Visiting hours were seven until nine at night. Stick and Jennifer arrived at five to seven and waited outside the female surgical ward like greyhounds in the traps. As soon as the ward doors were opened, they were off – hustling and bustling to get sight of the damned rabbit.
Xena was asleep when they sidled into her room and stood at the end of the bed like harbingers of doom.
‘Maybe we should go, Monsieur,’ Jennifer said.
‘She’ll be awake in a minute, Jen. I promised I’d come and tell her about the case. And I know she’s eager to meet you.’ He placed the flowers and bag of grapes they’d brought on the bedside cabinet.
Xena opened her eyes. ‘Ah, the elusive Jennifer.’
Jennifer smiled, walked round the bed and kissed Xena on the cheek. ‘Pleased to meet you. I hope we’ll be friends.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we will be We can compare notes on Stick-in-the-mud over there.’
Stick indicated for Jennifer to sit down in the chair by the side of the bed. He then pulled up another chair to sit beside her.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her.
‘Like I’ve been run over by a combine harvester. Well, come on then Stick-man, don’t keep me in suspense.’
He told her what had happened, and praised DC Isolde Koll for her insight. ‘She sees patterns, you know.’
‘Yeah well,’ Xena said. ‘If I’d been one hundred percent you know I would have seen the pattern and solved the case ages ago.’
‘I know that, Ma’am. You’ll be back to your normal self before you know it, and then we’ll be solving murders like you were never ill.’
Xena’s face creased up, she turned white and held her stomach. ‘Crap! You’d better call the doctor.’
Stick went out into the corridor and said to a passing nurse, ‘You’d better come.’
The nurse rushed in, ushered Stick and Jennifer out and called for a doctor.
‘Oh, do you think it’s bad?’ Jennifer said.
‘Yes, I think it’s very bad, Jen.’
They loitered in the corridor until they saw the nurses wheel Xena out in her bed. She had the oxygen mask over her face again and she didn’t look conscious.
Stick accosted a nurse. ‘What’s happening?’
‘She has to go to theatre again.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
‘Will she all right?’
The nurse shrugged. ‘We’ll know more when she comes out of theatre.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s worth waiting, is it?’
‘Not really. Ring up tomorrow morning, things will be a lot clearer then.’
‘You won’t tell me anything, I’m not a relative.’
‘Ah!’
‘Unless, you could put me down on her notes as the next of kin.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s for Miss Blake to nominate her next of kin.’
‘I bet she’s left the next of kin box blank. If she has, can you put me in there, please?’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Look, if she dies who will you notify?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Ring me. She has no one else. I’m her partner.’
The nurse nodded. ‘I’ll put your details in her notes.’
He wrote his name and telephone number on a page in his notebook, tore it out and passed it to her. ‘Please don’t lose it.’
‘I won’t.’
The nurse left and they headed towards the exit.
‘I didn’t realise how much she meant to you,’ Jennifer said.
‘As a partner. You’re the one I love.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘I know. I’m not jealous or anything like that. I understand how partners can become close.’
***
Thursday, April 11
‘Can I see some form of identity, Mr Lewis?’ The jobsworth at the Wembley Head Office of the Excess Baggage Company said.
The Chief had given them the day off because they’d solved the broken heart case and on the understanding that they would be on their best behaviour for the new Chief Constable’s visit on Friday.
They’d caught the 9:05 from Chigwell to Liverpool Street on the Central Line, changed to the Metropolitan Line and hopped on the 9:47 to Wembley Park.
‘What do you think will be in the briefcase?’ Richards asked during the train journey.
‘A map to find Bluebeard’s treasure. Maybe a bottle containing the elixir of eternal youth, or the location of Noah’s Ark. Possibly . . .’
‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’
‘Why have you put in a request for a day off on Friday 19th?’
‘They passed it back to you, huh?’
‘You know I have to sign your leave requests.’
‘I’m travelling to Manchester for a wedding. Socha Gurr and Julian Wilson are getting married on the Saturday. They were on the course with me.’
‘Uh oh!’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘You know you’re not allowed to go to places where there are men without a chaperone. You’ll have a drink, a married man with seven children will whisk you off to bed, you’ll fall in love and come back broken-hearted saying, “He seemed so nice”. Your mother and I will have to suffer another month of you moping around . . .’
‘No, I’ve learned my lesson. It won’t be like that, I promise.’
‘I’d better come with you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about taking Toadstone with you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re going out with him tomorrow night.’
‘I’m going to cancel.’
‘You’ll break his heart.’
‘I know.’
His face creased up. There must be people attending the wedding who he knew. He’d ring one of them and ask them to keep an eye on her.
‘And don’t think you can get someone you know to watch over me.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘I know you.’
‘And I know you, as well.’
‘Huh!’
Outside the station they jumped into a taxi to the storage depot on Great Central Way.
The name on the man’s name badge was unpronounceable. Parish wondered what the world was coming to when someone from an obscure country could travel half-way across the world and be installed as a gatekeeper between him and the briefcase. He showed the man his warrant card.
‘Detective Inspector Parish! Is that a pseudonym for Mr Lewis?’
‘No, I investigate murders.’
‘And this . . .’ he glanced at the Left Luggage ticket. ‘. . . briefcase is evidence in a murder investigation?’
‘Most definitely.’
‘Then you’ll be able to show me a court order clearly stating that you have a judge’s authorisation to take custody of the said briefcase and examine its contents.’
‘I’d like to speak to your supervisor, please.’
‘Ah, you think you can go above my head and that my boss will ignore the rules she herself wrote to give you the briefcase. Never going to happen, Mr Parish. We have rules, clear rules. No proof of identity, no briefcase. No court order, no briefcase. No . . .’
Richards sidled up to the counter, batted her eyelids and licked her lips. ‘We’d like just a little peek inside that briefcase. I’m sure there’s something we can do to facilitate that.’
The man pulled a face. ‘Something? Can you give me some examples of what you’re suggesting, Miss?’
‘No she cannot,’ Parish said, raising his voice. ‘Get me your supervisor now, please.’
‘Of course, Sir. Please take a seat.’ He disappeared for about five minutes and came back with a woman who looked as though she played rugby for the All Blacks.
‘I am the supervisor Olga Tarasova. How can I help you?’ she said, her voice rebounding around the warehouse.
‘I want the briefcase that’s identified on that left luggage ticket.’
‘And you’re not the person who deposited the briefcase with the left luggage office at Paddington station ten years ago?’
‘No, but does that matter? I have the ticket, and isn’t possession nine-tenths of the law.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’d know about the law being a Detective Inspector, Sir. All I know is what our rules say, and they say you can’t have the briefcase unless you’re the person who put the . . .’
‘You wrote the rules, can’t you change them?’
‘That would be against the rules, Sir.’
‘Here’s a hypothetical scenario I’d like you to consider,’ Parish said. ‘You finish work, you get in your car and start driving home, you’re stopped and searched by the police because they’ve received an anonymous tip-off, and they find a stash of heroin hidden in the boot. You’re arrested . . .’
’You’re threatening me?’
‘Absolutely not. I would never abuse my position in such a way. As a police officer I serve the public, but that service is based on the understanding that I receive cooperation from the people I serve. To be perfectly honest, I’m not convinced I’m getting that cooperation from you two.’
‘So, do you have any other strategies you’d like to try on us?’
‘No, I think I’ve exhausted my repertoire.’
‘Good. In the spirit of cooperation, I will see if we can find the briefcase. Please take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me yet, Inspector. Even if we do find the briefcase I haven’t decided whether I’ll let you look inside it yet.’
They sat down on the plastic chairs.
‘Do you think she’ll let you look inside?’ Richards asked.
‘Have I shown any aptitude in the past for ESP?’
‘The opposite in fact, but you know about people.’
‘She’ll let us look inside.’
‘What if she doesn’t?’
‘I’m open to suggestions, and I don’t think offering sexual services to that man was very helpful.’
‘It was about as helpful as you threatening to frame the woman.’
Olga Tarasova eventually returned with a dusty old briefcase and placed it on the counter. ‘You’ll have the combination then?’
They both stood up.
He knew exactly where they were. ‘On the back of the ticket.’
Richards glanced at him and smiled. ‘Of course.’
Tarasova turned the dials on the left to 0956 and the lock snapped open. The same results were achieved when she turned the dials on the right to 1184. She put her forearms on the top of the case and leaned forward. ‘I’m not going to get into trouble for letting you see what’s in this case, am I?’
‘The person who left this case at Paddington station ten years ago died in a hotel fire in America a month ago. He has absolutely no relatives that can be traced. The only thing that wasn’t destroyed in that fire was an envelope in the room safe and that was an envelope addressed to me. It had the Left Luggage ticket inside. Does that answer your question?’
‘I suppose it does. So, you’ll be eager to see what’s inside this case then?’
‘Just a bit,’ Parish said staring at the briefcase.
‘Sorry . . .’
They both looked up at her with their mouths gaping open.
She was grinning. ‘Only joking,’ she said and opened the briefcase. ‘Mmmm.’
‘What?’ Richards said trying to see around the lid.
‘A piece of paper.’ She examined what was written on the paper, put it back in the briefcase and slammed the lid closed.
‘But . . .’ Richards mumbled.
‘Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll let you copy what’s on that piece of paper, and then we’ll return everything to as it was. That way, if a relative of Mr Lewis does materialise, the briefcase and its contents will be intact – agreed?’
Parish nodded. ‘Agreed.’
Olga slid her hand into the jaws of the case and pulled out the piece of paper. ‘There you are,’ she said passing to Parish.
Richards craned her neck. ‘Let me see.’
Printed at the top of the sheet of paper was a name: Orvil Lorenz. Underneath the name was a list of five pairs of names with a line through each of the first four:
E1:
Gabriella/Gideon
E2: Rufus/Roscoe
E3: Mary/Molly
E4: Sebastian/Simeon
E5: Zara/Zachary
‘What does it all mean?’ Richards whispered as she finished copying what was on the paper into her notebook.
‘No idea. Except . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I expect the E’s stand for Epsilon.’
‘Of course. Epsilon 5 was written on the envelope underneath your name. Who are Zara and Zachary though? Do you think Zachary might be you? But who’s Zara? Zara and Zachary who? And who’s Orvil Lorenz? Who do the other names belong to? Why . . . ?’
Parish passed the piece of paper back to Olga. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. Would you mind if I check personally that there’s nothing else in that briefcase?’
She swivelled the briefcase round so that he could look inside. ‘I’m going out on a limb here, you know.’
He passed her a business card. ‘You ever get yourself into trouble with the police, give me a ring and I’ll see what I can do.’
She slipped the card in a pocket of her brown coat.
He began systematically checking the pockets of the briefcase and feeling the bottom, top and sides for anything that might have been hidden – there was nothing. He was about to close the briefcase and call it a day when he noticed something. ‘You don’t have a tape measure or a ruler, do you?’
The man produced a ruler from beneath the counter.
Parish measured the depth of the inside of the briefcase and the depth of the outside. ‘There’s a quarter of an inch missing. I think there’s a hidden compartment here.’
Richards was slavering. ‘Can I try?’
‘I’ll do it.’ He pressed all over the brief case, and eventually found a tiny catch. The base clicked open. Inside was an ageing brown file. On the front of the file was the German eagle with the swastika inside a laurel wreath gripped in its claws. He took the file out, opened it up and saw half a dozen pages written in German. He closed the file again. ‘I have to take this with me.’
Olga banged the briefcase shut. ‘Are you two still here?’
‘Thanks,’ he said.
They left the Wembley storage depot on Great Central Way and caught a taxi back to Wembley Park tube station.
‘Are you going to let me see the file?’ Richards asked him in the taxi.
‘Can you read German?’
‘Well . . . a little bit.’
‘Tell me one word of German you know.’
‘Eh . . . BMW.’
‘I thought so. You know absolutely no German at all.’
‘Berlin.’
‘Keep going.’
‘When I look at the file I’m sure it’ll jog my memory. Everything I learnt at school will come flooding back.’
He opened the file and turned the pages over slowly one at a time.
‘Wow.’
‘Well?’
She grinned. ‘Nothing is coming to me.’
‘I thought so.’
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘We’re going home.’
‘I mean with what we’ve found out?’
‘Well, I suppose we’ll put it in a drawer and forget about it.’
‘As if.’
***
The
Puncak Hotel
Senggigi, Lombok Island,
West Nusa Tenggara, Indonesia
Thursday, May 16
After an overlong discussion on what each of them should be called, it was decided that they would both keep their first names to prevent any confusion. He was now called Oscar Rivera and she was Rosibel Valdez. He had the temerity to suggest that they might be a married couple, but she told him that if ever she was going to get married it would be in the sight of God.
As he had Esteben Garcia’s account number and could make a passable signature of his own name, he was able to transfer ten million of the one hundred and ninety five million in the account to another account he had opened under his own name.
After some searching, he was able to find a Lithuanian who could produce forged Panamanian documents – a passport, birth certificate and driving licence – for both of them. He paid fifty thousand pounds for the documents.
Once he had become Oscar Rivera, he removed five million pounds in cash from his account, took it along the road to another bank and opened an account under his new name. The following day, he removed another four million pounds and gave it to Rosibel.
‘I don’t want your dirty drug money.’
‘Just in case,’ he said to her.
‘In case of what?’
‘You know what. If I were killed you would need money.’
‘I will put it in an account with my name on it, but I will never touch it. I am not a hypocrite.’
He didn’t like to mention that he was paying for everything with dirty drug money.
While they were waiting for the documents they plotted a circuitous route via the Eurotunnel to Paris, a train journey to Marseille, a French Airbus flight to Hong Kong, two nights in a luxury hotel in Macau, a flight to Dubai . . . Needless to say, it would have taken a whole pack of tracker dogs ten years to pick up their trail.
Now, they were lying on the white sand together. The palm trees were hardly moving in the breeze and the sea was lapping their names.
After all the things he’d done in his life he didn’t deserve to be so happy – and yet, for this short time he was. He propped himself up on his elbow and stared at her. Mother Teresa and all the saints in Christendom, she was so beautiful. Since making love to her the first time, he had never wanted to stop. He felt as he did as a child in the store at Puente de Calamate. Old Mrs Neira used to chase him away from the sweets with a stick.
‘Soon we will have to leave this place,’ he said to her.
‘But not today.’
He kissed her. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow.’
####