“I was. You. He never trusted me, he even told me as much. Is that why he had this planted this in Sean’s flat?”
There was no way to explain this softly, no way that would not sting, no way that would make sense and he did not want to explain what would destroy them. “Mat Tech didn’t plant anything. That passport photo,” he pointed, “was in Sean’s flat, and this one,” he pointed again, “along with the photo of the café in Sicily, was uncovered by Weed. That is why he’s been staring at you. Do you see? Do you understand why this is impossible, Mae?”
“No. When did you find out all of this?”
“About an hour ago.” For a long moment, Kitt said nothing, the more than a scrap of soul he had twisted, his heart, squeezing it, forcing it into his throat, crowding the words, he couldn’t bring himself to say them because he didn’t want to believe what was true anymore than she did.
Mae stared at him until what he’d left unsaid broke through and she blinked and squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands against her shaking head. “Photos can be doctored; people, faces can be inserted into any setting. That is not Fiorella in that picture.”
“Images can be modified,” Kitt said, hating himself, “but these have been verified by the Italians. Maltese and Croatian governments confirm that they issued the passports. There’s a Dutch passport too, Weed showed me.” He said the names on the passports, “Bruno Sciacca, Stefan Fedelio, Wilem Plender, they are all the same man.”
“No, no. He is not alive. Caspar is not alive!” Her hands came away from her skull. Mae sat, and slowly, all the air was sucked from Kitt’s body, leaving a hollowness breathing didn’t fill.
There was no time. There was no time for shock. There was no time for mourning. There was no time for panic. The only thing to do was get on with it. The only thing to do was get up and move. The only thing to do was think, but to think there had to be something she could focus on and the only thing Mae could focus on were those fucking photos.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink,” Weed said as he and Bryce returned to the room. He crossed the room to the little bar on the sideboard, grabbed a tumbler, and poured in a healthy shot of Bols Genever. “Anyone else?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
No one replied.
Glass in hand, Weed sauntered to the sitting room, gathered his dreadlocks in one hand and let them spill down his back. He lifted the tea tray from the chair where Mae had left it and dropped it on the coffee table, china rattling.
The clattering of the tea service snapped Mae to sit up.
Weed put his drink on the tray beside the teapot and poked the rumpled photocopies before he had a seat. “I take it you had a little discussion with your butler, Kitt?” he said, with the lightest Dutch inflection, all trace of his American accent gone.
Bryce stood on the edge of the pretty, pinkish Turkish rug that was stained with Llewelyn’s blood. “A little discussion about what?” he said, eyes on the crimson marks.
“The butler’s,” Weed smirked, “husband.”
“What?” Bryce looked at Kitt sitting on the sofa’s edge, elbows on his knees, while Mae stared at the tea tray on the coffee table, her expression leaden, dressing gown dotted with blood and open on a generous amount of thigh. “Kitt?” Bryce said.
“Didn’t you know, Timothy?” Mae said without looking at him. “My dead, polygamist husband is alive.”
“Shit,” Bryce muttered and moved to plop into a vacant chair that wasn’t as comfortable as the one Weed had chosen. “Is there any tea left in that pot?”
Mae got to her feet, adjusted her dressing gown, and began to tidy the coffee table, dabbing the remains of spilled chai with the soiled apron she’d pulled from the sofa’s arm. “I don’t know. If there is, it’s stone cold.”
“Not at all like your not-dead husband,” Weed said, sipping his Bols. “What did you think of the passports and the photo of your friend? That little old lady looks like quite a character.”
Kitt let out a quiet breath. It was odd how a catastrophic moment could trigger a chain reaction that piled one disaster on top of another tragedy, on top of another calamity, until it squeezed out a solution—or potential solution—to a final dire situation. It wasn’t thinking outside the box as much as letting oneself be crushed by the box and the crawling out from under the rubble. “If there something you want to say, Hans, then say it. I don’t have time for this.” He watched Mae shift gears, saw her set aside her fear, her rage, her disbelief. She grabbed hold of routine, of the familiar, she slid into being productive and began collecting the tea things, placing them on the tray.
“I’ll make a fresh pot of tea, Timothy,” she said.
“No, you won’t,” Weed said. “You’re not going anywhere.” Light gleamed off the amethyst on his wrist.
“Sod off, Mr Weed.” Tray in hand, Mae turned for the kitchen.
Weed’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm, unbalancing the tray she quickly levelled before any china slid off. “I said you are not going anywhere. We’re going to have discussion and you’re going to sit there and listen.”
“Let her go, Hans,” Kitt sighed, “or I promise you, you will lose teeth.”
“Lose teeth.” Weed chuckled at the threat, releasing her, sipping again from his tumbler. “You know, Major Kitt. Maybe Llewelyn and Arthur believe your record and commendations mean something, and maybe they once did, but when I look at you, I am not impressed by past accolades.”
“I’m heartsick about that.”
Head shaking, Weed inspected Kitt for a moment, turning the glass in his hand. “I see a sloppy, unprofessional intelligence officer with missing fingers. Perhaps careless is a better word than sloppy. You’ll have to forgive me. English is not my first language.” He glanced at Mae standing with the tray.
So did Kitt. Mae stared at the bespectacled Dutchman, the corners of her mouth curved in a tiny smile, the sort, Kitt knew, meant she was contemplating lobbing the tea tray and all its contents at the man.
Weed continued. “I understand this woman saved your brother’s life. It’s natural you’d be grateful for that, it’s even natural you and she share some kind of connection, that you’d feel some sense of responsibility for her, I probably would too, but to miss this, overlook this on purpose or merely be blind to it means you’re past your prime, well past. But don’t feel bad, Major, it happens to us all. I’ll be you one day.”
“You’ll never be like Major Kitt, Mr Weed.” Mae set the tea tray back on the coffee table.
“Oh, yes,” Weed said, laughing again, “He saved your life as well. How could I forget. Forgetting, now that’s sloppy, but I see. Major Kitt’s your hero.”
She shook her head, squinting. “No. He’s not my hero; everything you say about him is true. He’s sloppy, he’s blind, sometimes acts without regard, he’s prone to moodiness, he’s missing parts of his fingers, he ought to be put out to pasture.”
Kitt looked at her, one brow arched. “I love you too, Valentine.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mae said, her attention on the wiry, dreadlocked Dutchman. What is it you want to discuss, Mr Weed?”
“Yes,” Kitt said. “You’ve done your part; AIDV has made its contribution on the matter of Valentine’s not-deceased spouse. The Italians have asked us to step aside on that matter for now. They’ve asked you to step aside on the matter as well. As of this moment, it’s no longer in our hands. Your responsibility is to assist with the investigation of Jan Vlaming and the theft of goods from freeports, which includes this morning’s incident at the sex shop Erotica, for which we, that is, Valentine and I, will cooperate. As for my government, our responsibilities are twofold: continue to investigate Vlaming, and follow protocol with regard to Llewelyn’s death. That’s why Sergeant Bryce is here. So unless you want to discuss the transportation of the Brigadier’s body back to England, or funeral arrangements, or how the British government is going to deal with Valentine, what is it you want to talk ab
out, Hans?”
Weed gestured. “Her husband, of course.”
“Ah, yes, her husband,” Kitt said sitting up. “As I said, that matter no longer concerns us, Hans. Yet I was wondering something about the polygamist and the older Sicilian woman he’s with in that photo too. What’s your friend’s name, Mae, Fiorella…?”
Mae clasped her hands behind her back. “Gullo. Fiorella Gullo.”
“Gullo, thank you. Now, bear with me, Hans. Perhaps, as a gesture of friendship and collaboration between our countries and intelligence organisations, you’d like you to hear what I’m wondering.”
“You’re very funny, Kitt. Isn’t he funny?”
“I know he certainly likes to think he is.” Bryce snorted.
Weed shook a finger. “Careful. You’re disrespecting a senior officer, Sergeant.”
“Indeed I am.” Bryce nodded. “I fully expect to be court-martialled. What is your point, Major Kitt?”
“Are you interested in knowing, Hans?”
“Luł,” Weed muttered. “Get on with it.”
Kitt patted the empty spot beside him on the sofa. “Please sit, Valentine. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Mae sat, wishing she hadn’t dumped her apron on the coffee table because she wanted something to squeeze so her hands would stop shaking. She shoved her fingers under her thighs. “I don’t know why my friend Fiorella is in the photo, sir.”
“Yes. It’s a shock, and I know you’re tired,” Kitt said, his knee touching hers because he couldn’t hold her hand. “I know you’re upset. I know this is difficult. I know things look,” the left edge of his mouth twitched, “a bit shite for ya. But would you say your husband is good-looking?”
She smiled so very faintly and fleetingly. “I don’t care to talk about my husband.”
“I understand, it may be nothing, just your opinion, just something I’m wondering about. Please. This may seem silly, but bear with me. Men and women make different value judgements about what is and isn’t good-looking or beautiful. Attraction is one thing, beauty or good looks are another. Saying someone is attractive is different to saying they are beautiful or drop-dead gorgeous. If you ask me, I’d say Bryce over there is quite handsome.”
“It’s my green eyes,” Bryce said, smiling.
“You’re not wrong, Sergeant,” Kitt nodded. “Valentine, would you say Caspar was attractive, nice-looking, good-looking, or very good-looking?”
Weed shook his head and removed his wire-framed glasses, inspecting them for grime. “This is fascinating, Major.”
Kitt ignored the man. “Valentine?”
Mae looked at him sideways. She had no idea where he was going with this mad improvisational song and dance. “I thought he was very good-looking. Why is that important?”
“I’m not sure it is, but thank you.” Kitt gave her hand a small squeeze and rose. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stood. “I’ve left Ms Goedenacht a bit too long. I only meant to give her twenty minutes, but it’s been nearly an hour. I expect she’ll be rather cross with me.”
“Hang on. Wait.” Weed put his glasses back on. “What the hell was this nonsense for?”
“I think there’s a possible connection.”
“A connection to what?”
Kitt pointed to himself, “Between my case,” he pointed at Weed, “and yours, the one the Italians have asked us to step away from for now.”
“How?”
“Ah.” Kitt made a chiding sound, “Tst-tst-tst, you didn’t listen very well at dinner. You were busy openly and obviously surveilling my butler because of Llewelyn’s tenacious suspicion of her. I hate to say this, but you could use a refresher on carrying out open surveillance. That aside, maybe you don’t have all the facts. You were focused on the one task you were assigned to carry out. I’ll review things for you. You’re here because my boss asked your boss to look into my butler’s past again. I’m here looking into the theft and counterfeiting of luxury items from freeports because of a previous action, one that involved the theft and counterfeiting from freeports, me and, by the design of my now-deceased boss, my butler, as well as Ruby Bleuville, a dead woman whose name was bandied about over dinner.”
Weed shifted in his seat, exhaling impatiently. “Yeah, so?”
“This morning, I met with Jan Vlaming Director of The Hortus and victim of possible fraud and theft from freeport storage. He mentioned meeting Ruby Bleuville and her very good-looking boyfriend Giacomo Negroni, Negroni like the cocktail. This evening, Tanja Goedenacht recounted the same story, practically verbatim, right down to Ruby Bleuville and her very good-looking boyfriend, Negroni, like the cocktail. There’s a thing or two my butler and I stumbled upon this morning, but at the moment, what’s important is this:” Kitt stood and put a hand in his pocket, feeling through the coins for his wedding ring, “I’ll be honest, Hans. I’m not fond of the Negroni made with that Genever you’re not drinking,” he said, knowing Mae was staring at him.
“I don’t quite follow.” Weed shook his head.
Bryce leaned forward and lifted the teapot from the tray, swirling it about to check if there was anything left inside. Satisfied there was, he took the empty teacup Llewelyn had used and poured in cold chai. He brought the cup to his mouth, had a sniff, set down the teacup, and wiped away what had touched his lips with the back of his hand. “Well, that’s foul. Maybe it’s what killed Llewelyn.”
“Oh, Timothy,” Mae said.
“Too soon?” Bryce made a face.
Kitt cast his eyes over the disarray on the coffee table and picked up the crumpled passport photos. He looked at Bryce mumbling about ‘too soon’ and the tea being horrible, at Mae softly swearing in Sicilian, at frowning Weed knocking back the last of his drink. “Shall we see if I’m right?”
“Right about what?”
Mae rose. “Jaysus, how’d you make it out of spy training, Mr Weed? He’s saying Bruno Sciacca, Stefan Fedelio, Wilem Plender—whatever he calls himself, Caspar, the very good-looking polygamist ghost is posing as Giacomo Negroni.”
“I am, yes. And we have someone downstairs who could corroborate that.”
“Who?”
“To start, there’s the gorilla of a man who accompanied her here. His name’s Bianco, and he’s camped out in the bar, waiting for her. I noticed his delivery van parked in the ‘commercial vehicle’ spot in front, not far from your little Renault hatchback, Hans. Valentine and I saw the van earlier today outside a sex shop—where we found a body tucked away inside a little hidden room, and notified local police to deal with it. Rather than start with Bianco, I think we best begin with Tanja.”
Weed removed his glasses and tucked into his jacket pocket. “How is this stepping aside, Kitt?”
“Think of this as a courtesy. I told Tanja I’d come back, and, if what I think turns out to be true, you and I both have somewhere to pick up once the Italians are done, or someone to hand over to them now.”
Weed looked at Mae, his smile almost mercenary.
Mae had had enough of the mystery novel reveal improvisation. She started for the door. Kitt put a hand on her arm. “If you don’t mind, Valentine, stay here. Look after Llewelyn’s dog. Please.”
Weed got to his feet with haste, fat locks of hair swinging over his chest. “No, I don’t think so. The dog stays in the other room. She’s coming with us, otherwise she might take off.”
“I trust her not to.” Kitt said.
“I don’t, and,” Weed gathered errant dreadlocks and tossed them over his shoulder, “I don’t trust you either.”
Bryce snorted and headed for the door. “Spoken like the spirit of Llewelyn,” he said, shoving the dining trolley out into the hallway.
After Kitt pulled the woollen throw from the sofa’s back, the four of them rode the lift down three floors. They entered the room and heard the sound of water running in the bathroom.
Kitt held out the throw. “I think it best if you go in and see to her first, Mae.”
/> “Why me?” Mae’s brows arched.
“Yes, Why her, because she’s a woman?”
“No, because Tanja’s not wearing anything and most women don’t typically appreciate having strange men see them naked.”
“True,” Mae said.
“Why is she not wearing anything? “Weed frowned. “Oh. You…all part of the seduction, I see.”
“No. No seduction.” Kitt knelt in front of the bathroom door lock. “I just took her clothes.”
“Why did you take her clothes?”
“To make it difficult for her to leave,” Bryce said.
“I wouldn’t have thought to do that.”
“How long have you been in active field intelligence, Hans?” Kitt pulled out the spoon, and began to work the fork out of the lock. He’d jammed it in a little too well. “Is this your first solo op?”
“Yes. It is. Obviously.” Weed put both hands in his trouser pockets and leaned against a chest of drawers, watching Kitt fiddle with the fork. “I owe you an apology, Kitt. Ageism flows in both directions. You think I’m too young and inexperienced for this work. I think you’re too old, worn out, and need to move aside to let the young and inexperienced gain some experience. I could learn a lot from you, and you me, if we didn’t let our egos get in the way. I have been a bit…overeager, and I’m sorry.”
“If you’re trying to get on his good side,” Bryce chuckled, “he doesn’t have one.”
With a self-effacing laugh, Weed put on his glasses. “I can see that.”
The fork came away from the lock. “Valentine,” Kitt said.
Mae opened the door, woollen throw in hand. “Ms Goedenacht,” she said over the noise of water rushing into the bath, “It’s Valentine, the butler from dinner.” She went into the L-shaped marble-tiled room that smelled of vomit and shit. For a long, long moment, she looked at the dark-haired blue,-eyed beauty, and turned around on gelatinous legs that took her back to the door. Her mouth had gone dry. “Well,” she said from the threshold, tongue a shrivelled sea sponge, “there’s sick all over the floor and I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
True to Your Service Page 23
