by D B Nielsen
I wasn’t quite certain what to make of that ominous statement. But St. John did.
‘Please inform Professor Woods that his daughter is being interrogated.’ It was not a request but a command from a man who was used to issuing orders on the battlefield, his authority assumed. St. John’s demeanour was frosty. His word choice deliberate. The Superintendent did not attempt to contradict him. And St. John did not need the return of an answer.
Drawing a deep, shaky breath, I now understood the reason for my father’s and St. John’s overprotectiveness. I had been given a moment to prepare – not much but enough for me to be on my guard. St. John’s way of warning me of what we were about to face.
Like Daniel, I was about to walk into the lion’s den.
CROSS-EXAMINATION
CHAPTER THREE
‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, Mademoiselle Woods,’ a low voice growled as I entered the room. From its tone, I knew that the speaker felt that the experience was far from the pleasure he was claiming it to be. But I could not immediately identify the source of the voice. The late sun, dipping low over the horizon, blindingly flooded through the bank of office windows, casting those seated at the boardroom table in silhouette, and causing me to shield my eyes from its onslaught. When St. John gently nudged me from behind to move further into the cramped boardroom, I was finally able to see that there were several people present and all facing towards the door ... and us.
Immediately, I identified the Assistant Commissioner whose features seemed moulded from the same pattern as any other bureaucratic figure the world over. He could have passed for a school headmaster or government clerk. A few paces to the left, a small knot of men in dark suits stared at me with sullen eyes. There were five of them; three smoking cigarettes with such ferocity I was certain that they would breathe out flames. Neither the Assistant Commissioner nor the others seemed to be concerned with the fact that the British Museum had a non-smoking policy. One tall, thin man gave us the once-over and turned away sharply, his body language a display of rejection. The other standing in the group suddenly found great interest in his own pockets, searching for what eventually turned out to be an iPhone. He excused himself and headed towards the door, brushing past me as he exited without making eye contact.
But there was no mistaking these other subordinates for the man who had greeted me.
He approached us with an unmistakeable authority from behind the boardroom table where he had been seated to proffer his outstretched hand to St. John in a gesture of seeming camaraderie and conciliation.
‘Dr Rivers. Such unpleasantness. Terrible. Tsk. Tsk. It seems history and violence go hand-in-hand. I cannot remember such dangerous times for culture and art, except perhaps during the Second World War.’ The words rumbled from deep within his chest cavity. Its very gruffness masking his accent.
St. John was not perturbed in the least, shaking the man’s hand whilst correcting his error. ‘Commissioner Renauld. It’s been a while.’ Implicit in St. John’s statement was that it had not been long enough. ‘May I introduce you to my fiancée, Mademoiselle Sage Woods? I believe you had the pleasure of meeting her sister, Mademoiselle Saffron Woods, in Lyon.’
And now I knew the face and the name of the enemy.
Jacques Renauld. Interpol.
‘The photographs that Mademoiselle Saffron Woods took of the stolen artefact were quite helpful to your investigation, or so I’ve been told,’ St. John’s velvety voice held a note of condescension, ‘which, as I understand it, is now concluded ... as is your business with the British Museum.’
The battle lines had been drawn. This was the man who had interrogated Fi – though, like St. John, I’d assumed his dealings with the British Museum to have come to an end since Interpol believed that Ellen Jacobi was responsible for the theft of the artefact. It seemed we were both wrong.
Moving slightly away from Renauld, his shadow upon me an uncomfortable burden, I edged towards the boardroom table and let the tension between us stretch out like a tightrope. I felt poised to walk across it carefully, one slippery question at a time.
Letting the loose strands of chestnut hair fall like a curtain between us, a protective mechanism, I sunk into the nearest chair and faced my interrogators. The Commissioner was stocky and dark, almost bullish in his double-breasted, black suit. His presence overwhelmed this smoky, claustrophobic room. The dark hair and beard, and beneath his furrowed forehead a brush of thick eyebrow, increased the sense of his untamed, rough savagery – an impression oddly at variance with the severity of his neat attire.
One large hand was waved in a dismissive gesture as he responded to St. John’s opening volley. ‘Ah, yes. But of course. Twins.’
But he was merely playing with us. Not for one moment had he mistaken me for my sister. Renauld’s nature was controlled and patient as if waiting for some vital revelation of a suspect’s guilt – except that I was the one he was suspicious of – though, luckily, I had already been put on my guard by St. John.
I stared across at Commissioner Renauld, attempting to discern his renewed purpose at the British Museum through his mien. His face bore an inscrutable expression and claimed all of my attention. His skin was red and blotched, the bluish veins standing out prominently under the surface, so that the whites of his deep-set eyes seemed bloodshot by comparison. A person might have been forgiven for thinking him an alcoholic but, in reality, this was not a healthy man. He disguised it as well as he could, but not well enough.
The splotchiness of his skin, a symptom of his advanced cancer, was almost hidden under the bushiness of his facial hair. But his cheekbones jutted out against cheeks that were sunken, giving an impression of gauntness, which was mirrored by the loose turkey flesh of his thin neck. And now I noticed other telling details. His double-breasted suit, which once would have strained to cover the width of his shoulders and chest, hung slightly loose upon him. Those thick, powerful legs with which he might have strode the world were betrayed by an irregular gait due to his sickness. And with this sickness, he had shrunk and begun to waste away.
Despite this, there were still signs of his former stature. This was a man who would not let death take him until he was ready – and that would not be until he had finished what he had begun. The knowledge chilled me as Renauld regarded me with a small smile, the expression not quite reflected in his wintry eyes.
‘I’m afraid, Dr Rivers, that you are mistaken. We are pursuing other avenues of investigation – including the odd disappearance of Dr Jacobi.’
Somehow I managed not to betray my surprise or alarm. His words were intimidating little pebbles dropped into the pool of my fear as he sought to create a ripple effect. I felt a stabbing sensation in my stomach. The feeling was familiar; I had experienced it each time in the past months whenever I had thought about Interpol’s investigation of the Seed’s disappearance, but it had ceased with the news of its conclusion. Now, however, the feeling was back and it was laced with panic.
Renauld kept his smile going and, under the glare of the late sunlight, it was almost sinister in a peculiarly robotic fashion. In fact, his entire personality bordered on the mechanical. But this suited his purpose as, divorced from all emotion, it suggested that he possessed the necessary sangfroid for the subtle art of cross-examination.
It was a skill his neighbour failed to possess.
‘Yes, yes, stolen artefacts are all very interesting, I’m sure,’ dismissed the Assistant Commissioner with a disdainful snort, ‘but we have a hostage situation and a homicide to discuss. Serious things are happening, gentlemen.’
‘If Interpol is involved, I’m surprised that New Scotland Yard would allow the local branch of the Met Police to lead this investigation,’ St. John said curtly. Then, as if confirming a theory, his eyes slid over to the four men clustered in the smokers’ corner and he gave a sharp nod. ‘Ah. I thought so. Another government agency? Is this to be a co-operative task force then? But surely not put together thi
s soon – I’m guessing this operation has been going on for several months.’
The Assistant Commissioner pointed a thin finger at St. John. ‘Quite clever on your part. We’re conducting a joint investigation. As I said before, something extraordinary is happening, Dr Rivers.’
St. John said nothing but both my anxiety and curiosity had been piqued by the Assistant Commissioner’s words.
I found my voice. ‘Forgive me, but what do you mean?’
A hint of a smile ghosted Jacques Renauld’s face. His dark, deep-set eyes settled upon me. ‘Have you heard of art and antiquity crime, Mademoiselle Woods?’
I was taken off guard by his question. What did art and antiquity crime have to do with, as the Assistant Commissioner had just stated, a hostage situation and murder? Did they seriously believe, like my father and Ted Boyle, that this was an attempted theft by armed and heavily disguised men?
When I shook my head in confusion, Renauld continued, ‘Perhaps the most significant art and antiquity theft occurred under the Nazi regime before and during the Second World War – yet it is by no means the only situation of either wartime looting or state theft. There are dozens of such incidents; in 2002 at the Van Gogh Museum, in 2008 at the Foundation E.G. Bührle, in 2010 at the Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris – I could continue but I assume you take my meaning. Organised criminals steal art and antiquities to raise funds for other crimes; drug cartels and trafficking, arms deals, and the funding of wars.’
The Commissioner’s face tightened with a shake of his head. ‘Mademoiselle Woods, art and antiquity crime is often considered a victimless crime and, for that reason, it is tolerated by society. But, I can assure you, it is far from victimless.’
‘The assault of Miss Woods and the murder of the security guard?’ St. John asked, his voice harsh.
‘You may wonder why these men did not attempt to steal what they were after when the museum was empty. It would have been far easier. So why such a public display? Why detonate an improvised explosive device in the galleries housing the Ancient Mesopotamian artefacts? The act must be viewed as a direct attack against the British Museum and its staff. An act of terror. The violence suggests a secondary motive – revenge and not just theft.’
I closed my eyes. The police were right in one way – this was a direct attack – but wrong in another – their primary motive wasn’t terrorism or art and antiquity theft nor revenge. The truth lay somewhere in between. And only I knew that the damage from the “earthquake” was caused by the awakening of the Lamassu and not an improvised explosive device.
‘We believe that this is part of a wider conspiracy.’ A new voice spoke, emerging from the knot of male smokers who had been observing proceedings in silence.
Startled, I opened my eyes. I immediately recognised the tall, thin man with silvery hair – he was the one who had turned his back on St. John and me when we first had entered the boardroom.
‘Though we have yet to determine whether, as Commissioner Renauld believes, Dr Jacobi is involved and, if so, to what extent she is involved,’ the New Scotland Yard representative finished with only a faint trace of derisive scepticism in his voice.
I felt overwhelmed, sitting in troubled silence.
‘Let me get this correct,’ St. John demanded of Commissioner Renauld – and from the tone of his voice, the contempt dripping with every word, it was obvious to all what his feelings were on the matter, ‘you believe Ellen Jacobi is part of some criminal – terrorist – organisation?’
Renauld raked back dark hair from his temples, stating with disgruntled vehemence, ‘Now, Dr Rivers, there is an abundance of evidence to show that Dr Jacobi has some involvement. It is no mere coincidence that her disappearance occurred within less than two months of the artefact’s loss and, during that time, Dr Jacobi was noted to be acting decidedly odd. Rumours of an unknown lover. An inconvenient pregnancy. The suggestion of drug abuse. This from a woman who, most of her colleagues would claim, was a model of decorum. Suspicious, wouldn’t you say?’
Convenient, I thought. Though I had no love for Ellen Jacobi, not after what Fi had told me of her involvement with Louis Gravois, I felt uncomfortable blaming someone who couldn’t defend their actions. Besides, I knew that she wasn’t responsible for stealing the Seed from the British Museum.
‘But, of course, we have yet to account for Mademoiselle Woods and her sister who have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Renauld’s dark gaze was keen. ‘Or, perhaps, we are missing some connection?’
I was braced for the words, and yet they still sounded utterly ridiculous and yet quite chilling when uttered aloud. So this interview was merely an excuse – a deft deception – in which Renauld hoped that I would be so nervous and panicked, I would mistakenly incriminate myself or my sister in some way. But terrorism? Even the thought was ludicrous.
‘I’m not sure that I follow,’ St. John stated; his voice now tight, controlled. ‘Is Miss Woods a suspect in your conspiracy theory too? I’m sensing that we may need a lawyer, perhaps a QC.’
The inspector from New Scotland Yard intervened, giving St. John a calm look of apology. ‘Now, let’s not be too hasty. No one is accusing Miss Woods of any wrongdoing. As far as I’m concerned, she’s a victim in all of this–’
Renauld hastily interrupted, ‘This is a clear–’
‘I didn’t do anything! This is insane!’ I finally found my voice to protest, darting an uneasy glance at St. John who was casually leaning, one shoulder propped up against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, though his posture belied his expression. While he looked to be perfectly at ease, his face was cold and remote – only lightening briefly when he caught my gaze – looking down on proceedings as if he was a golden God.
But his placement in the room was no mere accident – St. John had chosen the most advantageous spot to observe each participant in the unfolding drama and still be able to protect me if called upon. And though this offered a measure of reassurance, it also made me realise how precarious my situation truly was.
Briefly, I wondered if I had been transported back to the Salem witch trials of 1692 where women were tried and convicted of witchcraft and consorting with the devil on the flimsiest of evidence. There was no doubt in my mind that Renauld saw himself as having embarked upon some holy mission; a man who believed in history and tradition and the virtues of his work. A man for whom the law was as immutable as if brought down from Sinai. It seemed nothing much had changed in hundreds – no, thousands – of years.
‘Sir William and I are not of your opinion, Commissioner Renauld.’ The Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police stated firmly. ‘I would like to hear from Miss Woods what transpired this afternoon without ungrounded accusations.’
Sir William, a born diplomat in his early sixties, motioned for Renauld to stand down, as the knot of smokers unravelled and formed with the fresh arrivals and departures of even more officers and agents, quietly coming and going to fulfil some duty beyond the four walls of the boardroom. ‘A disturbing report. We failed to realise the depth and scope of what is clearly afoot. The men who accosted Miss Woods inside the British Museum, we believe to be professional, mercenary and military trained.’
‘That should narrow our search,’ Renauld reluctantly agreed with a grunt.
‘Possibly. There is a team from NCA already on it. We will deal with what happened and move forward. In this business, it’s the facts that matter. Keep your wits about you.’ His rebuke came in a voice as hard as steel, the tone a deterrent to any challenges. Renauld bristled but did not contest Sir William’s authority, probably realising that he needed the co-operation of his British counterparts.
‘Pardon me, gentlemen.’ My head shot around at my father’s grim voice as he entered the room from behind where I was seated, nodding to St. John in acknowledgement as he pulled up the chair beside me without being asked to take a seat. ‘Forgive me for my tardiness. I was unavoidably deta
ined. I don’t suppose you’ve finished interviewing my daughter?’
Commissioner Renauld’s teeth clenched in ill-concealed anger. ‘We have not yet begun to question Mademoiselle Woods.’
Stretching across, Dad gave my trembling hands a reassuring squeeze where they were tightly gripped together, bare-knuckled white, on my lap beneath the table, before turning to face the police. ‘I would appreciate it if we could make this interview as quick as possible. My daughter has had an extremely difficult day. We’d like to take her home to rest.’
‘Of course, of course,’ the Assistant Commissioner mollified my father and St. John. He crossed to the door, opened it and talked to some unseen police officer in the corridor. As he returned, he said, ‘I really think we will only need Miss Woods for another hour, if she can manage it.’
I nodded. Anything to avoid talking.
‘Now, Miss Woods,’ Sir William said, turning to finally face me. Upon his prominent Roman nose balanced a pair of thick, steel-rimmed glasses which hid his pale eyes and managed somehow to camouflage his features, rendering them nondescript. Bespectacled, his neatly-coiffed silver hair and stylish, immaculately-pressed suit lent him a hawkish appearance, especially when he focused his full attention upon me. He smiled sympathetically. But I’d learnt my lesson in making hasty judgements from Ellen Jacobi and knew not to trust him. ‘Kindly fill us in on the details of this afternoon. Take your time. The smallest thing may provide us with vital clues.’
St. John, who refused to docilely be seated, contemptuous of their authority, looked at me sharply and repeated, ‘Take your time, Sage. This is not a legal hearing. You do not have to give testimony and you won’t be signing any statements.’
‘Really, Dr Rivers, how is this helping matters? We wish to make this as painless as possible for Miss Woods,’ exclaimed Sir William in exasperation, ‘This is an unstructured discussion before any formal interviews. Go ahead, Miss Woods. Please begin.’