  She bought them a couple of beers, took them over to the table and sat down. "Hi. Saw you on TV last night. I didn't realise that being a librarian was such a dangerous job."

  A big grin. "Did I overdo it? I was only joking."

  "I know. I had a laugh - so did Dad."

  "Good."

  "What did your parents say about you heroism?"

  He sipped his beer. "They were very impressed; they're being very nice to me right now."

  "Excellent."

  "Yes, we've even had a few conversations. They're the first ones we've had since I was a kid. They said I don't have to finish my law degree if I don't want to - I can do whatever I like."

  "Good. So what are you going to do?"

  A big smile. "Oh, I'm going to finish my law degree."

  "You're kidding?"

  "Nope."

  "You dropped out of Law."

  "I know. But that was because my parents were pressuring me to study law. Now they say I don't have to do it."

  "That makes all the difference?"

  "Of course. I mean, I quite liked studying law; I just didn't like my parents telling me to study it."

  "Jesus, you're complicated. I'm starting to sympathise with them."

  "That would be a mistake." He sipped his beer and leaned forward. "You know, I was hoping you'd be pleased."

  "About what?"

  "Me going back to university. I mean, it shows I'm trying to sort myself out."

  "Yes, I'm pleased about that."

  He leaned forward again, wearing a nervous grin. "I know I'm a bit of a dickhead sometimes - often. That's because I try too hard to impress you."

  Her stomach went hollow. "Me?"

  "Yes."

  He was dragging her into deep water. Words rattled up her throat. "Why do you want to impress me?"

  He shrugged and his eyes wandered. "Umm, I like you … a lot."

  She'd suspect he found her attractive, but had no proof. Now she knew he did. To her surprise, she felt a shiver of excitement and realised she liked him a lot. True, he was crazy and annoying. But he was also smart and funny, and authentic. That last quality was important after her recent experience with Robert Markov a.k.a. Tom Birkett a.k.a Eric Adams. She was infatuated with Markov, until he turned out to be a total phoney who pointed a pistol at her. But there was nothing false about Gary. He also had a big future, if he stopped smoking dope and pulled himself together.

  However, she kept a lid on her emotions, because they couldn't have a relationship. The excitement of the last few weeks had taught her that she was living in a prison of her own making. It was time to step out into the wider world.

  She fingered a beer-mat and glanced away. "And I like you - I really do - but I've got some news."

  "What?"

  "I'm going overseas, and I don't mean Bali. Probably Europe, and maybe Asia. After the last few weeks, I can't go back to shelving John Grisham novels and yelling at patrons who won't turn on their hearing aids. Hopefully, by the time I return, I'll know what I want to do with my life."

  A deep frowned. "You sure?"

  "Yup."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  A shrug. "Maybe a year or two. Hard to say."

  He sighed. "You got enough money saved?"

  "Yes, and I'll try to get some work."

  "But you'll be coming back?"

  "Yes - I expect so."

  He sighed. "I'll miss you."

  "I'll miss you too - really. But don't worry, we'll stay in touch. It's easy on the internet. And, while I'm away, you can go back to uni and sort yourself out. In fact, you sort yourself out, I'll sort myself out and, when I get back, we'll sort us out."

  A frown. "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  He smiled. "OK. You're the boss. Want another beer?"

  "Of course."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next morning, Julia got a phone call from the real Eric Adams. After inquiring about her health, which she said was fine, he said: "Look, I'm flying home tomorrow and want to take you out to dinner tonight to thank you for helping us recover the codex."

  "I didn't do much."

  "Yes you did. So, if you're free, what about dinner?"

  Why not? He was an interesting man and she still had plenty of questions to ask about recent events. "OK, where?"

  He named a swank restaurant in the shadow of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
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  "It doesn't have to be that good."

  "Don't worry, I'm flavour of the month at the British Library right now. When I get back, nobody will question my expenses."

  "OK then, I'd be honoured."

  "Good. See you at seven-thirty."

  Wearing her best frock, which wasn't very good, she got to the restaurant just before the appointed time and found him sitting at a table overlooking the harbour. He was elegantly dressed, as usual, in a smoking jacket, paisley shirt and blue velvet trousers. If he wore those clothes in a tough neighbourhood, he'd probably be challenged to a fight. She bet he'd be happy to oblige.

  He shook her hand. "Thank you for coming. As I said, I want to thank you for helping us recover the codex."

  She sat facing him. "Where is it right now?"

  "Two armed guards are flying it back to London. They should be there in a couple of hours."

  "So everybody's happy at the British Library?"

  "Delirious; I'm hero of the hour."

  "When Robert Markov claimed he was Eric Adams from the British Library - that is, he was you - he said he once worked in the Fine Arts and Antiques Squad at Scotland Yard. Did you do that?"

  "Yes. He obviously knew a fair bit about my background. I studied Ancient History at Oxford, but decided to become a cop instead of a teacher. Because of my degree, I was assigned to the FAA Squad and stayed there for about 20 years. Ten years ago, I was recruited to run the security department of the British Library. I'll be retiring in about six months' time. Recovering the codex and helping to put the Markovs behind bars is a great capstone to my career. They've been a huge thorn in my side. Librarians and archivists across Europe will also breathe a sigh of relief."

  "I must admit that, when Markov pretended to be Tom Birkett, and then you, I quite liked him. He was very, well, charming."

  "I'm sure he was. The Markovs are cunning and smooth sociopaths. They've made millions from their crimes which, fortunately, they won't get to spend for a long time."

  A waiter brought them menus which listed exotic dishes at breathtaking prices. Julia ordered boldly. Then Eric Adams ordered and glanced at her: "Any preference for wine?"

  She smiled. "You choose."

  "I think something from the New World would be appropriate," he said, and ordered a bottle of Margaret River Chardonnay.

  As the waiter retreated, she said: "What will you do in retirement?"

  "My wife and I have bought a cottage in Somerset. Soon I'll spend all day pruning roses and trimming hedges. I can't wait. Others will have to battle with the Markovs of this world." He leaned forward. "What are your plans? I heard they're going to close your library. Will they give you a job in another one?"

  "I don't know and don't care. I've decided to quit and travel oversea for a while."

  "Do you want to remain a librarian?"

  "I don't know. I want to see the world and then consider my options."

  "Good idea. Humanity is divided between those who stay at home, and those who go away. When I was young, I spent two years back-packing all over the world, including the back-blocks of China when it really was China. Anyway, I'm sure you'll do well in any job you choose - I really mean that."

  "Thank you."

  "And, if you get to London and need a job, give me a call. I'm sure I can get you some casual work at the library. It's the least we can do."

  "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

  For the next hour, he told her stories about some of his major investigations at Scotland Yard and the British Library. He'd had a very interesting life - the sort of life she wanted to have.

  As a waiter took away their plates, she said: "You know, we still don't know the identity of the old guy who got murdered. That's very sad."

  A slim smile. "True, but we know he was Russian."

  A jolt of surprise. "What are you talking about?"

  The smile lingered. "I dropped in to see Detectives Cochrane and Dryden yesterday, and glanced at some of the morgue photos of the old guy …"

  "Yes?"

  "He had a tattoo on his left forearm …"

  "That's right - some sort of script."

  "Yes, it was Cyrillic script. It said 'Spasite ot syda', which means 'Save me from judgment'."

  "So he was Russian?"

  Eric Adams carefully folded his napkin, his smile growing. "Yes. But only certain Russians have that sort of tattoo."

  "Who?"

  "Russian Mafioso."

  She almost fell off her chair. "You're kidding? You mean, Mr Cheshire murdered someone from the Russian Mafia?"

  "Looks like it."

  "He was just an old derelict?"

  "No, he pretended to be an old derelict. He was obviously, like Robert Markov, keeping an eye on Cheshire in the hope that Cheshire would reveal the location of the codex."

  "You mean the Russian Mafia was after the codex?"

  "Seems so. One of its activities is stealing rare books and manuscripts. It must have heard that Cheshire - Barker - was working at a library in Sydney and had the Codex Durham. So one of its men pretended to be a vagrant to keep an eye on him."

  "Wow. You think he had accomplices?"

  "Yes, but they must have fled when he was murdered."

  She laughed. "If the old guy was a Russian Mafioso, that's very ironic."

  "Why?"

  "According to the little boy, when Mr Cheshire - Barker - looked in the air-conditioning duct and saw the Codex Durham was gone, he got angry and killed the old guy. I don't think he knew the old guy was a Russian criminal."

  He laughed. "That is ironic."

  She shook her head. "Wow, this has been an amazing experience. I didn't know life could be so exciting."

  "Life's an adventure, if you want it to be."

  She leaned forward. "I do, I do."

  THE END