Ellie paused at the entrance to the hotel cafe and watched Dougie Vanderstraaten flirt with the waitress. The woman was used to wealthy old men. She smiled warmly at Dougie’s jokes and politely moved away from him before his hands found their mark.
Ellie walked over and, before he could stand up, bent down and gave him a kiss. He was freshly powdered and immaculately groomed. She affectionately loosened his cravat. ‘It’s far too hot for one of those.’
‘I can’t very well wear my fedora without a cravat.’ He motioned to the hat on the table. His hands had developed a tremor she was familiar with.
‘You are your own stereotype, Dougie. They broke the mould when they made you.’ Ellie picked up the glass on the table and inhaled the sweet aroma of Hendrick’s.
‘I am the mould; the rest of these neo-colonial Nancy boys are mere pretenders.’ He took the glass from her and drained it, crunching ice between perfectly crowned teeth. ‘It’s good to have you back, Ellie. What brings you to this historic place at this historic time?’ His hand rose in a florid punctuating twirl, then smoothed the thick silver lines of his hair into place.
Dougie was a Sri Lankan Burgher. Descended from Dutch traders, his family had inherited wealth for twelve generations, each one squandering a little more than the one before it. The old man was a British NOC, a Non-Official Cover operative, recruited shortly after the fall of the Raj. His views on Sri Lankan politics were non-partisan. ‘Bring back the British,’ he had once told her. ‘They did a much better job than these donkeys.’ With his mixed Dutch and Sri Lankan heritage, he was a little of each but not too much of either. The British found his colonial affectations flatteringly foolish and the Sri Lankans found them repulsively aspirational.
The waitress returned and stood safely next to Ellie. ‘What would you like for breakfast, madam?’
‘Not what he’s having,’ she replied. ‘Espresso, no sugar. That’s it, thank you.’
‘Tut, tut. You weren’t always so judgemental, were you? Oh, that’s right, you were.’ Dougie smiled and signalled the waitress to bring him another round. ‘You should try it before you judge it. And the desserts here are splendid, much better than the Cinnamon Grand. Have one for breakfast, live dangerously.’ He shivered with mock excitement. ‘Now, you were going to tell me why you’re here, in this fine land of Serendib. I hear you’ve been asking after Ameena Fernando, may God rest her overly inquisitive soul.’
‘Dougie.’ Ellie shook her head and bit back laughter. ‘I am looking into her death, among other things.’
‘“Among other things”,’ Dougie quoted. ‘My, my, Ellie, you must be a secret agent with talk like that. Or a lawyer. Or perhaps a secret agent posing as a lawyer.’
‘I prefer to think of myself as a lawyer posing as a secret agent. What can you tell me about Ameena, Dougie?’
‘I can tell you that it doesn’t matter who killed her. Ameena Fernando, the patron saint of free speech. She’s dead and martyred, just the way we like our heroes. And our terrorists for that matter. Your priority should be keeping yourself alive.’
Ellie nodded, thinking of the man hunting her on the motorcycle, and the four who were most likely responsible for Ameena’s death. Her stalker could have been one of them.
‘Did the government order the hit?’ she asked, hoping the second Hendrick’s would take effect quickly.
‘Almost certainly. It’s called power with impunity, Ellie. I know you’re familiar with it. Why are you pursuing this? For the family back in America? Or for that boyfriend that you let down?’ His acquisition of local intel had always been impressive. His tone was light and his lips were shaped into a smile, but he watched her closely.
‘Leave him out of it,’ she replied calmly. She didn’t have Dougie’s decades of deception, but she was trained to confront tougher opponents than an ageing, alcoholic British spy. She tried another approach. ‘I need to give the family something they can use to close this chapter of their lives. I’d like your help. No one knows Colombo the way you do. Ask around for me, will you?’ She placed a hand on his arm. His suit was a deliciously soft but firm cotton. ‘Nice. Savile Row?’ she asked.
‘Flattery will get you everywhere. I will ask around, as you say. But as an old spy—nay, as an old friend—let me tell you: you shouldn’t have come back. You won’t expunge the sin. You won’t pay back the debt you think you owe him. Guilt doesn’t work that way. I know—I’ve tried. All you will do is expose everyone to danger again.’
She nodded and squeezed his arm. Her phone vibrated. It was Tenby, waiting with a car. She signalled the waitress for a third Hendrick’s before she left.
•
‘I hope you don’t mind me joining you, Ellie,’ Tenby said as he opened the door to the Anti-Landmine Lobby. They were greeted by warm air churned up by the standalone fan. ‘Solomon just wants us to look eager to help.’
Ellie shook her head. She was eager to help. ‘Stop fretting, it’s fine. As long as you’re not here to escort me to the aid meeting afterwards.’
Tenby looked away, nervously.
‘Seriously? Jesus, Tenby. I’m not a child.’ She was about to say more when she noticed the logbook at the empty reception desk. She flicked through it to the days before Ameena’s death. Nothing stood out.
‘Ahem,’ Sathyan interrupted her, his eyebrows raised. ‘You don’t have the unfettered power of the State. Don’t you need a warrant for that?’
‘Probably,’ she smiled and kissed him on the cheek in greeting. He held her arm gently, an old instinct. Then he remembered and let go, turning to Tenby.
‘Mr Tenby, thank you for coming today. And thank you for your card and beautiful words about Ameena.’
‘Please call me Keith.’ Tenby reached out and took Sathyan’s hand in both of his. ‘We were shocked and saddened by what happened. Ameena’s courage emboldened all of us. The Embassy offers its full support, so please reach out whenever you need something.’ He was sincere.
‘Thank you, Keith.’ Sathyan led them down a corridor formed by cubicle dividers. ‘Where’s Arjuna?’ he asked Ellie.
‘He’ll pick me up later. He said … he said you visited him a lot during his recovery.’
Sathyan shrugged. ‘He was kind to my brother. I think being with him helped me more than it did him. Come this way, we have a meeting room at the back.’
‘The place looks … emotive,’ she said, looking at the posters of an old man missing a leg, the remains of a nurse lying in the dirt, a little girl crying out in pain and clutching wounds in the aftermath of a landmine.
‘It is an emotional issue,’ Sathyan stopped at an image of Lady Diana Spencer walking down a dusty road in protective gear. ‘Do you think we could get Michelle Obama to do that here?’ he asked. ‘Or too derivative?’
‘I think so. Homage only works when it’s Daniel Craig emulating Ursula Andress.’
‘That’s what I said to our marketing girl. She’s young and keen, wants us to get funkier or something.’ He shrugged.
‘A funky campaign about the illegal use of landmines. That’s a challenging spec.’
Sathyan took them into a small room. He played with the remote control for the air conditioner and then gave up, opening a window and letting in the noise from the generator below. ‘Sorry. We’re better funded than we used to be, but you know how it is in this sector.’
‘The Gates Foundation will fund new prosthetics factories but not your air conditioning?’
He smiled at that and then they sat in silence. Tenby shifted uncomfortably, sweat softening the collar of his shirt. Sathyan was calm, almost detached. She wondered if it was grief, fatigue or medication.
‘I tried to call Shirani Dennis,’ she told him.
‘Oh yes?’ He looked interested. ‘And?’
Scott’s searches had corroborated Tenby’s research about Ameena’s work colleague. Ameena and Shirani spoke several times a day, which was to be expected. But his searches also revealed that Shirani’s husband, Sachin, called Ameena more times than one would expect. She didn’t have the nerve to ask Sathyan about the best friend’s husband. She answered flippantly but honestly. ‘She hung up on me twice, abused me once, and won’t take any more of my calls.’
Sathyan laughed outright at that, mouth wide, eyes closed, dimples darting. She wanted him to keep laughing. She wanted to make him laugh and laugh and never cry again.
‘I’ve tried her house and her gym, but she’s elusive,’ she continued.
‘It’s the best way to stay alive in Sri Lanka,’ he replied. He was serious now, though the laughter hadn’t completely left his eyes.
They were silent again.
‘I need to ask you some more questions.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you.’ She coughed again.
‘Just ask me. You do that cough thing before you have something difficult to say. And before you lie.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Did you get the financial records I sent you?’
‘Yes, thank you for those. Ameena and I don’t … didn’t have any joint accounts. She just paid for the house expenses and I paid for as much as she would let me.’
She straightened the papers she had taken out of her bag. ‘Have you had a chance to review them?’
‘Yes, I followed up a few things I didn’t understand.’
‘Such as?’ Tenby asked, leaning forward to look at the records.
Sathyan was startled by his voice. They had both forgotten he was there. ‘Nothing troubling, Keith. Just some things bought online, mostly books for her children and rare ones. Ameena likes—liked—reading.’
‘Yes, the outgoings seem largely predictable. There were only a few big spends. For example, a new laptop?’ Ellie noted.
‘That was for me. The police took that too.’
‘Was there anything that seemed unusual to you? Any big payments you didn’t understand? Anything regular or one-off that didn’t quite add up?’
‘Are you asking me if she took bribes?’ Sathyan asked, his tone finally rising.
‘I’m sure what Ellie means—’ Tenby tried to explain but Ellie cut him off.
‘That’s one question but there are others.’
‘Ameena was an honest person who died because of her stupid integrity and unwillingness to compromise,’ Sathyan said fiercely. ‘She didn’t take bribes. She reported on those who did.’
‘Okay. Does this address mean anything to you?’ She showed him the address that Scott had given her, in the posh part of town. ‘She made frequent and significant payments to this place over the last eight months, every time she visited it.’
‘I see.’
She told him what Scott had discovered that morning after some cyber-reconnaissance. The place appeared to be a high-end brothel. She saw the confusion in Sathyan’s eyes and gave him her theory quickly, not wanting to hurt him. ‘I think she went there to meet a source. It’s a safe and discreet place in a town that has eyes and ears everywhere. Three months ago, Ameena published her piece on MNW and the arms deal with the Sri Lankan government. It makes sense that, eight months ago, she started meeting her source there.’
Tenby had suggested other theories about why Ameena might have visited the establishment, including habits she might have been hiding. Ellie doubted it, but she hadn’t ruled out blackmail.
‘Have you spoken to the owner yet? Are any of the staff her source? Or the other clients?’ Sathyan asked. Ellie noted that he’d said ‘other’.
‘I haven’t gone in yet. I’d have to get a search warrant to look at records, if they keep records.’
Tenby smiled ruefully at her suggestion. ‘No judge in the country would give you that search warrant. You’d find out about their colleagues or themselves. We have some contacts—do you want me to ask around?
‘That would be great, thank you, Tenby. The Supreme Court of Sri Lanka is more likely to take your calls than mine.’
She waited, unsure how to probe Sathyan more, but unwilling to leave. ‘I’m at a dead end with Ameena’s money. She inherited a considerable estate from her family but she seemed to put most of it back into the paper to keep it afloat. Aside from mixing personal finances with professional ones, the money trail looks clear.’
‘That was how she felt about the paper and her life—a mixing of both.’ He looked at her sadly. ‘It was impossible to know where one stopped and the other started.’
Ellie recognised the conflict of priorities where one life was always competing with the other. Where one life was always destined to win.
‘There is something I wanted to tell you,’ Sathyan began. ‘It seems innocent. I don’t know. Ameena and I share an Amazon account. She uses it to order books for her children online, novels and a few biographies. They get delivered directly to San Francisco. But a few months ago, she ordered a really big shipment of textbooks and educational resources.’
‘Educational resources?’
‘Yes, like electronic Lego sets … the kind teenage boys like. The textbooks are in Sinhalese and Tamil, used by our schools, not American ones, which is why I noticed. I asked her about it, and she said it must have been a mistake, that she would look into it. But I didn’t quite believe her; something wasn’t right.’
‘Perhaps she was helping someone training to become a teacher,’ Ellie suggested. ‘Or a student? Maybe she was helping a student.’
‘Or a lover? You can say it. I’ve thought about it too. Was she having an affair with a teacher?’
Shirani Dennis’ husband Sachin was a teacher. She waited again.
‘It’s out of the question. I would know,’ Sathyan said. ‘I would know.’
Ellie wasn’t so sure. ‘Do you have the books? Perhaps there was something else in the delivery. An encrypted message, another delivery within the delivery.’
‘The books didn’t come here,’ he replied.
‘Where did they go?’
‘To the address you just showed me. To the brothel.’