‘I appreciate that; please bear with me. Lord Elms attended a cabinet meeting at three yesterday afternoon and then met with the PM in his office for about an hour,’ Cross continued, undeterred. ‘He was due to chair a committee meeting after that, and then give a speech at the French Embassy, followed by dinner.’ Cross paused again – Sir Charles thought for effect – turned a page in his file and then continued. ‘Apparently, Lord Elms felt unwell and asked his driver to take him home after the committee meeting. He arrived at his house at seven fifty-five. Lady Elms was at home alone last night; it was the maid’s night off and the cook had left at around six after preparing dinner. We understand that the intruders entered the house from the back a few minutes later.’
‘Are you suggesting that by coming home unexpectedly, Lord Elms surprised the intruders?’ asked Sir Charles.
‘It would appear so. We don’t know exactly what happened in the house, except for this: at twelve minutes past nine precisely, the alarm went off inside the house. The security detail consisting of two officers sitting in an unmarked vehicle got out of the car and ran towards the house. They were both gunned down as they approached the front door. We believe the gunman fired from a window on the first floor.’
‘And then?’ asked Sir Charles.
‘The getaway vehicle pulled up; a stolen courier van. Two men dressed in black wearing balaclavas got in, and the van sped off. It was found two hours later, burnt out just outside London.’
‘What happened to my parents?’ asked Isis quietly.
‘Two security guards sent by the alarm company to investigate arrived at the scene first,’ replied Cross, looking through the file. ‘They were in the vicinity when the alarm went off. I have their statements right here. This is what they found: Two men with multiple gunshot wounds were lying on the stairs leading to the front door – dead. The front door was open.’ Cross paused, letting the tension grow.
‘Yes,’ prompted Sir Charles, losing patience.
‘Lord Elms was lying in the foyer, shot in the head at point blank range—’
‘And my mother?’ interrupted Isis, close to tears. ‘What happened to my mother?’
‘George, please,’ said Sir Charles, placing a restraining hand on Isis’ arm. ‘Let’s hear what Mr Cross has to tell us; all right?’
‘She was tied to a chair in the study on the ground floor; alive, but badly injured.’
‘Badly injured?’ Isis almost shouted. ‘Half her face was missing when I saw her in hospital.’
‘That’s right. Part of her face had been removed.’
‘Removed? What on earth do you mean by that?’ shrieked Isis.
‘I understand how you must feel,’ said Cross calmly, sidestepping the question, ‘but these are the facts.’
‘So far, all you’ve given us is a clinical account of what you think happened, but not a word about why, or who the perpetrators might be,’ Sir Charles stepped in. ‘Would you care to elaborate on this?’
‘I was hoping your client might be able to throw some light on this question,’ replied Cross, closing the file. ‘Can you think of anything that could explain these events?’ asked Cross, looking directly at Isis. ‘Any threats against your parents; any enemies you can think of; anything out of the ordinary you may have observed recently? Anything at all that could be relevant, however far-fetched it may seem at the moment?’
‘I don’t know what to think right now,’ replied Isis. ‘I haven’t seen my parents in months.’
Cross nodded. Isis didn’t mention the fact that her mother had briefly regained consciousness just before she died and had spoken to her. This would remain a much treasured secret, not to be divulged to anyone. Isis realised that as matters stood, what her mother had told her with her last breath may well turn out to be the only clue to throw some light on the horror. Isis promised herself to leave no stone unturned to find out if that was so.
‘You can see my client is upset,’ interjected Sir Charles, not at all pleased by the change of tone. The ‘briefing’ was turning into an interrogation. As every experienced lawyer knows, the best thing to do in that situation is to say nothing.
‘Is anything missing from the house?’ asked Isis.
‘Interesting you should ask that,’ answered Cross. ‘As far as we know at this early stage, no. The housekeeper has already confirmed this.’
‘I think we should leave it there,’ said Sir Charles, standing up. ‘My client needs to rest.’
‘Quite,’ Cross stood up as well. ‘You will be returning to Moscow?’ he asked, turning to Isis.
‘I’m in the middle of a sold-out world tour. We are giving a concert in Tokyo in two days; I intend to be there.’
‘Grief must wait?’ said Cross, the sarcasm in his voice obvious.
Anticipating an outburst, Sir Charles gripped Isis by the arm. ‘Perhaps in your line of work you may not have noticed, but there are many shades of grief,’ he said to Cross. ‘You can reach my client through me, any time.’ With that, Sir Charles handed Cross a business card, and opened the door.
‘What an arrogant little prick,’ said Isis, hurrying back to her car.
‘The world is full of arrogant little pricks,’ replied Sir Charles, trying to keep up. ‘The secret is to know when and how to cut off their little balls. And this was certainly not the time, or the place to do it.’
For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Isis felt suddenly a lot better.
5
Jack knocked softly on Tristan’s door, unsure if he was still awake.
‘Come in, Jack,’ Tristan called out from inside. Tristan was sitting at his desk, his copy of The Disappearance of Anna Popov open in front of him. ‘I’m mentioned in the acknowledgements,’ Tristan said excitedly.
‘Well deserved. You’ve helped me with the book in more ways than you know,’ said Jack. ‘And you were very brave in allowing everything to go in; even the scary personal bits.’
‘Thanks, Jack. I have something for you too. Here, have a look.’ Tristan switched on his computer and turned the screen towards Jack. ‘Watch.’
‘What on earth is that?’ asked Jack. Five half-naked, heavily tattooed men and a woman – obviously the singer, looking like a bird in a crazy costume – were performing on a huge stage. The music was deafening. ‘Turn it down before the paying guests complain and leave.’ As the camera swung around, a stadium filled with thousands of adoring fans – hands held up high – came into view.
‘You mean you don’t recognise them?’ asked Tristan, shaking his head.
‘I’m afraid this isn’t exactly my …’
‘That’s Isis and The Time Machine, the greatest rock band of our time, and you don’t know …?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I have heard of them, of course …’ he lied. ‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘Because you and Isis are destined to meet. Your fate lines are intersecting,’ said Tristan, turning off the computer. ‘You have to prepare yourself.’ Tristan took the DVD out of the slot and handed it to Jack. ‘Listen to the music and try to understand it before it’s too late,’ he said, turning serious.
‘All right,’ said Jack, slipping the DVD into his pocket. ‘And when will this meeting take place?’ he asked, smiling incredulously.
‘Soon; very soon. You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘It seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?’
‘It’s not what I think that matters; it’s what I see …’ retorted Tristan, looking at Jack with his large, dark, almond-shaped eyes.
The Maori in him is becoming more prominent as he gets older, thought Jack. He’s very good looking.
Jack felt something ice-cold move slowly down his spine. Tristan’s words reminded him of Cassandra, Tristan’s Maori mother, a gifted psychic. He’s much better than I, he remembered her saying. He can glimpse eternity. ‘It’s getting late,’ said Jack, trying to shake off the disturbing memories.
‘Be careful, Jack. There’s rea
l danger here,’ warned Tristan. ‘And remember, I can help you when the time comes. I always will.’
‘I know that. Thanks,’ said Jack, giving the boy a hug. ‘Good night, mate. I’ll see you in the morning before I leave.’
Despite being very tired, Jack couldn’t go to sleep. He kept turning restlessly in his bed, unable to relax. Every time he drifted towards the sleep his exhausted body craved, Tristan’s disturbing words would pull him back. Finally, bathed in sweat, Jack sat up, turned on the light and got out of bed. Slipping on a bathrobe, he opened the door of his room and peered outside. Silence.
Remembering a similar occasion during his first visit to the chateau, he decided to walk downstairs and visit the little chapel at the back. With that visit, the circle would be complete, he thought. However, one more thing remained to be done; he had to return something that belonged to the countess. Jack unzipped his duffel bag and took out Anna’s photo the countess had kept on the altar in the chapel during all those lonely, painful years. She had given it to Jack, sealing the promise he had made that fateful night two years ago. It had accompanied him every step of the way along the dangerous and rocky path that had eventually led him to Anna.
‘I knew I would find you here,’ whispered the countess, standing in the shadows. Jack spun around, surprised.
‘Katerina? You startled me. How long have you been here?’
‘I’ve been watching you for a little while; I didn’t want to intrude …’
‘I was just thinking how much has happened since the last time we stood here.’
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ said the countess, coming closer. ‘You brought Anna back and gave me a family. I now have a beautiful grandson as well, and Tristan is like the son I never had. I’m forever in your debt.’ Staring at Anna’s photo Jack had put back on the altar, the countess was unable to hold back the tears any longer and began to sob. Overcome by a whirlwind of emotions, relief and gratitude merged with love and admiration for this rough diamond of a man who had brought back her only child from the dead. It was God’s work, she knew that, and Jack was but an instrument of fate. ‘You know Tristan is an extraordinary child with extraordinary powers …’ Jack nodded. ‘He’s worried about you. He’s seen something … frightening that concerns you.’
‘He told me.’
‘Don’t dismiss it as adolescent fantasy; that would be a mistake.’
‘I agree.’
The countess reached for Jack’s hand and looked at him through teary eyes. ‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Be careful, Jack. You are now part of this family. I hope you know that.’
‘Thanks, Katerina. I will always remember that.’
‘Love makes us vulnerable; I worry about you.’
For a while, they stood there in silence, watching the candles burning on the altar next to Anna’s photo. ‘How’s Anna,’ asked Jack, breaking the silence, ‘really?’
‘She’s a damaged human being trying to repair herself. Progress is slow,’ replied the countess sadly. ‘I don’t think we can even try to imagine what she’s been through. Despite all this, she’s an excellent mother; she’s very good with her little boy …’
‘But?’
‘She lives in her own world … However, her painting has flourished. Her work is in great demand, especially in Paris. Several prominent galleries are pursuing her with promises of exhibitions.’
‘You must be very proud.’
‘Of course, I’m happy for her.’
‘Her treatment? How’s that going?’
‘She’s under the care of the best specialists. Alexandra’s mother has made sure of that. She’s a leading neurologist, as you know.’
‘Prognosis?’
‘Non-committal. They all agree on only one thing: time. We have to give it time, that’s all they say. I don’t think they really know.’
Jack sensed something deeper was troubling the countess. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ he asked, squeezing the countess’ hand.
‘Very perceptive, as usual. Anna is much closer to Tristan than anyone else. They spend hours together while she paints, in silence. They talk to each other without speaking. It’s quite extraordinary. Tristan has found a way of communicating with her that is beyond us.’
‘Perhaps it was meant to be,’ said Jack. ‘Two troubled souls bound together by extraordinary events. I often thought about this while writing the book.’
‘Perhaps … You have never thought about a family of your own, Jack?’ asked the countess.
Jack looked at her, surprised by the unexpected question. ‘You mean, find a nice girl, settle down, a house with a large backyard for the dog; kids? Katerina, I’ve tried marriage; it’s not for everyone, and it certainly wasn’t for me,’ Jack said, laughing.
‘Never say never,’ said the countess, wagging her finger. ‘You won’t be in your forties forever, Jack.’
‘Marriage is definitely not for an adventure junky, as Rebecca likes to call me; we both know that.’ The countess burst out laughing, grateful for the humour.
‘How’s Nikolai?’ asked Jack.
‘We are certainly getting along better since Anna’s come back to us. He visits regularly, but I think he’s punishing himself for having given up hope. As you know, he was convinced she was dead and lost to us forever. He now believes, in hindsight, that as a father he should never have lost faith. I don’t think he can get over this.’
‘Time heals all,’
‘I hope you’re right, for his sake.’
‘I think I should go back to bed,’ said Jack. ‘Off to Sydney tomorrow; it’s a long flight.’
‘With Alexandra. Thanks for keeping an eye on her.’
‘I don’t think she needs me to keep an eye on her,’ replied Jack. ‘She strikes me as an exceedingly capable young woman.’
‘Perhaps so. But it’s still a new country, new job, new people … And you never know what’s around the corner, do you?’
‘I’ll have to agree with you there,’ said Jack, linking arms with the countess. ‘But I’ve had enough excitement for a while, I can tell you.’ Jack traced the little white scar on his temple with the tip of his finger. ‘I’m planning to take it easy. A little sailing on the harbour is about all the excitement I can cope with at the moment.’
‘Why is it that I don’t I believe you?’ asked the countess, trying to sound serious. ‘I would like to; really, Jack, I would but …’
‘Rebecca could answer that for you,’ replied Jack.
‘Oh?’
‘Because – according to her, at least – I’m an infuriating, incorrigible rascal. Could that perhaps be the reason? What do you think?’
‘I’m not going to answer that.’
6
As an entertainer used to gruelling schedules, Isis knew how to manage lack of sleep. However, the emotional strain of the past 24 hours was beginning to take its toll. Leaning against Lola in the back seat of the Bentley crawling towards the airport, Isis was trying to doze. London morning peak hour traffic was horrendous, as usual. Hovering in the foggy no-man’s-land of an exhausted mind, she was unable to find the rest her body craved. Not quite asleep, but not entirely awake either, every time sleep beckoned, her mother’s disfigured face would appear with alarming clarity. Great danger, Isis could hear her mother whisper … our secret place … hide and seek – remember? What does it mean? Isis wondered, over and over. Then suddenly, the disturbing image faded and Isis found herself back at Clarendon Hall, the Elms’ family estate just outside Bath.
‘Of course, that’s it!’ Isis cried out, suddenly wide awake. ‘How stupid of me! Hide and seek.’
‘Bad dream?’ asked Lola, reaching for Isis’ hand.
‘No, a good one. We are going to Bath – now! Did you hear that?’ Isis asked the driver. The driver nodded; Isis’ moods and whims were legendary. ‘Clarendon Hall; it’s not that far. Ring the plane, Lola. We’ll put our flight back.’
‘What about Tokyo?’ asked Lola, the scary spectre of a cancelled concert sending icy shivers down her spine.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it, but only if we hurry.’
Clarendon Hall was built to impress. Over four hundred years old, it was constructed on a grand scale and set in magnificent grounds. The estate had served as the seat of the powerful Elms family for countless generations. Isis had spent most of her childhood there, until boarding school took her away and everything changed.
Isis hadn’t been to Clarendon Hall for years. Staring dreamily out of the car window, she watched the familiar old oak trees lining the long driveway slip past as the car approached the huge manor house. Looking back, living at Clarendon Hall seemed like a distant fairytale. Grand staircases and long corridors filled with medieval armour, exotic hunting trophies and all kinds of weapons were the playground of a shy little boy growing up in a cold place, where the only warmth was the love of a lonely mother.
Lord and Lady Elms had lived separate lives throughout their entire marriage. Ten years older than his wife, Lord Elms had preferred to live in London, leaving Lady Elms to bring up their only child on the estate. The boy was her life.
News of the tragedy had already reached Clarendon Hall. Most of the remaining staff had spent their entire working life on the estate. Teary-eyed and looking old, Albert, the butler and Kate, the cook were waiting at the entrance. Both had known Isis since childhood.
Isis left Boris and Lola in Kate’s care in the kitchen and excused herself. She told them she wanted to be alone with her memories for a little while. ‘Don’t take too long,’ Lola reminded her, pointing to her watch. ‘Take-off is at eight – remember? Any later than that, we’ve got air traffic problems.’
Returning to Clarendon Hall after all these years felt like visiting a museum where all the exhibits were exactly in the same place, only a little smaller and less imposing. Childhood memories were like that. Isis stood at the bottom of the huge staircase and looked up at the portraits of her bewigged ancestors staring accusingly, she thought, down on her from above. Then slowly, she walked up the marble stairs to the first floor.
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 4
