Eternity's Sunrise (A New Doc Palfrey Thriller)

by Richard Creasey

  “Okay?” Ted’s tone indicated that he knew it wasn’t.

  “The number keeps dropping,” I replied after trying it a third time.

  “What’s the number? I’ll check it out.”

  “913 2458.”

  I watched the number coming up on Jaguar's dashboard screen as Ted punched it out using the buttons on the steering wheel, and frowned at the message that sprang up next.

  ‘Number cancelled’.

  “Are you sure it’s the right number?” Dame Marion had looked up from her files.

  “Yes!” I was too definite as my patched-up comfort zone started to unravel. What about Father?

  I texted him. You there?

  A wave of relief spread around my body as I saw his reply coming through.

  Lucille! I’ve been so worried?

  I’m fine. No need to worry.

  I was told you were dead.

  I’m in New York.

  I’m getting ready to fly to Dubai, an emergency meeting about the League.

  Dubai?

  I need to hear your voice.

  I’ll call from home in two. xx. Our texts clicked off.

  Who could have told him I was dead?

  “So at least your father’s phone is working.”

  “How did you know who I was texting?” I swung round to look at Dame Marion, almost angry. Was I being spied on?

  “An educated guess. Boyfriend first, father second”

  Ted swept up to the grand entrance to the Park Central Hotel.

  The doorman beat Ted to opening Dame Marion’s door. “Welcome back m’lady.”

  Ted opened my door for Dame Marion to address me. “We’re proud of you Lucille, very proud.” She leant forward to look me square in the eyes as if to prove it and then turned to Ted as she straightened up. “If there are any problems I am sure you will sort them out.”

  Ted closed my door, climbed back in the car and looked at me. Both of us let out a burst of spontaneous laughter. I said, “Who was she?”

  “Dame Marion Palfrey, Z5’s big cheese. It’s three in the morning her time. But as you will have noticed, she’s alarmingly wide awake.”

  “What’s she doing in New York?”

  “A meeting at the UN.”

  So they hadn’t come to see me. Ted caught my touch of deflation and steered my thoughts to safety. “76th and Madison isn’t it?”

  I was home.

  Jake, the porter, shook his head trying to forget how many times he’d had to give me a spare key and watched as I sprang into the elevator.

  Ted alongside me.

  As the elevator door opened onto the spacious landing that led to our front door of our two-storey apartment I could feel myself relaxing, sinking into the deep pile carpet and glancing at the giant, ornate, gold-leaf mirror.

  I glanced into it to see how I looked, as I always did.

  Not bad, considering!

  There’s something about putting your own keys into your own locks. There are two on this door and with both I get that home-at-last feeling.

  And as you open the door anticipation instantly turns to normality as everything is so reassuringly as you left it.

  Except it wasn’t. Not at all.

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My coat’s gone, my boots. Where’s my hat?”

  I sped into the main room. My portrait, the one Father had commissioned from Linda Tracey Brandon was gone, leaving a glaring blank space. Everything else seemed untouched. Books galore. Ornaments loved by Mum, flower vases with dying flowers I’d bought before I’d left. Rows of smiling photographs of Father, Mum and — none of me.

  All my photos had gone.

  *

  Tears were welling up in my eyes as I rushed up the wide staircase to the second floor.

  My bedroom had been stripped bare. Repainted white. An empty white box with a wooden floor.

  I was crying with despair and fear as I swung towards my Father’s room.

  The door was open and there, piled high, were all my things.

  My bed, desk, chairs and two chests of drawers, with their drawers emptied lined the walls and the Brandon portrait partially blocked out the stunning view of Central Park. Over the top of all this were my clothes — piled high, scattered around as if they’d just been chucked in. And I caught a glimpse of so much else, my laptop, files, pens, dozens and dozens of books, photos from all over the flat, a few with the glass in their frames smashed, the splinters scattered on the wooden floor.

  “Why?” I shrieked. “Why would anyone do this? What the hell is going on?”

  Ted put a strong arm around me. “We’ll sort this out tomorrow. Right now we get out of here.”

  And we slammed the door and fled.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The doors of the Warehouse in Greenwich Village slid open as Ted and I approached. The two receptionists took a second off from their customers for a wide-eyed, inquisitive ogle. The manager appeared from his office. A security officer was standing by the third elevator — doors open ready for Ted and me to sweep in.

  “Why are they all staring at me?” I frowned at Ted.

  “The hotel’s owned by the husband of Benadir Abhilasha, who runs Z5’s headquarters in London.” Ted had a touch of envy in his voice.

  “So?”

  “It’s where he brings his mistresses on visits to Manhattan.”

  “And they think I’m his mistress?”

  “One of them.”

  I shook my bewildered head, too numbed by everything that had happened to respond further.

  The security officer operated the lift to whisk us to the top, the very top, beyond the 8 of the electronic counter.

  The brushed doors opened onto a glass-walled, luxury penthouse. Outside were trees and the pool, lit up against the winter dark. Inside, a dream space that one of the world’s top architects, James Roth it transpired, had turned into a designer reality.

  I hadn’t time for any of it, but my subconscious couldn’t help but be impressed.

  “Coffee, juice, or vodka?” asked Ted. He helped me off with my coat as the security officer disappeared behind the closing elevator doors.

  “I just want to know what’s going on.”

  Ted ignored my response just as I had ignored his question.

  “Two Cape Cods coming up.” I flopped onto the centre sofa while Ted mixed two vodka and cranberry cocktails.

  He brought them over and I soon found myself sipping gratefully while questions buzzed around my head. Before any were asked, a voice joined us from nowhere.

  “Hi Lucille. I’m Benadir Abhilasha.” My mind almost fused, until I saw Benadir’s wide, dark eyes greeting me from the ultra-thin television set. I glanced around the magnificent apartment

  “Ted said this is your place?”

  Benadir’s face beamed a smile. “Romesh, my husband, owns the Warehouse. The penthouse is reserved for him, his mistresses, their children and me. It does sound a bit weird when I say it like that.”

  “Just a bit.”

  A doorbell chimed. Benadir shifted her glance to Ted.

  “That’ll be Marion, she’s popping in to decide if I should fly over to help.”

  Ted jumped up as the elevator door opened for Dame Marion, her eyes were alert and confident with no sign of jetlag. It was as if a feeling of complete confidence and determination entered the penthouse with her. I could feel my heartbeat slow down, my breathing deepen and my muscles relax.

  Marion quickly agreed that Benadir should fly to New York on the first available flight. Benadir suggested Doc Palfrey should come too.

  *

  After two, or was it three? Cape Cod vodka specials Ted had said his goodbyes and Dame Marion was sitting on the sofa beside me. She was clear I was hiding nothing and that I had no idea what was going on. She promised that working out why my life had been turned upside down was now a top priority for Z5.

  Marion, gl
anced at her watch and asked if I had any questions before she left, and my mind flew back to Max, filled with fleeting visions:

  The crash — he seemed to be expecting it.

  Joy — was he expecting her?

  The white container — he knew they’d come.

  Joy gave herself up — he didn’t seem surprised.

  The escape from Pevek.

  I couldn’t help it. I was obsessed with Max, and I needed to know more about him and his work.

  “Max said you run Z5, but what kind of organisation is it? I mean do you run it by yourself?”

  “No. There are over thirty trustees, who come from all over the world. They include one Prime Minster, a number of Secretaries of State, police chiefs and generals…” Marion smiled. I had the feeling she could see through me like light through glass. “But you don’t want to hear about that. You want to hear about Max.” I didn’t contradict her. It was true. “He’s the son of a Russian banker, and a Canadian Inuit. One of the most considerate, even-handed, gifted, men I know. He is one of our special agents.”

  I felt my shoulders relax and then asked “And Joy?”

  “We have a lot more to learn about Joy and the man she worked for in the mines, Jean-Pierre Durand. They’re the main reason I am here.”

  ”I keep hearing about this Durand character. What does he want with me? Why am I even involved?”

  “We think that you’re being used to get at your father.”

  “My father?”

  Marion was searching my eyes as she asked: “Has he ever mentioned an organisation called the ‘League of Enlightenment’?”

  My eyes narrowed. “He joined the League a year ago. He changed his will and now a chunk of money that would have come to me will be going to them when he dies. It’s all to do with bringing cheap energy to poor people. All over the world… But this can’t have anything to do with that.”

  Dame Marion stayed silent.

  “Can it?” I queried.

  “All we know for sure is that your father’s a member of the League of Enlightment, so is Bernard Hautcret’s father and Jean-Pierre Durand fuels it from the mine.”

  “That place? It can’t be. You’re saying it’s the League’s source of cheap energy?”

  “We don’t know, Lucille. Not for certain. Not yet. Would you be prepared to help us find out?”

  The question took me by surprise. I glanced around the room and back into Marion’s questioning eyes. How could I say no?

  “Benadir and my son Dr Tom Palfrey…” Dame Marion seemed to falter for the first time. “We will do all we can to help.”

  *

  Before collapsing into sleep and the prospect of another day, I skyped Father.

  A call to reassure, not to inform. A call to dissipate worry not to create it. A call to ask when we could meet. Meet and hug, and look each other in the eyes. He saw me on the screen. Said that I looked tired and asked why I was not at the apartment. Father looked off-colour too, grey in fact, so I countered saying we both looked terrible because of the bad video quality, and bluffed and mentioned Benadir. Bernard? He questioned. No, Father. He’s in Alaska, but I had a feeling he was not and called a halt. I need to see you. I’ll be in Dubai. Maybe I’ll fly out there. And there we left the call. Father was not looking well but happier than he was; I was so tired I could hardly think.

  I didn’t dream.

  I slept for twelve hours — straight out.

  Judging from the linen sheets and sumptuous, feather-light duvet, I had neither tossed nor turned.

  Not once.

  I woke refreshed, knowing I was ready and prepared to take on what was to come, not be overwhelmed and suffocated by memories of the past few days.

  Why was that? The thought of helping Max I suspected.

  But there were so many things ahead I couldn’t look forward to. Finding Bernard to ask him what was up. Had he gone back to his science lab in CERN?

  And tell him it was over.

  Sorting the apartment. I scowled at that but knew that Ted would help.

  But first I let my eyes slowly wake and widen as they wandered around the minimalist, sand-coloured room. As they began to focus I failed to find a window. There must be one.

  I stirred, propped myself up and found a touch-screen embedded in the table by my right side. I looked at my wrist where my watch should have been. My mind sped to Mum.

  I forced my eyes to focus on the touch-screen.

  ‘Window’ I read, and clicked.

  The whole wall on my right cleared to show a floor-to-ceiling window that opened onto a roof-top garden full of trees and plants fit for a king, or indeed Benadir’s maharaja father in law, and an infinity pool that appeared to overflow into Greenwich Village.

  Another click and the smoked glass wall beyond the foot of my ten star bed cleared to show the huge living area where I’d thrown so many questions at Marion.

  I sheepishly hauled the duvet up to my neck as I saw Benadir glance round at me. She wore a fuchsia pink bathrobe and a matching towel was wrapped around her hair. She made a ‘coffee?’ gesture.

  As I nodded enthusiastically I took in the man by her side.

  Dressed only in a dark grey T-shirt and magenta boxer shorts he was stretched out on the sofa fixing on a prosthetic leg. It was thicker and heavier than I would have expected.

  Would have expected? What did I know?

  He glanced at me held up two fingers, Winston Churchill victory style, and his face said ‘won’t be long.’

  This man, with a wet mop of untidy dark hair and a very British shaven face, was of course Dame Marion’s son.

  And I knew by every flow of their body language that Benadir and Doc were a couple.

  This was Benadir’s man and there was nothing she could do to hide it, especially here in the intimacy of her own pad.

  Benadir came to my door, on her way to the spacious kitchen.

  “Want a shower? Or you could go for a swim. Doc and I just did — the pool’s lovely and warm.”

  I glanced out of the window at a whirling wind turbine.

  “Just a quick shower.”

  “See you in ten.”

  And as Benadir slipped back out of the door, the glass smoked over, my privacy and their’s restored.

  I was shell-shocked.

  How could Max not have told me Doc only had one leg?

  *

  “Doc. You okay?” Benadir’s voice was anxious as Doc grimaced with pain, his leg had snagged whilst climbing out of the Jaguar.

  “It’s nothing.” Doc slung a backpack over his shoulders, as if he was setting out on a hike in the mountains rather than a walk in Manhattan. He looked deep into Benadir’s eyes, “I’m fine.”

  Benadir gave him a resigned nod of acceptance.

  “Sofia says don’t get that leg wet. And keep all your coms open,” Benadir instructed as Doc strode off into the mayhem that is Battery Park City.

  I had no idea why, although I’d find out all too soon.

  I was concentrating on Ted as he eased the Jaguar into the traffic and steered Benadir and me across town to First Avenue, to Fifth and home.

  I could feel my stomach tensing. In just a few minutes we’d be back in my apartment where reality would strike again.

  How could any one just wipe me out like that?

  Should I just put everything back where it was?

  Pretend nothing had happened?

  Should I tell Father?

  Benadir’s view was that, now the shock was over, we should assess things coolly and cross all the bridges when we get to them.

  If nothing appeared to be missing, then it might be daft to bring in the police. If anything was missing...?

  Jake wasn’t in the porter’s lodge, unusual, but not extraordinary.

  The Sargent mortise on the front door was already unlocked. That was odd. I could have sworn I secured both locks last night. It was a habit. This is Manhattan. I always double-lock.

 
I swung round to Benadir who frowned, took the bunch of keys off me, put her right forefinger to her lips for silence. Her eyes screwed with concentration, her face taut.

  Slowly Benadir eased open the Yale lock and then the door.

  And I saw my coat, both pairs of boots and my hat.

  I pushed the door open and marched in.

  In the glorious main room the photos were back in place. My portrait too.

  “Was it all a dream?” I mused under my breath as I raced up the stairs.

  Benadir had left the front door ajar and climbed the stairs to join me. Back to cautioned silence we slipped into my room.

  Everything was in place, perfectly in place, the bed had been made, my clothes folded or hung, my jewellery back exactly where it belonged, the smashed glass in the photo frames repaired.

  But the walls were still white from the repaint, it hadn’t been a dream.

  Father’s room was Father’s room again, he would never have known. Maybe I’d never tell him.

  “Did you do this?”

  “No. I wish we had, but no.”

  I flopped onto Father’s bed, as I had done so many times in the past, but this time I was empty, exhausted, and scared. Very scared.

  “Anyone there? Lucille? Can I come in?”

  Benadir looked towards the door and then at me.

  “Pat. My next door neighbour.”

  “Pat! Yes. We’re upstairs. Coming down.”

  Pat, size 16, unfashionably dressed in a flowing skirt and tunic top, and winner of every best neighbour award going, bounced into the apartment, as we reached the bottom of the bedroom staircase.

  “Pat — Benadir, Benadir — Pat.” I motioned.

  And then tears filled my eyes as Pat’s vast arms folded around me, hugging away the hurt.

  “I knew something was wrong.”

  “Why?” I wriggled free of her motherly bosom. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “Ever known me say no?” and I smiled and led the three of us to the kitchen’

  “How did you know something was wrong?” Benadir broke the silence as I gave a ‘You can say anything in front of Benadir’ nod, scooped the coffee into a cafetiere, boiled the kettle and pulled three green Italian coffee mugs down from the shelf.