by Julie Sarff
“But you know what Diana would have liked best about this memorial?” she asks. I shake my head.
“Look at all the children splashing in it.” She smiles a toothless smile.
I turn away, feeling like an absolute idiot as a tidal wave of tears cascades down my face. Maybe in the excitement of becoming a biographer to a prince, I didn’t really process all my feelings about Sean’s murder. Now, as strangers stare at me, the floodgates are unleashed; all the grief and fear connected with the past few weeks pour out of me.
I decide it’s time to head back for the safety of the Park Lane.
Chapter 15
“So you decided to show, Ms. Rue? May I call you Trudy?” Jack asks with a laugh. I find him waiting for me in the Palm Court at quarter past seven. He is sitting on a gold-colored sofa, with a gin and tonic in one hand.
After crying off and on all day, I decided, why not join Jack for dinner? True, I don’t know him, but if we don’t leave the hotel, how could anything bad happen?
Jack stands up and gives me his crooked grin. I beam back.
“Ah, the fine dining at Bracewells,” he laughs and motions toward the restaurant.
The restaurant at the Sheraton is more like a sports bar, with televisions blaring overhead. We sit down at a table for two and make small talk over a basket of focaccia. Jack orders scallops and I order a nice curry.
I do my best to answer his questions. Jack seems fascinated by my work. Turns out he’s a full time professor at the London School of Economics.
“I do research these days on current trends in the futures market.” He goes into some long-winded speech about how his research has led to better laws in banking. I lose the conversation. I’ve never been very interested in economics.
“So, if you write biographies, how is it exactly that you lost your job?” Jack asks, changing topic.
I stop eating mid-bite. I’m a terrible liar. Still, I can’t divulge the fact that I was doing a biography of the Prince. That’s going to lead to questions about why the Palace let me go. And if I divulge the truth about being fired from the Palace, I might as well tell this very nice man that my ex was murdered two weeks ago. And if I do that, I might as well divulge that some man I barely knew was murdered outside a cottage I own in the Cotswolds.
“Was doing a biography on Emma of Normandy,” I reply evasively, “The editor pulled the plug. Market research shows there’s not much interest in Emma of Normandy.”
“Emma of Normandy, Emma of Normandy,” he muses, looking puzzled and proving my fictitious point about there not being much interest in the long dead Anglo-Saxon queen.
“Cnut the Great’s wife?” he ventures. I can tell by the strained look on his face that the poor man wracked his brains to come up with the answer.
I’m impressed. This is a man who knows his history.
“The very same.” I respond, feeling as if perhaps the night is looking up. Just then, something on the overhead television catches my eye. It’s the Prince. I watch as he steps out of the back of a black Range Rover. Right behind him an impossibly thin woman with long silky blond hair jumps out of the car.
“So he’s back with Cressida,” Jack mumbles glancing up to see what has caught my eye. He appears unimpressed at the glamourous couple on the TV as he reaches for some pepper.
Cressida! I remember her. There were entire chapters on Cressida in Alfred Tarkin’s unofficial biography about Alex. According to Alfred, Cressida and the Prince have had an on again/off again romance for many years. Last year, royal watchers were sure the Prince was about to propose. People even put money on it. Three months later, the Prince was dating someone named Abai from Brazil. They were caught snogging, as the British say, on a beach in the Maldives. This led to some nasty commentary in Tarkin’s biography about the Prince being incapable of monogamy.
“Met him once,” Jack mutters, startling me.
“Who?” I ask, turning my attention back to my dinner date.
“Prince Alex. He’s a charming fellow. He was at a conference I attended. He was advocating for more infusion of low interest loans into third world countries. The Prince is no dummy. He’s interested in a better world—which is why I suppose he was at the conference. Being Prince of Wales, he doesn’t get to speak his mind about much.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No, of course not. The royals can’t be partial or political in any way, but of course everyone knows that.”
I take a bite of my curry. It’s so hot it almost burns my mouth off. I swig down some water thinking, maybe it is better that I was taken off his biography. I really don’t know anything about modern royals, not to mention the fact that when the Prince stepped out of the car with that gorgeous woman, I felt a stab of jealousy. After all, weren’t the Prince and I alone together the other night? Alone and eating a frittata straight out of the pan in Holyrood Palace? Doesn’t that mean anything?
“He talked to me about the last bastions of poverty, in Africa, in Asia etc. and how he hoped the banking world would make it a mission to lift these people out of destitution with micro lending and such. It’s a crazy thing talking to the Prince of Wales. He has a way of making you think you are the only person in the room. He’s a genuinely nice, charismatic guy. No wonder the women love him. But the British press rakes him over the coals every time the poor man date’s someone new.”
“Why?”
“He’s twenty-nine and he’s the only heir to the throne. The royal family is so small, the whole country wants to see him married to the right woman and with a proper heir. What can I say, we love our traditions.”
I smile at this. It’s nice having a conversation with a normal human being. I need to relax and enjoy this moment. I am on a date with an intelligent, handsome man.
“Oh…my…what is this?” Jack questions, still watching the TV screen. The shot of the Prince stepping out on a red carpet has changed. Now the screen is red and a breaking news bulletin flashes across the bottom of the screen.
‘The Minster of Public Works, Shanika Wilks, was taken into custody today. A six month long investigation by Scotland Yard determined that Ms. Wilks and her undersecretaries have been taking part in a system of kickbacks, doling out building permits to several businesses in return for bribes. Careful monitoring of Swiss accounts opened by associates of Ms. Wilks reveal over five million pounds have been deposited into these accounts in recent months. When questioned about the activity, Prime Minister Morton denied knowing of any impropriety surrounding Wilks, even though the two have been close friends for over thirty years.”
“My goodness,” Jack sputters, “Marianne works for the Ministry of Public Works. She’s an administrative assistant. She works for a director who reports to Wilks. Would you excuse me, I think I should give her a call. See if she’s seen the news.”
Jack stands up and heads outside. In modern day London, cell phones have been banned in every restaurant. People were tired of having their dinners ruined by someone blabbing away on a cell phone at the next table.
A moment later, Jack returns. “I’m sorry, Trudy. Do you mind if we call it a night. Marianne’s being questioned by the police.”
“Questioned by the police?”
“Yeah, it’s really confusing. I couldn’t understand a word of it. Sounds like she and several others who work at the Ministry have been rounded up to see what they know.” Jack’s brow furls in concern. “Marianne mumbled something about this scandal possibly going all the way up to the Prime Minister, like they just alluded to on the TV. My sister’s practically a kid. I need to get down there.”
I’m sorry to see him go, and just when I was getting some sense of normalcy. Being the gallant person he is, Jack offers to walk me up to my hotel room. I decline. I have had enough. I am tired of hearing about intrigue. All I want to do is fall down on my bed, close my eyes, and forget the world. He hesitates before he leaves, and then he gives me a quick kiss on my cheek. If everything weren’t so confus
ing right now, I might have relished that kiss. Instead, I walk zombie like to my room. Before going to bed I check the locks on my door three times.
‘It’s locked” I mumble to myself over and over from beneath my bed covers before I finally fall asleep somewhere around one in the morning.
Eight hours later the front desk rings, waking me up.
“Good Morning, Ms. Rue. We received a large envelope for you in today’s mail.”
Curiosity compels me to dress quickly and dash down the stairs. I open the flat parcel and find the mail Meg has forwarded. There are a few credit card offers, a bill from my dentist, and a large envelope from Goodwill. It must be a thank you letter from my friend, Sue Potts. I head back upstairs to my room and open the letter. Inside, I find a thick role of papers with a sticky note that reads:
“These papers were found in the inside breast pockets of one of your ex’s jackets. Looked important. I thought I would return them.
Hope you are having fun with the prince,
Sue.”
Hastily I unroll the papers and flatten them. The first one is a hand-written letter that reads.
Sean,
I do believe this goes all the way up to Morton and I can prove it. Here are the photos I took.
Love, E.
I stare down at a grainy picture. Wait a minute, I recognize this woman in the picture. I flip through a few more pictures. Yes, I know this woman. She is the woman who was on the news last night. It is Shanika Wilks, the Minister of Public works. And oh, hold the phone, I also think I know the man in the picture.
It’s Pierre, the creepy guy from the art gallery!
What the heck? Many of the pictures show the two together in a luxurious office, drinking tea. Each photo contains a date stamp from over four month ago. In one photo, I notice Pierre is clearly pocketing a thick envelope.
I sit down on the bed. I have no idea what any of this means. How on earth does this tie anything to the Prime Minister of Great Britain like the mysterious E. has written? I’m so confused about everything now that I lay back on the bed and simply stare at the ceiling.
Sean is dead…the man from the pub who tried to be brave is dead….and the mysterious E., who I believe cut the picture of my head out of a photo, has been sending Sean pictures of the Public Works’ Minister with Pierre from the art gallery?
What is going on?
Feeling shaken, I decide to close my eyes and think of something happy. Immediately I see the warm smile of the Prince as we eat a frittata in the kitchen of Holyrood Palace.
Stop it, stop it. Fantasies of this sort are not healthy. I open my eyes, sit up and think that maybe I should call the police. Yes, yes, I should call the police but which one, the one in the Cotswolds or the NYPD? If I call the detective in New York what will I tell him exactly? That Sean was carrying around pictures of the Minister of Public Works with Pierre, the weird guy who chatted me up at the Mursk Gallery?
My cell rings and I jump. I scan the incoming number. It’s Jack. For a second, I think about hiding under the bed. I’m still not sure who I can trust. How odd is it that Jack’s sister Marianne works at the Ministry of Public Works? Could it be that being rundown by Marianne was not an accident?
Three rings later and I pick up the phone. I need some answers.
“Hello, Trudy?” Jack asks. “I’m downstairs. I know it’s early, but any chance you might be able to pop down for a cup of tea.”
“I’ll be right there.” I stuff the pictures into my bag. Trying to steady my nerves with deep, calm breaths, I take the elevator down to the lobby.
I stride out of the elevator, a woman on a mission. If Jack knows anything about what is going on, I am going to force his hand.
Chapter 16
I find Jack alone in a corner. He’s wearing tweed again. He wants to know what kind of tea I want. I wave him off.
“How’s Marianne?” I ask
“Well,” he mumbles and shifts uncomfortably on the gold sofa. I plop down next to him in a wing chair and wait with bated breath.
“The inquiry is quite extensive. The detectives allowed her to go home last night, but they said they could call her back at any moment. She’s a little unnerved, poor thing.”
She’s not the only feeling that way, I think, as the waiter comes by and sets down a pot of Darjeeling.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I understand what’s going on at the ministry?” I raise a curious brow.
“Quite right,” he explains with a twinkle in his eye, “It appears to be a bit of dirty politics. A kind of scandal the Labour Party hasn’t seen in, well, frankly I can’t remember anything of this type happening to Labour. It looks like the Minister of Public Works was on the take. You see, recently the Prime Minister pushed through a bill called “the Restitution of Victorian, Edwardian and Georgian Architecture to Modern Day London.” It was a controversial bill. Basically, all buildings built after 1950 that don’t meet the architectural aesthetics of those periods have to be redone. They have to be torn down and rebuilt, so that London has unified architecture, more like Paris or Rome. In recent years, it has been impossible to build anything that doesn’t meet these aesthetics, but in the late 1960’s and the 1970’s they put up a lot of different architecture. All those buildings have to go. And as you can imagine, it is quite an expense for the people who own them.”
I nod my head.
“Anyway, in order to get an exemption from the law, you have to file for a permit. And guess which ministry doles out the permits.”
“The Ministry of Public Works?”
“Right you are. Even though they are called Public Works, they are the ones issuing these permits to the private sector. Given the expense of having to tear down a building and trying to replace it with one that meets the architectural standards, well,” he shakes his head, “let’s just say that businesses have been desperate to receive extensions, and it appears they have been willing to pay under the table to get them. Finally some companies complained to Scotland Yard, saying that in order to get a permit they were required to pay an extra fee.”
“A kickback,” I hazard.
“Right, a kickback. Companies have been wiring their kickback to Swiss bank accounts. The names on the accounts turned out to be fraudulent and although the paper trail is difficult to follow, the accounts all seem to belong to people who worked directly for the Minister of Public Works. Although they couldn’t track it directly back to Minister Wilkes, Scotland Yard has been monitoring her bank accounts and also examining her lifestyle. The Public Works Minister seems to be outliving her finances by quite a bit. That’s what this is all about. And many people claim, as you already know, that this goes all the way up to Prime Minister Morton. Anyway, that’s what Marianne’s caught up in, even though she is an innocent.”
“It sounds huge,” I muse. My stomach grumbles as the waiter places a plate of Danishes in front of us. They look delicious, but my stress level is so high, I can’t bring myself to eat.
“Perhaps larger than we even know,” Jack responds, “Marianne told me she thinks this whole scheme may have been why the Prime Minister pushed for the passage of the law in the first place. Anyway, I wanted to come by this morning to tell you I’m sorry I ran off so fast last night.”
“What?” I cut him off, almost overturning my tea cup. What did he just say? He thinks this may be why Prime Minister Morton passed the law in the first place?
“Dear Trudy, what do you think of all of us? Here you are, a historian from New York and all of a sudden we are talking about such serious matters. Let’s not worry about the government. How about a proper dinner tonight at a proper restaurant —“
“I need to talk to Marianne,” I say firmly.
Jack looks shocked.
“What…why?”
“I need to talk to her in a public place.”
“But why would you need to talk to Marianne?”
“I need to talk to someone in Public Works about these
.” I reach into my handbag and pull out the pictures of the Minister of Public Works with Pierre. I thrust them at Jack.
“Why on earth do you have photos of Shanika Wilkes with the Prime Minister’s ex-husband?”
Now I am the one who is shocked. Pierre is the Prime Minister’s ex-husband? Jack stares at me and I stare back as if we are both waiting for the other one to drop a new bombshell. Jack gives me a who-the-heck-are-you look and I return one right back. Then I show him the handwritten letter from the mysterious E. and he goes ash gray, as if he is having a heart attack.
I watch him intently as he dials Marianne with a shaky hand. They speak in such low voices that I can’t understand what they’re saying. A minute later he stands up to leave. He appears hurt and sad and, if I may use a very American expression, positively freaked.
“Meet us at the cafeteria in the British Museum in an hour,” he mumbles, “it’s close to where Marianne lives. I think it’s better if we go there separately, because I have no idea who you are, or how you could be in possession of this note. Don’t worry about the check, I’ll get it.” Gruffly, he stands up and moves off to settle the tab with the waiter.
Thinking that my life is becoming stranger with each passing second, I immediately call the Cotswolds police. I tell them about the pictures I have of Mrs. Wilkes and Pierre, and ask if they have made any headway on the case.
“We haven’t,” a police officer named Torrance Mach tells me. There’s something in his voice that makes me think he isn’t telling me the whole truth. I inform him that I am about to go to a meeting with an employee of the Minister of Public Works. This causes Torrance to break his silence. “Ms. Rue a bit of prudence is best exercised in this case. We’ve been in contact with the NYPD and we have some concerns.”
“Go on,” I urge.
“Right, well, the death of your friend Sean McKenzie has been investigated by the FBI.”
“What?” I ask.
“Yes, the NYPD no longer believe Mr. Mc Kenzie was killed by a random person. They believe it was professional hit.”