Those Who Feel Nothing

by Peter Guttridge

  ‘Siem Reap is where Angkor Wat is?’ Watts said.

  ‘It’s the nearest town, yes.’

  ‘You import Hungarian objects too?’

  ‘Not so much. It’s more of a distribution point for the Asian things we sell around Europe.’

  Watts frowned. ‘I assumed you would ship these big pieces in by sea.’

  She looked perplexed. ‘We do.’

  ‘Hungary is land-locked.’

  She laughed. It was a nice laugh. ‘I guess you’ve never heard of the Danube.’

  ‘I know it empties into the Black Sea. That doesn’t seem too direct a route from China.’

  He couldn’t figure out her smile. ‘I’m not an expert on maritime export routes,’ she said, still smiling. ‘I leave that to my bosses. All I know is that our goods come into this country via Newhaven. Legitimately.’

  ‘I wasn’t supposing anything other than legitimately.’

  ‘You seem to be taking an inordinate interest in our business,’ she said with a tilt of her head.

  ‘Curiosity about things is my strength and my weakness,’ he said, an apologetic smile on his face. ‘I like to figure out how things work.’

  She seemed to accept that. She looked at him but didn’t say anything.

  ‘OK, well, I’d better let you get on,’ he said.

  ‘You were just looking,’ she said, her eyes not leaving his.

  ‘Wandered in on a whim, I admit.’

  She smiled at him again. She was a very good-looking woman.

  ‘So you’re not going to ask me out on a date?’

  He was actually quite surprised but then he was useless with women. He was out of his depth. Again.

  ‘Is that what you think I was building up to?’

  ‘Lot of wasted effort otherwise, surely?’

  ‘Whatever happened to the simple art of conversation?’ he said, almost plaintively.

  She smiled back at him. ‘You really think any conversation is simple?’

  He shook his head. After a moment he said: ‘Do you mind if I ask your name?’

  She held out her hand. ‘My name is Monique.’

  He gave her hand a gentle shake. ‘I’m—’

  ‘You’re Bob Watts, our new police commissioner.’

  So much for being discreet.

  You are at the flea market on the outskirts of Budapest. It is bitterly cold and everyone is in warm hats and thick coats. Everyone except you. You are wearing warmer clothing than in Cambodia but it is still not right for this harsh weather.

  A sprawling, haphazard place, part shanty town, part junk yard. Boardwalks of splintered and rotting wood sinking into mud, odd slabs of concrete and uneven paving stones.

  It stinks of desperation.

  A man with raw hands stands in the open beside what looks like a small trash heap. You look closer and see it is made up of old tools and spare parts all tangled together: nuts and bolts, spanners and hammers, spools of wire, cogs and chisels. Beyond him an old lady huddles in a fur coat and Cossack hat beside a table on which she has a few vases and wine glasses. She has a look on her face that suggests her cupboard is now bare.

  You walk down a narrow alley between tiny wooden stalls. As you near the end of the alley, the stalls have crude wooden rooms behind them containing paintings in heavy frames hung above old desks and chests of drawers.

  Your quarry, Harry Nesbo, is fifteen yards ahead of you. At this end of the alley he has slowed down. He asks a bleached blonde woman the price of an old mirror and shakes his head. He offers another price and the seller shakes her head. He nods and moves on.

  You can’t hear whether the man speaks Hungarian or Russian. Hungarian, you know, is a unique language, unrelated to any other European language. Is this man Hungarian? You don’t know anything about him except for a memorised photograph.

  He’s a job.

  You look at the mirror as you pass. It is badly silvered and the frame is chipping at top and bottom. You look into it. You do not recognize the man it reflects.

  Your quarry is now in the open, walking between lines of tables selling old metalwork, locks and glassware. As he holds a big lock in his hand he casually looks back down the alley. It is too late for you to hide.

  ‘How much?’ you say in your passable Russian to the bleached blonde, pointing at the silvered mirror. You can speak Hungarian too, though mostly it’s obscene slang. She quotes a price in Euros. It’s high.

  ‘It is damaged,’ you say, indicating the frame.

  She looks at you contemptuously. ‘It was made in 1850,’ she says, as if talking to a child or an idiot. You feel like the latter.

  You shake your head and turn to move on. You are aware the man was watching the exchange. You see him catch her eye and shake his head wearily.

  You pretend not to notice and move off to look at a table of medals. You feel exposed in this outdoor section and unsure whether you have been spotted. You are also freezing, your fingers and ears pinching.

  You duck into a big room. It has electricity – a television is playing – but there is no heating.

  This is a furniture room but with a lot of books and paintings. You are examining a scratched art deco bureau when your man enters the room from the opposite end. He pays you no attention but drifts towards a bookshelf. You are watching in a mirror, aware that the reflection of your own pinched face is blue with cold.

  The man riffles casually through a pile of magazines. He starts to look in your direction so you turn away from the mirror and focus on a horrible vase. When you casually glance back your quarry is gone.

  ‘It’s huge,’ Gilchrist said, looking around the banqueting room and up at the enormous crystal chandelier, hanging from the claws of a dragon at the apex of a dome decorated with the moon and stars and images of curious beasts.

  ‘It looks extra big because we’ve taken out the centre table,’ Rutherford replied. ‘We’re starting a refurbishment here in a couple of weeks. It took us a week to move the table.’ She saw Gilchrist’s puzzled look. ‘The main table is laid as if for a nineteenth-century dinner party. It’s for display only – we never use it for real.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gilchrist said, wondering if she had ever been in here since a school visit when she was ten that she only vaguely remembered.

  ‘Takes almost a week to clear the table because there are so many items on it and each one has to be carefully handled,’ Rutherford concluded.

  Rutherford saw Merivale hovering by the half-dozen open crates and walked over to join him.

  Gilchrist gestured at the ceiling and said to Donaldson: ‘You’ll feel right at home here, Don-Don.’

  Donaldson looked up and frowned ‘Don’t get you,’ he grunted.

  ‘I think the detective inspector is referring to the all-seeing eye,’ Heap said, pointing to the eye within a triangle and circle high on the canopy among stars and planets.

  ‘There are lots of Masonic symbols scattered among the fantastical beasts,’ Rutherford called back. ‘The Prince of Wales was a keen Mason – he had his own lodge for almost fifty years and was Grand Master of the whole shebang for nearly twenty-five years. The other members of his lodge would have been tickled to see these symbols.’

  ‘You have no reason to believe I’m a Mason,’ Don-Don said quietly to Gilchrist, throwing a glance at Rutherford. Donaldson leaned in to Gilchrist and hissed: ‘And it’s not illegal if I were to be one. I believe the Labour government some fifteen years ago decided against a public register of Freemasons in the police.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gilchrist said, regretting her remark. ‘But officers could voluntarily disclose their membership.’

  ‘Nobody in Brighton did,’ Donaldson said. He smirked. ‘But then keeping your membership secret is rather the point of a secret society, isn’t it, ma’am?’

  A female voice from the door:

  ‘Anjelica – sorry I’m late.’

  They all turned. A strikingly attractive woman walked in,
smiling at Rutherford whilst acknowledging the others. She was in high heels and knew she had good legs since she wore a short, canary yellow dress that showed them off.

  ‘Charlotte,’ Rutherford declared, hugging her and exchanging air kisses. She turned. ‘This is Charlotte Byng.’

  As everyone was introduced, Gilchrist felt a twinge of something she didn’t want to recognize as jealousy because Merivale was looking at Byng appreciatively. Wolfishly, in fact. She looked at Byng’s slender shape and felt like a heifer.

  ‘Charlotte is one of the experts in the South-East Asia section of the British Museum,’ Rutherford explained.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Byng said. ‘A day late, actually – sorry about yesterday too.’

  Rutherford murmured something and gave her arm a squeeze.

  ‘So what have you uncovered so far?’ Byng said as she joined Merivale at a trestle table on which a handful of items had been laid out.

  ‘Well, there’s a male head and upper torso – obviously sheared off from a full statue.’ Merivale indicated a sandstone carving some three feet high. The right hand was raised palm out. There was a symbol carved on it.

  ‘Thirteenth century, I’d say,’ Byng said.

  ‘What does that gesture mean?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘The gesture is called abhayo mudra,’ Byng said. ‘It offers peace.’

  ‘Who do you think it is?’ Merivale said.

  Byng shrugged. ‘Hard to say. We’d need to know where it has come from to know that. He’s wearing a kind of crown so it may be a Buddhist bodhisattva or a form of Vishnu, the Hindu god.’

  Gilchrist pointed at a tiny bronze statue some six inches high and about the same length. ‘What is that?’

  ‘That’s Ganesh riding on a rat,’ Byng said. ‘His favourite form of transport.’ She indicated another bronze statue, this one about four feet high. ‘There he is again.’

  This time Ganesh was sitting cross-legged with one pair of hands placed on his knees. His second set of arms pointed upwards but were broken off at the wrist.

  ‘So has the British Museum got the Cambodian equivalent of the Elgin Marbles?’ Heap said to Byng.

  ‘Actually not,’ she said. ‘Have you ever read Gods, Graves and Scholars?’

  ‘Not for a long time,’ Merivale said.

  I’ve never heard of Gods, Graves and Scholars, Gilchrist thought but didn’t say.

  Donaldson just grunted.

  ‘It was the book that started a whole generation of archaeologists off. It romanticised the early archaeologists, who were as much explorers as academics. Hacking through jungles, digging up deserts, working from myths and legends.’

  ‘It’s what got you started?’ Merivale said.

  Byng laughed. ‘Should I be offended? Surely I don’t look that old? It was published just after the Second World War.’

  ‘Why do you mention it then?’ Gilchrist said. She wasn’t sure of her tone but Heap glanced at her so she knew it wasn’t good.

  ‘The book typifies the attitude then to what were regarded as the great civilisations, the ones worth studying. And the British Museum original collection reflects that approach. We have Greek and Roman and Egyptian and Assyrian at the core. Then we have some Mesopotamian and a little Phoenician. A hint of Mayan and Aztec. Some Indian. But Cambodia and Vietnam? Only a couple of glass cases. Angkor Wat – not a thing.’

  ‘But now – you acquire things all the time, don’t you?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘It’s not possible to build a big collection from abroad any more. Attitudes to important objects leaving their home countries have changed dramatically. There is very little from Cambodia in the whole of the United Kingdom.’

  ‘So you were surprised when you heard about a hoard of stuff from Angkor Wat in Brighton,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I was astounded … and unbelievably excited.’ She looked at them. ‘If it reached here legitimately.’

  ‘Well, there’s the thing,’ Gilchrist said. ‘That’s what we’re trying to figure out. You’ve heard about Bernard Rafferty?’

  Byng glanced at Rutherford. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a comment.’

  ‘I’m just saying that he is linked to the hoard in a way we’re still trying to ascertain.’

  Byng frowned as she thought for a moment. ‘I don’t quite get the link. Although he probably knows Charles Windsor.’

  ‘Charles Windsor?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Yes. One of the world’s few great authorities on Khmer art, particularly from the Angkor period.’

  ‘Why would he know him?’ Gilchrist said.

  Byng looked at her, then at the blank faces of Heap and Donaldson. ‘Well, because he has a shop in Brighton.’

  You hurry back into the open and down the narrow lane towards the woman with her vases and the man with his scrapheap. Two men appear in front of you. Big men. They block your way. You’re aware of someone looming just behind you.

  You’re standing near the scrapheap. The man with the raw hands has made himself scarce. You reach down and pull out a wrench and swing it at the nearest man’s head. He falls against the second man and you turn and the third man is right behind you – near enough to take the wrench full in his face.

  You turn back and swing at the man who is unbalanced but as yet unhurt. He puts his arm up to block the blow so you jab at his face and then again. You drop the wrench and head for the road.

  You see your quarry beneath the flyover getting into a black Mercedes. He has a parcel in his hand but where it came from you have no idea. A beaten-up taxi is idling near you. You get in. You can’t exactly ask the driver to follow that car but there is only one road back into town so you give the name of your hotel. You ask the driver in Russian to turn the heating up. He shrugs. No heating. He points to his own hat with ear flaps.

  ‘Get a hat and coat like everyone else,’ he says in Russian. Muttering, in Hungarian: ‘Fucking Russki idiot.’

  You’re cold, you’re cross with yourself for cocking up your job at the flea market and you have no idea how to follow your quarry without tipping your hand. However, the driver has pissed you off and you have a gun so you seriously contemplate shooting him and taking his cab.

  ‘I need to stop here,’ you say, indicating the verge along the side of the road.

  ‘You said hotel.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ you say in Russian. ‘Don’t want to mess up your car.’

  ‘Shit, piss, wank,’ the driver mutters in Hungarian. ‘Fucking kulak.’

  He veers over to the verge and slams on the brakes.

  You roll out of the back seat and fall on your knees in freezing mud. You’re pretty sure he isn’t going to drive off without you. Taxis don’t queue at the flea market unless the driver is desperate for money.

  The mud has immediately soaked into your trousers. That irritates you even more. You do the gagging noises and dry heaving and wave behind you with your left hand to get the driver to come over. Nothing happens.

  You put your forehead in the mud and keep waving your hand. You hear cursing and footsteps and the driver, somewhere to your left, says, in Hungarian: ‘What do you want, fuck face?’

  You sit up straight and from the kneeling position stand, with a sucking noise as your knees come out of the mud. The driver is looking down at the verge and there’s a perplexed look on his face because there’s no vomit to be seen. You note his coat is open.

  You hit him in the throat and knee him between the legs and drive a punch into his solar plexus, deep beneath his diaphragm. Now there is vomit. His, projected over your shoulder. You turn and let him slide down to the mud, snatching his hat off his head as he falls.

  You look inside the hat, turn it round and round. Looks pretty new and not too greasy. You jam it on your head and jump into the taxi. You force your way back into the traffic and go hunting for your quarry.

  The driver isn’t going to be feeling too good anytime soon. But at least you didn’t kill him.
<
br />   ELEVEN

  Soon after Byng dropped the bombshell about a Cambodian art expert with a shop in Brighton, Merivale left for another appointment. He suggested to Byng that they meet again at the safe UNESCO storage space to which he was going to move the artefacts. Gilchrist tried not to be jealous, although actually he left almost brusquely before Byng had quite agreed. Gilchrist was still staring after him when Donaldson too got up.

  ‘Well, this has all been very interesting but I’ve got a murder to investigate. If you’ll excuse me, ma’am. Ladies.’ He glanced at Heap. ‘Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘I should go too,’ Heap said. ‘Go and check out Youk’s digs.’

  ‘Stay a bit longer, Bellamy,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I’ll go with you. I want to hear more about this Windsor man. Tell me, Charlotte – do you think he should be called in to examine what we’ve found here?’

  Byng glanced at Rutherford.‘Probably not. But I think it would be worth talking to him, if he’s around.’ She indicated the sofas. ‘Shall we?’

  Once settled, Byng said: ‘Charles Windsor has got a “special arrangement” with several museums in Europe and America.’

  Gilchrist hoped she didn’t sound impatient. ‘For now, tell me about him and Brighton.’

  Byng looked at her. OK, she obviously did sound impatient.

  ‘As I said, he’s a world expert on Khmer art,’ Byng continued. ‘He has written the definitive book on it. But he’s under investigation in the US at the moment. A federal seizure lawsuit has been issued there on behalf of Cambodia for the return of two statues illegally removed from the country in 1975.’

  ‘Are either one of these statues the Ganesh you talked about?’ Gilchrist said to Rutherford.

  ‘The big brass one?’ Byng said to her friend.

  Rutherford nodded.

  ‘No. These are something else.’

  ‘What does Windsor say?’

  ‘He denies the accusations, of course. But he’s got form. He’s been implicated in the sale of looted artefacts to the New York, Chicago and Philadelphia museums.’

  ‘Quite an entrepreneur,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Quite so,’ Byng said. ‘In the main one, the federal lawyers say Mr Windsor – who is identified in court papers only as “the Collector” – bought a twelfth-century sandstone statue of a Khmer warrior sometime in the early seventies knowing that it had been looted from Koh Ker during the Cambodian civil war.’