Jigsaw Lovers

  The armoured van pulled up outside the jeweller in Strand Street, just after eleven. The two guards jumped out of the van. One carried a pump-action shotgun, held at the ready across his chest, the other a cash box.

  As they walked towards the entrance of the shop two men climbed from a nearby parked car. Each carried an AK47 assault rifle. One fired a short burst, in a sweeping movement. Both guards were hit. They and the cash box fell to the ground.

  Other pedestrians and passers-by also fell to the ground. For a moment there was silence, then someone started to scream. The guards moaned in agony. One had been shot through the spine; he felt no pain and was unable to move. The other had been hit in the stomach and leg; he was writhing in agony.

  The two gunmen approached the disabled and defenseless guards. They lowered their weapons and fired a dozen rounds into each guard. The bullets tore through the bodies and ricocheted from the pavement below, back into the flesh. Particles of concrete also entered the wounds, making them jump in one last lifelike spasm, although death had already claimed them as victims.

  One of the gunmen knelt to pick up the cash box. As he did so he didn’t notice the two men, drawing pistols, come out of the shop next to the jeweller’s entrance. He died as two 9mm hollow-point bullets blew the top of his head to pieces. The second gunman was just turning in response to the sound of the shots, which had killed his companion, when he too was hit by four rounds, which tore into his head and body, fragmenting on impact and shredding his vital organs. He was dead before he even began to fall towards the pavement.

  By the time the police arrived on the scene, a few minutes later, the two anonymous citizens who had shot the robbers were no where to be found.

  CHAPTER TENSmith sat back in his chair, holding the complete photograph in front of him, studying it, trying to understand and assess the implications it might herald.

  The fact that somebody had been able to take the photograph amazed him. How could anyone have taken such a photograph without them knowing? It was taken from the doorway. Surely they would have seen or heard someone, even in the height of their passion. Then he realised he was being stupid. There must have been a hidden camera in the room. But that couldn’t be possible. Diana wouldn’t do something like that. She was in love with him. No, he was convinced that she knew nothing about this.

  Maybe the aunt had installed the camera for some reason, such as a security measure, and somebody who knew about it had stumbled upon them by chance, and was now trying to use it to their advantage.

  He wondered if there were any more pictures; whether this was a one-off, or if his frequent visits to her apartment had all been photographed.

  Then he began to wonder about the manner in which the photograph had been sent to him. Rather than just post him the photograph whole, somebody had gone to a considerable effort to produce a highly finished professional-style jigsaw puzzle. The image was on thin card. The pieces fitted together perfectly. They had been stamped out, not cut out with scissors.

  Then the pieces had been sent to him, one by one. What was the motive behind that? At first he had thought it was a commercial competition or advertising gimmick, and hadn’t given them much thought. Then when he had put them together and recognised Diana’s bedroom he realised that it wasn’t a promotional stunt, and could think about little else. During the last week he had been on edge, waiting for the post to bring him another piece, and then another until he had final confirmation that it was what he thought it was.

  It was a most unnerving experience. He found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. He had dreamt about the pieces, several nights running, and had woken up in a cold sweat, unable to get back to sleep again. He was even more irritable at work than usual and this morning he had even shouted at his children for no good reason.

  It was as if someone was playing a cruel game with him.

  He wondered about the identity of the sender and their ultimate objective. He had no doubt that he was going to be blackmailed. Perhaps he should go to the police. But what could they do? He had just received a photograph of himself, admittedly in a somewhat compromising position, but that was all. There had been no demand for money or any threats, as yet, but he felt sure they would come eventually.

  It worried him. Whoever had taken the photograph also knew who he was and where he worked. How had they discovered that? He had to speak to Diana. She should be returning in two-days time, but he felt he couldn’t wait that long. If only he could contact her. The telephone number in England she had given him had been unobtainable every time he had tried it since she left. He had tried to obtain the number from international directory enquiries, but they had found nothing for a Diana Johnston for the address he had. He also remembered that she had said it was an unlisted, ex-directory number, so he wouldn’t be able to get it from the operator anyway. He should have been more careful when he wrote it down. Also there was the possibility that perhaps now that she had sold her house the telephone number no longer even existed.

  He had also written several letters to her in the past few weeks, and was rather disappointed not to have had any reply to these as well. He knew she was going to be very busy tying up all kinds of loose ends, but he thought she could have found the time to scribble a few words on a postcard.

  Perhaps he should try not to worry until the worst happened. He should just wait and see what the blackmailers demanded and then decide what to do from there. Not that he was in a position to give them much. He had very little money saved and many expenses. There was a mortgage bond on the house, the children’s school fees, and very little spare cash.

  Maybe it wasn’t blackmail. Maybe his wife had found out about his affair with Diana, and had sent someone to spy on him, with a view to divorcing him. Maybe the picture had been sent to him instead of to her by mistake. But then that wouldn’t explain why it had come in pieces.

  If only Diana were here now, she would surely be able to think of something. She was always in control. He couldn’t wait for her to return so that he would have someone to share this burden with; someone to discuss it with and get some advice as to how to proceed.

  There was no one else in his life that he felt he could turn to for help.

  When Diana had left the previous month, she had said she would telephone and let him know her flight details and arrival time. He had insisted that he would drive out and meet her at the airport. She hadn’t telephoned, and on the day of her scheduled arrival back in Cape Town, there had still been no call.

  Smith had dialled her telephone number several times in the morning, on the off chance that she may have arrived very early and gone straight to her apartment by taxi. It just rang and rang.

  Every time his telephone rang he snatched it up in the eager anticipation that it would be Diana. But it wasn’t and he became more and more edgy.

  He was short tempered with his secretary for the whole of the morning, and those clients who had the misfortune to have appointments with him in the hope of borrowing money or negotiating overdraft facilities derived little joy. In fact with some he was openly rude, and several long-standing customers, that day, closed their accounts with the Bank.

  By lunchtime there was still no answer to his telephone calls, so he decided to walk around to her flat and see if she was back. Maybe the telephone was out of order, or she was sleeping through it.

  Grabbing his raincoat and umbrella he left the Bank, just after one o’clock. It was a short walk to Diana’s flat, through the Gardens to the Planetarium, then into Queen Victoria Street and the imposing, recently renovated apartment block on the corner. He pushed open the glass swing doors with their highly polished brass handles and finger-plates and started to walk across the marble atrium. It had been just over a month since he had last been here but it seemed like only yesterday. The fountain bubbled and trickled to the right of the security desk, and he caught a glimpse of the fish swimming in the pool below it. As he headed for the lifts on the far side h
e heard a voice shouting authoritatively at him from behind.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?’ He turned to see a burly security guard, his uniform shirt tight across his ample stomach, a pistol and baton hanging from his belt, whom he hadn’t noticed on his way in, beckoning him from behind his desk. It wasn’t the usual guard, Hendrik, who had always been on duty during Smith’s previous visits, and with whom he had become familiar.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve come to see Miss Johnston.’ he answered.

  ‘Which apartment is she in, sir?’

  ‘Number sixteen, eighth floor,’ he said. ‘Hendrik having the day off, is he?’

  ‘You might say that, sir. He was shot last week during a robbery in Strand Street.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ the guard replied with no trace of emotion.

  Smith was shocked. He’d read about the robbery in the paper. It had been particularly brutal, almost unnecessarily so. Two gunmen had shot down the two security guards in cold blood, riddling their bodies with AK rounds, even when they were wounded and down on the ground. Before they could make off with the money, these gunmen had, in turn, been shot dead by two passers-by.

  The guard typed 16 into his computer and looked at the screen.

  ‘Are you sure its apartment sixteen, sir?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m sure.’ Smith snapped. ‘I’ve been there a hundred times. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Its just that there doesn’t seem to be a Miss Johnston living in number sixteen, sir.’ The guard tapped the keyboard again, shook his head and said, ‘In fact sir, there isn’t a Miss Johnston in the entire block.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. I know perfectly well that she lives here. She’s been overseas for a month and is due back today.’

  ‘Well nobody new has arrived today, sir. Perhaps you’d like to come back later. She may have arrived by then.’

  Smith was going to argue some more, but catching sight of the wall clock realised he would be late for his first afternoon appointment if he didn’t leave now.

  ‘Thanks for your help. I’ll come back later.’ He turned to go and then a thought struck him. ‘Look, will you do me a favour? When Miss Johnston arrives can you ask her to phone me please. Its John Smith, OK?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. I think I’ve got that.’ The guard said writing it down, with a smile.

  Diana hadn’t called by five o’clock. He went to her apartment block again. The guard recognised him. As Smith approached the desk he said,

  ‘I’m afraid no one by the name of Johnston has arrived today, sir.’

  Smith felt his spirits sink. Perhaps she was on a late flight or he had mixed up the date. He would leave a note in her letter box, asking her to call him first thing in the morning at the Bank. He scribbled the message on the back of his business card and placed it in number sixteen’s post box on the way out into the street. It began to rain. Smith didn’t have his umbrella; he became wet and felt depressed and worried.

  Smith’s feeling of depression and worry had increased considerably by the middle of the following morning. Diana still hadn’t telephoned and there was still no answer to the numbers, either in England or Cape Town, on which he had been trying to reach her all morning.

  The only good thing as far as Smith was concerned was that there had been no further letters with pieces of photographs in them or any demands from whoever had sent the jigsaw photograph. Perhaps it was just a practical joke to worry him by one of his friends. He wasn’t really convincing himself but he had to try and think positively.

  He was sipping his second cup of coffee when the telephone rang. He was so much on edge it startled him and caused him to drop the cup into his lap.

  ‘Good morning,’ a refined female voice began, ‘may I speak to Mr John Smith.’

  For a brief moment he thought it was Diana, but then the moment passed and Smith felt uncomfortable as the warm coffee soaked into his underpants.

  ‘Yes, speaking. How may I help you?’

  ‘My name is Williams, Mrs Williams. You left your business card in my post box with a message on the back to telephone you at the Bank this morning,’ she stated with a quizzical expression in her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t understand you, Mrs Williams.’ Then he remembered the note he’d left for Diana. ‘You live in Queen Victoria Street, Mrs Williams?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then I do apologise. I must have put my card in your post box by mistake. I intended to leave it in number sixteen’s box.’

  ‘Are you sure that you have the right number Mr Smith?’

  ‘Yes definitely.’

  ‘But number sixteen is my box.’

  ‘It’s for the person who lives in apartment number sixteen,’ he said, trying to control his irritation.

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m phoning you, Mr Smith. I live in apartment number sixteen.’ He couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

  ‘But you’re not Diana Johnston.’ He sounded foolish.

  ‘No, I’m Fiona Williams, and I live at number sixteen, so you must have the wrong number,’ she stated simply.

  He didn’t know what to say. How could this woman be living in Diana’s flat.

  ‘Are you a guest of Diana Johnston?’ he asked. ‘Are you looking after her flat while she’s overseas, is that what you mean?’

  ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours but my husband and I bought this flat last month and moved in two weeks ago. You must have made a mistake.’

  ‘But that’s not possible. It can’t be.’ What was Diana doing? Why would she sell her lovely flat without telling him?

  ‘I can assure you it is, Mr Smith. I’m afraid I’m very busy, so if there’s nothing else I’ll say good-bye.’

  ‘One moment,’ he almost shouted, ‘would you mind if I came to visit you, please. Just to put my mind at rest. Something very strange is going on here.’ He was almost pleading.

  ‘Well I don’t know about that. We’ve never met.’ He could be a weirdo or psychopath for all she knew.

  ‘Please, its very important that I sort this out. It won’t take long, I promise. Could I come this evening when your husband’s there?’

  It must have been something in his voice that convinced her of his genuineness. It was an absurd situation at best but he did sound sincere. And he was a bank manager, but that didn’t mean anything these days. Most of them, in her experience, were peculiar and it seemed Mr Smith was no exception.

  ‘Very well. I’ll expect you at six-thirty this evening,’ she said, then hung up.

  That evening Smith walked into the atrium just before six-thirty. The same security guard that he had spoken to yesterday was on duty. Looking up from his newspaper as the door opened he recognised Smith.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Still no sign of Miss Johnston, but Mrs Williams is expecting you in apartment sixteen. I’ll call her to tell her you’re on your way up.’ He spoke into the telephone as Smith walked to the lifts.

  Smith pushed the button for the eighth floor. He looked at himself in the bronze mirror-glass on the wall of the lift. He looked haggard, not at all like the expression he’d had on the previous occasions he’d taken this lift. The lift came to a gentle cushioned halt and he walked out to the right and pushed the brass buzzer beside number sixteen.

  A few moments later the door was opened by an elegant women in her mid forties, wearing a tweed skirt just below the knee and a white blouse with cashmere cardigan.

  ‘You must be Mr Smith. I’m Fiona Williams and this is my husband, David,’ she said standing back for him to enter.

  Smith walked in and for a moment couldn’t believe his eyes. This was Diana’s flat where he’d been so many times and yet it wasn’t. Everything had changed; where there had been terracotta floors with rugs there was wall-to-wall carpeting, the fixed drapes with silk blinds were now hanging curtains either side of the windows. The place had been t
otally repainted, the kitchen re-styled in oak with different floor tiles. None of Diana’s furniture was here.

  He didn’t recognise the place. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he knew he was in number sixteen then he would have thought that he had made a mistake.

  ‘Mr Smith,’ her voice cut through his thoughts, ‘are you all right? You look rather pale. David, fetch a glass of water. Here, sit down.’ She helped him to the nearest chair and he tried to regain his composure as he sipped the water.

  ‘Everything’s changed. I can’t believe it. Why would she leave without telling me? My girlfriend …’ He stopped himself before he revealed any more to these two complete strangers.

  ‘I’m sorry, its just a bit of a shock. Could I just ask you a couple of questions and then I won’t disturb you further?’

  ‘Certainly, if we’re able to help,’ she answered. The man was obviously distressed, maybe a little disturbed, but he seemed harmless enough.

  ‘When did you first see this flat? Can you remember the date?’

  ‘That’s easy. July the second.’

  ‘And was it like this or different? The walls, the carpets?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no. Couldn’t have been more different,’ she started.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Smith.

  ‘It was like a builder’s yard. All the walls and ceilings had just been plastered, the kitchen didn’t exist, the floor boards were all up.’ She smiled. ‘It was just what we were looking for. Somewhere we could design from scratch. Apparently it was one of the last in the block to be renovated according to the agent. Ideal for our needs, and the decorators were able to finish it very quickly. Everything went so smoothly we were moved in after only two weeks. Unbelievable.’

  It was just that, unbelievable. Smith couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. Standing up, he looked around the place once more, shook his head, thanked them for their time and left.