Sinclair considered her proposal, ‘I’ll come with you – I know a couple of shops we can visit.’ He slipped out of bed, the view of London no longer of interest. His cash cow, his American golden goose, was far more exciting than anything else he’d ever had on his horizon.
Pulling an envelope from the pocket of his discarded trousers, he read out the address of the storage unit company to Melissa. ‘You know that address?’
She mumbled in the affirmative while towelling her hair dry, her thoughts already on the future acquisitions she had planned.
Sinclair smiled, his mind on the potential riches held in secure storage by the elusive Sarah Lester.
He gave Melissa’s buttocks a quick squeeze on his way to the bathroom. He’d never known a woman to have muscles in the places Melissa had hers. Even the whores he’d known were soft and pliant, akin to sinking into a feather bed. This American was as hard as wood, petrified wood.
THE JOURNEY
Wiremu’s wife took the news of the imminent departure stoically. Their belongings few, it hadn’t taken her longer than a day to pack away the necessities for a new life down country.
‘What will we do with these?’ Aroha Kepa asked her husband, gesturing towards a wooden crate. She flicked her jet-black hair out of her eyes. It fell like a veil down her back. For forays out of their little cottage, she tamed it in a long braid; when it was just the three of them, she left it loose. Wiremu liked nothing more than to run his fingers through her hair as they lay tangled in each others’ arms at night. The babe was an expert at grabbing tiny handfuls of her mother’s hair at every opportunity.
Wiremu considered the crate. It had been ages since he’d even looked inside the box. He hadn’t needed to, he was intimately acquainted with its contents. His head filled with memories, as if from yesterday, when he was a young boy. He’d spent hours at his father’s knee, watching him slowly grinding and smoothing pieces of stone into beautifully formed adzes, many of which were stored in this crate. Those pieces were a link to his past, but then again so were his memories. Do possessions provide the only tangible link with those who came before, or do memories held within the heart nourish the soul and link it to the past? Possessions couldn’t provide nourishment. Possessions tied you to the past, their weight pulling you backwards, stunting growth and denying the future.
Decision made, he passed his hand across the rough slats of the wooden box, ‘No, we will sell those. I’ll not carry them home with us. I have my father’s knowledge within me to make them all over again, with as much love and care. I’ll go now. There’s a man in town who’s placed adverts in all the papers seeking our taonga – our treasures.’
‘You’d sell our taonga to the British? You’d sell your heritage?’
Wiremu placed his hand on her heart, above her full breasts, ‘It’s not abandoning our heritage, it’s being practical. He’ll pay us good money, there are people over the ocean who desire these pieces of our world. And that money will take us home, with the baby, in more comfort than we could have ever hoped.
Aroha stroked her husband’s face, the bristles on his chin rough against her hand, ‘Of course, if it’s of no concern to you, then it’s of no concern to me. I was worried you’d regret the decision. Walking isn’t so bad, I’ve been doing it since I was a baby. What’s one more long walk.’ She smiled. They kissed. The baby cried. They broke apart laughing. This was the way now, their time was never their own, time together was now shared.
‘I’ll go now and be back tonight. I’ll eat in town so don’t bother preparing me anything. I have mill business there as well that I’ll need to finish.’ With that, he placed a last chaste kiss on her forehead, scooped up the crate, and left their cottage.
THE LETTER – PAGE 3
Page 3
“You’ll never believe who have joined us now – some jolly chaps from New Zealand. Had to look the damn place up on a map. Had no idea where it was. Right next to Australia, at the very bottom of the world. You’d hardly know that they’d travelled 12,000 miles to get here, to help us out. Most of them have already had air time before they got here. A godsend, if you ask me. A quick classroom lesson, if they’re lucky, a quick one-two round the old bird, and then they’re being sent off. This could be it, you know. A few more of these fly boys, and we’ll defeat those Germans quick smart.
There’s a couple of native boys from New Zealand here too – the rest have all joined the army it seems, not so much into the flying thing. Not everyone’s cup of tea.
Darling, the one thing I want to do, still, is take you up into the air. Not in the middle of the war, of course, but when it’s over. Maybe we’ll do it down in New Zealand. By all accounts, it’s everything England is, only with better weather, and actual real beaches, the sort where you can build entire cities out of sand.
Anyway, I digress. I asked the New Zealand lads about those stones your father had – you know, that old box rattling round in the attic. God knows why you’ve kept it all these years. We should have donated it to the British Museum last time we were in London – better than collecting dust up there. Anyway there I go again, off on a tangent! Anyway, the boys said that they’d be more than happy to have a look at them for us. Seems they would be able to tell us which tribe made them based on what they’d been made from. Sounds slightly far-fetched to me, but I’ve given them our address. So don’t be alarmed if a couple of Air Force lads turn up out of the blue asking about stone adzes in our attic – they haven’t just escaped from the lunatic asylum!
THE POLICE
Ryan Francis sat in the austere police meeting room, surrounded by people he didn’t know, and files he did. His bespoke suit was an anomaly in a room filled with cheap off-the-rack outfits, and chain store ties, loosened in response to the ineffectual air-conditioning – common to public service buildings the world over, the City of London Police room at the Guildhall Buildings no different.
‘Let’s begin then, shall we?’ announced Inspector Victor Fujimoto, running his hands through his hair as he took the empty seat at the head of the table.
An unusual crowd was arrayed round the table. Ryan Francis and Gemma Dance were both there representing the Art Loss Register and, by extension, Richard Grey. Detective Sergeant Owen Gibson was there, for his involvement in investigating the killing at Christie’s, the one Grey had been charged with committing. The police prosecutor was there, a man dressed head to toe in various shades of grey, with a personality to match. Oddly, a solicitor representing Christie’s was also in attendance, although clearly under the sufferance of Fujimoto, who barely acknowledged his presence. Ryan quickly understood that the Inspector’s superiors must have jacked this one up. There were a couple of other hangers-on who filled the remaining seats. Who they were, Ryan never found out. They were never introduced, and may as well have been mute for all they added to the discussion.
‘I need everyone’s cards on the table. Now isn’t the time to hold anything back because it happened on someone else’s patch.’ Walking over to the board, he gestured with the red marker. ‘You can see from the board that all these cases are interlinked.’ His words were greeted with a chorus of conflicting arguments against such a sweeping statement. ‘Yes, I know it’s as farfetched as you can get, but it’s the only conclusion we can make. I’m not saying that both men were murdered by Grey, absolutely not,’ he shot a warning look at one of the attendees who’d begun to interrupt his presentation. Public Relations-type, Ryan realised, here to minimise any potential damage to the Force’s reputation.
Fujimoto carried on, his disdain for the political game clear on his face. Running his hands through his hair again, he waved at the folders in front of Ryan, ‘Why don’t you start?’
Ryan frowned, stumbling over his words. It wasn’t unusual for the Art Loss Register to work with enforcement authorities, but this was the first time he’d worked with the police on an investigation involving a murder and a missing person. ‘Um, well, as you know, we w
ere tasked by Mr Grey to trace the whereabouts of a number of items which once belonged to his family. He is a long-term client, and we have successfully located a number of articles, which Mr Grey has then acquired ...’
‘Is that a euphemism for “stolen”?’ Fujimoto interrupted.
‘Um, no I don’t think so,’ Ryan began, a blush slowly gracing his cheeks. He and Gemma had long theorised that Grey’s luck in acquiring the pieces they’d identified was nothing short of miraculous, and was more likely nefarious in nature.
‘Go on,’ Fujimoto instructed, the smile on his face nowhere near his eyes.
‘The Register traced back the pair of katar to a minor Indian noble. What happened next is a bit murky, but the next time they appear, and we think they’re the same ones, is when they’re listed on the manifest of household effects shipped from India back to London by Lord Henry Grey. And, er ... from there, there’s nothing more till one went up for auction during the forties, to aid the war effort. Consigned to Christie’s by Mrs Elizabeth Williams, and purchased ...’
Here, Ryan paused, shuffling through his meticulous notes.
‘Purchased by a Mrs Audrey Grey, the mother of Richard Grey. And, well I think we all know what happened next ...’
‘If you could indulge us, and for the benefit of those not as familiar with the knives as you are ...’ Fujimoto prodded.
Ryan glanced at his notes, redundantly, given that his memory of what happened next was indelibly burnt into his memory. ‘The only other time the second katar comes to note is when it’s offered up for auction at Christie’s by Miss Sarah Lester, who owns The Old Curiosity Shop, an antique store here in London.’
The inspector held up his hand, stopping him mid-sentence. ‘We know from our interviews that Richard Grey attempted to purchase the katar pre-auction direct from Miss Lester. How he knew it had been consigned to Christie’s is an aspect we’re working on but, with the help of Christie’s, we hope to track that through.’ He nodded to the Christie’s solicitor, a silent observer at the far end of the table, who’d spent the entire meeting scratching on his legal pad with a pen worth more than Fujimoto was paid per month. ‘What we don’t know is where Miss Lester acquired the katar, because she hasn’t been seen since an alleged armed robbery at the shop just before the auction where Mr Hayward was murdered.’ He turned toward Detective Sergeant Owen Gibson, ‘Owen, any progress on at your end?’
Owen Gibson, the youngest man in the room, shook his blonde head – a head of hair more at home on an Australian beach than inside a police headquarters. ‘We have a roomful of people who saw Richard Grey gut Leo Hayward. He basically died instantly. Grey is out on bail, despite us appealing that decision. Seems money does wonders for some ...’
‘Just the facts thanks, Owen. Most of us in this room agree with you on the bail thing, but we don’t have time to rehash that. Go on.’
‘Seems that the only person I haven’t been able to interview about the knife and the period before the auction is Sarah Lester. I had some push back from her friend Patricia Bolton, whose boyfriend works for Christie’s but, to be fair to her, she’s doing her best to run things while Miss Lester is missing. We thought we had a lead that she may have gone to India, but there’s no record of her having left the country. There’s also no record of Sarah Lester’s parents having left the country either. They are both listed as missing persons, and have been for several years. I’ve got no idea what’s going on. All I do know is Grey killed Leo Hayward, in a room full of witnesses. And if he gets found not guilty, I may as well give up.’
‘You’re a bit young to be so cynical about our legal process, Owen,’ joked Tania, her perpetual smile firmly in place.
‘Thanks, Owen, now’s not the time to worry about Grey’s eventual conviction, we’ll get there. We need to focus on the death of Ravi Naranyan now. Tania, can you talk us through that, without any side commentary. Just the facts, thanks.’
‘You know me too well, Fuji.’
Fujimoto smiled at his sergeant, ‘Just the facts, Tania, go.’
‘Patricia Bolton booked the Foundling Museum four months ago for the launch of her clothing collection titled, get this, Victorian Gilt. The assistant at The Old Curiosity Shop, Miss Nicole Pilcher, told us she’d helped Miss Bolton load up the shop van with a number of items from the antique shop which were going to be used as props in the show. Apparently this was a normal arrangement, nothing unusual. This is where things get spooky ...’
Fujimoto interrupted, ‘Spooky, Tania? This isn’t an episode of Doctor Who.’
‘Right, yup, sorry, moving on. This is where it gets complicated. Miss Pilcher said in her interview that Sarah Lester, whom she’d never met before, turned up out of the blue, covered in grazes, which she helped clean and dress, before Sarah disappeared next door to speak with Patricia Bolton. She wasn’t gone that long, before returning to the shop. Miss Pilcher and Miss Lester had an argument, and Miss Pilcher left the shop that night, and didn’t return to work again till the Monday morning. On the Sunday she was at the Alexandra Palace Antiques Fair. She was meant to help Patricia Bolton set up for the fashion show, but she wasn’t required once Lester returned.’
Fujimoto took over, ‘We have CCTV footage of Bolton and Lester arriving at the Foundling Hospital in a white van. They chatted with the security guard Ravi Naranyan for a while, before he helped them carry a number of cartons into the museum. The security guard is seen making his way back to his booth. Lester and Bolton can both be seen on CCTV unpacking cartons. Lester briefly visits an adjoining room, where it seems like she was looking at the exhibits, before rejoining Bolton. Then they disappear from view. The CCTV timings differ from the note made by Naranyan about the time they vanished by a couple of minutes. He leaves to investigate. There’s an area of the driveway where there’s no camera coverage, and that’s where the murder occurred.
We compared the timings with the coverage from the other cameras and this is where the techies have some concerns – there’s either a problem with the camera in the exhibition room, or it’s been tampered with, but Miss Bolton and Lester are in shot one minute, and vanish the next. And shortly after, Naranyan is shot. By whom, we don’t know. So where does that leave us?’
The room was overwhelmed with silence, the same uncomfortable silence a teacher is faced with when asking for volunteers to answer to a complicated algebra problem. There was embarrassed shuffling and clearing of throats, but no one offered up a theory.
‘Do you have a motive for the security guard?’ Owen asked, underlining notes on his pad as he spoke.
Victor slid into his seat, and was running his hands through his hair, examining his empty hands as if he expected to see clumps of hair in his palms. ‘We initially thought theft, but the museum has assured us there’s nothing missing. Checks into the guard’s background haven’t shown anything of concern, so, what now?’
THE WALK
Warren Brooke and Sarah walked companionably down the wide driveway of the Viceregal Lodge, shunning offers of a carriage or a palanquin. The evening’s meal successfully navigated, Sarah had left Patricia engrossed in discussions about the latest fashions with the other ladies. She was confident her friend would be able to bluff her way through any conversation involving textiles and fashion. She’d even managed to avoid Mrs Abbott, and had slunk out a side door, like a nervous teenager slipping out after curfew.
The light had changed to the deep pinks of late dusk, with shadows filling the edges of the night.
‘You seem to have poor luck with the carriages you choose,’ Major Brooke began, looking out over the vista of the Simla township, and not at the young woman by his side.
‘Mmm,’ Sarah replied noncommittally, choosing instead to take in the magnificent vista of the Himalayas. He was right of course, but this last time, she’d invented the problem with the carriage. Brooke was an intelligent man. Surely he’d see through the subterfuge?
‘Your friend Miss Bolton – an ef
fervescent character. A fashion designer, I overheard her saying. An unusual vocation for a woman?’
Sarah stopped walking, resting her hand against the guard rail protecting unwary walkers from the precipitous drop down the steep hill. ‘An unusual vocation for a woman? What century do you think you’re living in?’
‘The nineteenth century, the same one as you, madam. There’s no need for the indignation, it was merely an observation. You seem to gather the most peculiar friends around you.’
‘Seriously? You’re passing judgement on my friends now?’
‘I wouldn’t presume to pass judgement on your friends, Miss Williams, it was an observation. If anything, your choice of friends make you that much more interesting. You’ve more depth to you than most of the women I’ve known in Simla. You’re an intriguing woman.’
That shut her up. She moved off, walking down the cobbled road, stars twinkling as dusk turned to night. Gaslights winked on one by one, illuminating the roadside. The balmy evening was a far cry from the hail the evening Sarah returned.
Too quickly they arrived at the house Sarah had called home for such a short time. Shrouded in darkness, the house had yet to be re-let, its traumatic past common knowledge in the community, and enough of a mystery to bring shudders to the memsahib’s considering a move to larger premises.
‘We should have brought a torch with us,’ Sarah said without thinking.
Brooke looked at her in confusion, ‘There’ll be a lantern on the porch. I have matches. The light will be sufficient for our needs I should think – regardless of what they are,’ he added as a quiet afterthought.
Whether Sarah heard him, or chose to ignore his throwaway comment, she didn’t make clear. Even walking up the front steps sent her heart rate climbing, shortening her breath.
‘It is safe, isn’t it?’ she asked. That question transformed her from a modern woman back to one of the times – one dependent on a man for all things.
The Last Letter Page 26