“I don’t think that will be possible.”
The security guard got to his feet, but didn’t move from behind the safety of his desk. Perhaps he was trying not to escalate the situation unless absolutely necessary, in the hope that the interloper might leave of his own volition, but it also struck Parker that while the guard might well be as soft as he seemed, he might also be smarter than he looked. Whatever game was being played, the guard wanted some understanding of the rules before becoming involved.
Parker took out his ID. He figured he’d stirred them up enough.
“How about this? I’m a licensed private investigator, based out of Portland, Maine, looking into the circumstances surrounding at least seven murders, along with one kidnapping and an attempted abduction. Now, I’d really like to speak with one of the senior partners.”
Parker wouldn’t have believed that the receptionist’s face could have hardened any further, but somehow it did.
“And what has it got to do with this firm?” she said.
Parker gave her a cobra smile.
“Because this is the last known address of the man responsible.”
He stepped back from the desk and removed his jacket. The lobby was cool, but not quite cool enough for the weather.
“I’m going to take a seat over there while you make some calls,” he said. “Take your time, but coffee would be good. Cream, no sugar.”
Parker sat at a table facing the desk. He picked up a copy of The Times.
After a few moments, he took out a pen and began tackling the crossword.
CHAPTER CI
Hynes arrived at Priestman’s office carrying sandwiches and soup from Mister Woods Coffee, and a couple of Americanos that could be heated up in the microwave. He knew Priestman probably wouldn’t have eaten, and she liked the coffee from Mister Woods, even reheated, and minus the possible apostrophe, which always bothered her.
“Sisterson says the dimensions of the knife found at Gary Holmby’s apartment match the wounds to Romana Moon’s body,” said Priestman, as she dipped her sandwich in her soup.
“Lab results?”
“We’ll have to wait for the blood, but we got clean prints from the handle. I’m waiting for confirmation, but the initial examination suggests they’re Gary Holmby’s.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly.”
They went over the implications together, as much in an effort to clarify details in their own minds as anything else. If Gary Holmby had killed Romana Moon, then he’d kept her laptop as a souvenir, and possibly the knife as well. Holmby didn’t appear to be a convert to Islam; they weren’t ruling it out for now, but it seemed unlikely, which meant the misbaha was designed to throw the police off the scent, sow religious hatred, or both. They’d have to establish if he’d ever given any indication of a bias against Muslims, or expressed any far-right sympathies, but for now they had a means of defusing some of the escalating tension on the country’s streets. Ordinarily, Priestman wouldn’t have been rushing to make public the results of the forensic examination until they had definite information about the blood on the blade, but these were far from ordinary circumstances.
On the other hand, until they found Kathy Hicks’s body, they wouldn’t be able to establish if the same weapon had been used on her. They’d already been in touch with Essex in an effort to find out if Hicks might have known Holmby, or Romana Moon, since misbaha had been placed in both women. Then there was Eleanor Hegarty, whose death was also linked to the others by the presence of a misbaha. She, too, had been stabbed, and her throat cut. Sisterson had requested, and received, electronic copies of those autopsy results, and Priestman expected to hear from him at any moment about the nature of her wounds. The blood of any one of those women might be on the knife found in Holmby’s apartment—or the blood of none at all.
But who had killed Gary Holmby? If his brother was responsible, how did he obtain the gun, and where was it now? More to the point, who had subsequently killed Karl, and why?
And if Gary Holmby was responsible for murdering all three women, he had somehow bounced from Kent, where Helen Wylie had been killed; to Bristol, where he abducted Kathy Hicks and transported her to a location as yet unknown for her murder and burial; thence to Hexhamshire, possibly by way of Middlesbrough, if that’s where he had first abducted Romana Moon; and finally to Bury, where Eleanor Hegarty had been living, before traveling south to the Whittenham Clumps in Oxfordshire, where her body had been found.
Which didn’t seem likely at all, not in such a short space of time. And while Priestman was no expert on serial killers, she knew they were mostly territorial. Gary Holmby didn’t fit the nomadic profile. He sometimes traveled for work purposes, but from what they had learned so far, these were generally high-end trips, often abroad. They involved stays in fancy hotels, but rarely for longer than was required for Holmby to complete his business. When he wasn’t flitting between airports and hotels, Holmby was holed up in his apartment, in a small office that the techs were still in the process of examining. Finally, they had already established that Gary Holmby had been out of the country when Helen Wylie disappeared. While he might have killed Romana Moon, he hadn’t killed Wylie.
“You know what I think?” said Hynes. He finished his soup, and went to work on his sandwich. He wasn’t one for eating both at the same time.
“What?”
“I think someone is fucking with us,” said Hynes. “Multiple someones.”
CHAPTER CII
Parker knew that Lockwood, Dodson & Fogg had a number of options when it came to dealing with his unwelcome presence in their lobby. The first was to ignore him in the hope that he might give up and leave, but Parker could have referred them to any number of people who had underestimated his ability to remain where he wasn’t wanted. The second was to attempt a forcible ejection, either by their own security team—which probably wasn’t up to the task—or by the police, who probably were. That, Parker thought, would be the American way. The third option, which was also the most sensible, and probably the most British, was to treat him civilly, find out what the problem was, and get rid of him as quickly as possible afterward.
Naturally enough, the latter path was the one LDF ultimately decided to follow, albeit with a certain amount of reluctance on the part of the senior receptionist, who personally took it upon herself to escort Parker into the beating heart of the building with minimal conversation and maximum disdain, like the housekeeper at Her Ladyship’s mansion being forced to lead a plumber to a blocked toilet. It was a miracle she hadn’t directed him to a tradesman’s entrance at the back. Parker was just relieved not to have to sit for any longer in the lobby chairs. He’d been correct about their purpose, but had underestimated just how uncomfortable they really were. The coffee wasn’t great, either.
Eventually Parker was led to the door of a very large, very modern office, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and air-conditioning that was set just right. The woman who rose to greet him was in her early forties, with dark brown hair pulled back in a bun. Her features were slightly too sharp to be considered beautiful, and her eyes were too intelligent to care. She was dressed in a gray business suit over a white shirt, and flat black shoes. Standing, she was about three inches taller than Parker. In heels, she would have left him feeling like her pet monkey.
“Mr. Parker? Welcome. I’m Emily Lockwood.”
They shook hands. Her nails were very short, and she wore both wedding and engagement rings. The diamond on the latter was small enough not to be vulgar but large enough not to seem cheap, and was surrounded by lots of smaller friends in case it got lonely. She returned to her desk and directed him to a chair opposite. It appeared to have been designed by the same person responsible for the lobby furniture, but on a day when he was feeling less angry at the world. Sitting in it was closer to penance than actual torture. Parker wasn’t offered more coffee, which was a further relief.
“It’s quite th
e lineage your firm boasts,” said Parker. “More than a hundred and fifty years have passed since it was founded, and I’m still talking to a Lockwood.”
“Did you think the names were just for show, and we would be owned by Russians?”
“Have they made an offer?”
“The Russians aren’t really interested in acquiring law firms, but they do keep us busy. I gather you expressed a preference for speaking to a female partner. How very progressive of you.”
“Not really. It was two against one, so I thought I’d pick the winning side. And last I heard, Mr. Fogg had taken a back seat.”
“Mr. Fogg is terminally ill.”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me how sorry you are to hear that?”
“I’ve never met him. It would be insincere.”
“Or polite.”
“Are we being polite?”
“I think so. You’ve been admitted to my office, haven’t you?”
“I can’t help but feel that it’s under sufferance, although I had to spend time in one of your lobby chairs, so we’re both suffering, I guess.”
Emily Lockwood abandoned the etiquette lesson. “I understand you’re investigating a number of serious crimes,” she said. “In what capacity?”
“Private.” He saw no reason to mention the ongoing federal consultancy retainer. He’d pull it out of the hat if required, although he didn’t believe it would count for much on this side of the Atlantic.
“Are you working on behalf of a client?”
“No.”
“That seems unusual.”
“One of my friends was shot and injured in the course of this investigation. For that reason, I’ve decided to take it personally. Oh, and I hurt my foot jumping from a window.”
Lockwood tried to figure out if Parker was joking. He gave her no clue.
“I looked you up,” said Lockwood. “You lead an interesting life, if one not without its misfortunes. I suppose you must be weary of people expressing sympathy for your loss after all this time, but still, one feels it should be acknowledged. I have a daughter of my own. I can’t even conceive of what you must have gone through—what you’re still going through.”
Parker tried to understand what kind of person would classify the murder of a man’s wife and young child as a “misfortune,” and therefore what might count as a tragedy in Lockwood’s world, but he managed a nod in recognition of the sentiment.
“See?” said Lockwood. “That was politeness.” She checked the time on her phone, and made sure that he noticed her doing it. “You mentioned some connection between your investigation and our offices.”
Parker gave her the abridged version of what had happened in Maine and Indiana, and the murders committed, or believed to have been committed, by Quayle and his acolyte, although he left out how the trail had taken him to the Mexican border, and the Netherlands, before England. Thanks to the wonders of the Internet, Lockwood already knew some, but not all, of what he had told her. She had not, she said, been familiar with the Quayle connection until a general inquiry had reached the firm from a federal legat named Canton, working out of the U.S. embassy in London. LDF had been unable to help him, beyond confirming that the firm of Quayle had ceased to exist in the 1940s.
“Just because this man used the name Quayle, and claimed to be a lawyer,” said Lockwood, “does not mean the identity was real, or the claim true.”
“No,” admitted Parker, “but I’m curious as to why he chose that particular name. Also, the man we’re hunting bears some resemblance to an earlier Quayle: Atol, the last of his line, or so it seemed until this one showed up. Unless I’m mistaken, LDF owns this building, and the land on which it stands, which was formerly the location of the firm of Quayle. I’m interested in how that came about, and who benefited from the sale.”
Lockwood tapped a short message on her phone, and watched it vanish into the ether.
“The situation is more complex than you make it sound,” she said. “Following the death of Atol Quayle, my grandfather acquired various properties formerly owned by the firm of Quayle, under an agreement made between my great-grandfather and some great-uncle of Atol’s in the 1890s. I believe a lot of money might have changed hands at the time of the original agreement as a form of deposit. Perhaps Atol Quayle’s predecessor required funds urgently, but I can’t say for certain as the parties involved are obviously long dead. Since then, many of those properties have been sold and resold multiple times, including this one, which is now owned by a holding company in the Channel Islands, a legal entity entirely separate from LDF. This is London, Mr. Parker: concepts such as ownership of property are complicated, and fluid.”
“In my experience,” said Parker, “concepts like complexity and fluidity are useful for disguising illegality.”
Lockwood didn’t disagree.
“London is awash with dirty money,” she said, “literally billions in assets. We’re a global center for money laundering, and the property market is the conduit of choice.”
“Including law offices?”
She laughed. “Including law offices—but not this one.”
“You would say that.”
She stopped laughing, but the smile remained, like a light left on in a house after burglars have made off with all the valuables.
“So where did the money from the original sale go?” Parker continued.
“I can’t say how much was left once the deposit was deducted, but whatever remained was presumably placed in the trust established under the primary agreement.”
“Which LDF administers.”
“My, you have been busy. I’d have to check, as we administer a great many trusts, but that’s probably correct, given the familial and property history.”
“And who is the beneficiary of the trust?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be a breach of our duty to the trustee—or trustees,” she added. “Atol Quayle may have left instructions that any income should be directed to charities, or distant relatives and their descendants, on an anonymous basis until the trust is entirely depleted. That’s often what happens in these cases.”
“But if Quayle is dead, why should it matter what you tell me? He’s not going to file a complaint.”
“That’s not how the law works, Mr. Parker, or not here. But then, your history would suggest that your view of how the law works is largely a matter of your own interpretation and convenience.”
“Ouch,” said Parker.
Lockwood got to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I have another appointment that has already been postponed for too long in order to facilitate this conversation. I wish you every success in your investigation.”
Parker remained seated. He’d discovered from experience that it was harder to give someone the bum’s rush if he wasn’t standing.
“I have one last question. What’s in the old building on the far side of your courtyard?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Google Maps. Those satellites see everything.”
“They’re part of the original offices of the firm of Quayle, or certainly the incarnation dating from the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. The premises were badly damaged during the Blitz, which might have precipitated Atol Quayle’s retirement, but we decided to retain most of what remained as a monument to the legal history of the site. It’s called—with accuracy, if not originality—the Old Firm.”
“What’s inside?”
“Nothing. It’s a façade, hiding an empty shell. If it wasn’t protected by metal and reinforced glass, it would probably crumble to the ground.”
“Would it be possible to look inside?”
“Not without a hard hat, a signed waiver, and a wrecking ball. It’s entirely sealed.”
Lockwood had opened the office door, and was waiting for Parker to leave. Short of chaining himself to the furniture, he couldn�
��t delay his departure any longer.
“I’m staying at Hazlitt’s,” he said, “just in case you reconsider.”
“Did you think he might be hiding in there,” said Lockwood, as he passed, “your elusive Mr. Quayle?”
“Stranger things have happened,” said Parker.
“Only to you,” she replied. “Goodbye.”
The door was closed in his face, and two security men were waiting to escort him back to the lobby. The first looked like he’d been on the receiving end of too many beatings, and the other looked like the one who’d inflicted most of them. Both had a good line in surliness. No one even glanced in his direction as he left, but he waved to the camera overlooking the main door.
After all, it seemed polite.
10
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads
—Ted Hughes, “Hawk Roosting”
CHAPTER CIII
Bob Johnston packed away his legal pad and pencils, and returned his research materials to the librarian in the Manuscripts Room. With Vernay’s acquisition of the Rackham-illustrated volume of fairy tales as a starting point, he had been working backward, using his contacts in the trade to establish the provenance of the book. He had finally traced it to a bookstore named Antiquariat Gerhardt Falkenrath in Cologne, Germany.
The Falkenraths had been in the book business since the late eighteenth century. The founder, Uwe Falkenrath, had been careful to situate his business in Münz, on the left bank of the Rhine by Cologne’s city walls. He made this decision because Münz was then under the jurisdiction of the archbishop elector of Cologne, who was relatively tolerant of the book trade, and also happened to be based in Bonn, eighteen miles away. The Freistadt of Cologne itself, on the other hand, was infested with clergy in the 1700s—2,000 of them in a city of 40,000, earning Cologne the title of the “German Rome”—and books of which they disapproved, which meant most books, were promptly put to the torch. Uwe Falkenrath had more reason than most to be wary of the church authorities, since he trafficked not only in works of an obscene or seditious nature but also in occult volumes that, in a less enlightened age, might have resulted in Uwe being immolated on a pyre of his own wares.
A Book of Bones Page 50
