by AnonYMous
Kyle put his hands on his hips and looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘No, probably not, but it’s a start,’ he said. ‘We don’t have any money right now, so that might have to be our first option.’
‘And what is our second option?’ Peto asked, the realization that they wouldn’t even be able to pay for their next meal finally dawning on him.
‘We don’t have one. We shall have to mug some people, then we can take whatever money we get from that, and – er – put it to use. I overheard someone in the Tapioca say that there is a travelling fair on the edge of town. As I understand it we can speculate with our money there to accumulate more.’
‘You mean gamble?’ Peto’s eyes lit up.
‘No. That would be breaking a sacred vow. We will speculate with our money in an attempt to accumulate more wealth, not for our benefit, but for the benefit of mankind.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ Peto said, smiling.
‘Good. Now let’s watch some more television for a while and see what else we can learn about the outside world before tomorrow’s eclipse.’
‘Okay. What’s on?’
‘Weekend At Bernie’s.‘
‘Sounds good.’
Twenty-Six
Jensen had been sitting in the office tapping away on his laptop for most of the day with absolutely no success whatsoever. He had access to files and information about the general public that might well have been considered a gross invasion of privacy, had anyone other than a handful of high-grade Government employees known about them. He had been checking through all the data he could find regarding the five murder victims whose deaths he had been sent to investigate, and finally, after what had been a painstaking search that had yielded not so much as a sniff of a lead, he now had something.
And it was good. So very good. But it was also extremely random. That’s what made Jensen so damn good at his job. He would check every single possible avenue of investigation, no matter how unlikely the chances of finding anything. Employment records for the deceased had brought up nothing. Clubs the victims had frequently attended, nothing. Known acquaintances – again, nothing. So what had Jensen found that linked all the five victims?
Somers had been out of the office for much of the morning, chasing up leads and drinking coffee, most likely. When he returned, coffee in hand, he was greeted by the sight of a very smug-looking Miles Jensen sitting in his own chair behind his own desk, no less.
‘You’d better have a damn good reason for sitting there looking so pleased with yourself,’ said Somers, putting the container of coffee down on the desk and pulling up the chair that Jensen usually sat in.
‘Today’s category is horror movies,’ said Jensen, smiling.
‘Copycat or The Ring?’
‘The Ring, obviously.’ Somers answered without a second’s thought. ‘Copycat was that low-grade serial-killer movie where any film buff worth his salt will spot the killer in the opening scene before the credits have finished rolling.’
‘Really?’ Jensen sounded surprised. ‘I don’t remember that bit.’
‘Oh yeah. William McNamara, who was a real up-and-coming actor at the time, was in the opening scene among a whole load of extras. I remember watching it and thinking, why the hell would a guy who’s been the lead in several smaller pictures be sitting with a load of extras unless he’s going to be the surprise killer later on? I was right, too, not that it ruined the film particularly. I believe the director did that.’
‘Well, I’ve gotta say I thought Copycat was a pretty good film with a fair bit that was original, despite what the title might suggest.’
‘You surely don’t think it’s better than The Ring, though? Right?’ questioned Somers.
‘Well, I always thought The Ring was a bit far-fetched, but you know what? About twenty minutes ago I guess I changed my tune.’
Somers tilted his head to one side and began to run a hand through his silver hair, as he often did when thinking. He looked intrigued.
‘Go on. What have you found? Don’t tell me all our victims have watched a videotape and then died within seven days?’
‘Not quite,’ said Jensen, throwing a bunch of papers on to the desk in front of him. Somers reached out and picked them up.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Library records.’
‘Library records?’ He put them back on the desk as though they were hot.
‘Yep. Each of the first five victims has taken out the same book from the City Library. They’re the only five people ever to have taken this book out. So, effectively, everyone who has ever read it is dead.’
Somers didn’t look convinced. ‘What about all the other libraries and bookstores that stock this book?’ he asked. ‘Surely our killer can’t bump off everyone who’s bought their own copy, or borrowed it from another library?’
‘Don’t you want to know what book it is?’ Jensen raised his eyebrows to imply that he was surprised Somers hadn’t already asked.
‘Let me guess. Is it Victoria Beckham’s autobiography?’
‘Nope. That would only make sense if these killings had been suicides.’
‘True,’ smiled Somers. ‘Go on. What book is it?’
Jensen leaned forward and pointed to a line halfway down the top page of the sheaf of papers he had put in front of Somers. His partner picked them up again and took a look at where he was pointing.
‘The Mighty Blues?’
‘No, the one below it,’ said Jensen, pressing his finger down harder on the page.
‘The Highly Embarrassing Goat?’
‘Nope,’ said Jensen pressing his finger even harder. ‘The one above that.’
Somers glanced up. He had an irritated look on his face. Then, as if realization had dawned on him a little later than it should have, he looked back down, his face losing its frown as he did so. He stared at where Jensen was pointing. At first sight it looked as though The Mighty Blues was followed on the list by The Highly Embarrassing Goat, but upon closer inspection there was a blank entry in between, with alongside it the name of an author listed as ‘Anon.’
The Mighty BluesSam McLeod Anon.
The Highly Embarrassing GoatRichard Stoodley
Life On The GameGinger Taylor
‘Is that a book with no name?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ said Jensen. ‘The top sheet you’re holding there is a list of all the books taken out by Kevin Lever. The sheets below list all the books taken out by the other victims. They’ve all borrowed this untitled book by an anonymous author. We need to find that book.’
‘Jensen, you’re a genius.’
‘No, I’m just lucky enough to have access to a shitload of confidential files the existence of which most people would consider to be a blatant breach of human rights.’
Somers tutted quietly under his breath. ‘That may be true, my friend,’ he said, ‘but when used correctly for the greater good, that sort of file can save lives. The person ripping tongues and eyes out of his victims’ heads is the one breaching human rights, don’t you think?’ He thought it sounded a bit sententious, even to him, but it was more or less right.
‘Can’t argue with that.’
Somers flicked through the pages of library listings for the other murder victims. There were records for only five victims, though, a point that he had overlooked when Jensen first mentioned the book. He didn’t want to tread on the other’s success, but he had to ask. ‘So what about Thomas and Audrey Garcia? Or Elvis, for that matter? Did they not rent this book out?’
‘That’s our one problem,’ Jensen admitted. ‘None of those three was a member of the library. They haven’t taken out any books. So our killer must have had a different reason for killing them. We’ve kind of established a motive for killing Elvis anyway, so let’s forget about him.’
Somers shook his head. He – they – had to be certain, so he pressed on. ‘Maybe this is nothing. Maybe it’s just a mistake with the library
records. You know, a typo or something. Perhaps there are several books that come up on the system with no title or author. Maybe they …’
Jensen butted in. ‘Nah. I told you. I checked all the records. These are the only five people to have taken out a book with no name, by an anonymous author, from the City Library. It’s too much of a coincidence. Maybe Tom and Audrey knew one of the other victims and saw the book without having borrowed it themselves.’
‘Didn’t you check to see if the victims were linked in other ways, though?’
‘Yeah. Nothing came up, but who knows what I’ll find if I keep digging?’
‘You keep digging then, Jensen. And don’t stop ’til you find our killer. Hey! What is it?’
Jensen had been intermittently tapping away at his laptop at Somers’s desk while talking to the older man, but now he was sitting motionless, staring open-mouthed at his monitor.
‘Somers,’ he said excitedly, ‘I think I may have just done exactly that!’
Somers sat up straight and dropped the library listings on to the table. ‘What is it?’ he asked again. ‘What’ve you found?’
‘You’re not gonna believe this. According to my records, in the time we’ve been talking, someone else has taken out the book with no name. We just got ourselves a lead!’
Somers stood up, unable to contain his excitement. ‘Who? What’s his name?’
Jensen peered closely at the screen on his laptop. ‘It’s a woman. The name is Annabel de Frugyn.’
‘Annabel de Frugyn? What the hell kind of a name is that?’
‘A stupid one, you ask me. Hang on, let me see if I can pull up an address.’
Jensen tapped away on his keyboard frantically. Every time he pressed ‘enter’ and stopped typing for a second he frowned a little more.
‘What is it? Ain’t there no address?’ Somers asked impatiently.
Jensen ignored him and carried on tapping away at the keys for about thirty seconds, tutting and frowning every now and again. At last he spoke. ‘Nothing. I got nothing. This person, this Annabel character, has no address. I don’t believe it: a book with no name, written by an anonymous author, and it’s been lent out to someone with no address. What are the odds?’
Somers shook his head and leaned towards Jensen. He grabbed hold of the edge of the desk tightly with both hands until his fingers went white. He was clearly frustrated.
‘The odds on Annabel de Frugyn staying alive get slimmer every second she has that book in her possession. We’ve got to find her before she gets killed. You do what you can with your bag of tricks to find an address for her. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way and ask around town. Someone must know who Annabel de Frugyn is. Let’s just thank our lucky stars we’re not looking for a John Smith.’
‘You got it,’ said Jensen. ‘First one to find the address wins. Loser’s a pussy and buys the drinks, right?’
Somers was already marching out of the office.
‘I’ll have a coffee. Black, two sugars,’ he growled.
Twenty-Seven
Dante and Kacy would have gone straight to the pawnshop and got rid of the stone if they could, but there was a slight problem. The place had closed down. What to do next? It seemed crazy just to throw the stone away, especially as it was probably pretty valuable.
The best idea Dante could come up with was to take it to a gentleman of his acquaintance who worked at the Santa Mondega Museum of Art and History. Professor Bertram Cromwell was an old friend of Dante’s father and had been kind enough to fix him up with his ill-fated job at the museum. Dante had grown to like Bertram Cromwell during his short time working there, and had felt extremely guilty for letting him down when he’d been dismissed after the unfortunate vase-breaking incident. Cromwell hadn’t held it against him, however, and had been good enough to give the young man a reference when he had applied for the job at the hotel. For this Dante would always be grateful, for it had saved him from heading back home to Ohio with his tail between his legs.
Upon first meeting him, Dante had not been able to help noticing how much Cromwell looked exactly how he had expected a professor to look. He had immaculately combed wavy white hair, thin, narrow glasses that he peered over when he was talking to any of his staff, and about a hundred different suits, expensively hand-made. He was probably in his late fifties, but he had the look and swagger of a man ten years his junior. Being so obviously well educated, he was never less than polite, and he had the knack of being friendly without seeming in the least bit condescending. He was definitely one of those people that Dante wanted to be like if he was rich or clever. At the moment he was poor and cunning, which wasn’t really the same.
The museum was one of the largest buildings in Santa Mondega, taking up an entire block on the main street. It was a large white building, eight storeys high, built in the Federal style. Hanging along the front of the façade were flags from every country in the world. One of the impressive things about the Santa Mondega Museum of Art and History was that it contained something representative of every country in the world, whether a priceless work of art or a simple sea shell.
Dante and Kacy made their way up the three long white concrete steps at the front of the building and then through a set of glass revolving doors that took them into the reception area. Professor Bertram Cromwell was in a large room full of paintings to the left of the reception hall. He was finishing off a guided tour he had been giving to a group of students. There were about fifteen of them, and they were busying themselves by constantly taking photographs rather than listening to anything Cromwell had to say about the paintings they were being shown. Dante recognized that Cromwell was coming towards the end of the tour. He knew how much the Professor hated giving talks to ignorant tourists who declined to listen, but, professional that he was, he would see it through to the end without missing a single piece of educational information. Nevertheless, he would no doubt be looking forward to this tour ending so that his torture at the hands of all the flashing cameras would be over.
When he saw Dante and Kacy standing just inside the museum entrance he gestured for them to take a seat while he finished with the student party. They sat themselves down on a comfortable cream-cushioned sofa by the reception desk. The entrance hall was certainly impressive. It was bigger than the last three apartments Dante and Kacy had rented put together. The ceiling was extraordinarily high, a good thirty feet above the smart wood-block floor, and the air was beautifully fresh thanks to the best air conditioning in Santa Mondega.
From their place on the sofa it was possible to see through a large arched entrance and into the first of the museum’s huge galleries. There were paintings hung on the walls and a number of exhibits of varying sizes spaced out through the middle of the gallery, as well as glass-topped display cases containing smaller items. None of the exhibits looked in the least bit valuable or interesting to either Dante or Kacy, but the former, out of respect for Cromwell, decided to try his best to appreciate what he was looking at. He picked out a painting and stared at it as if he was taking in whatever message it was supposed to impart to its viewers. Sadly, it was a painting of a kind he particularly despised. In Dante’s opinion a good painting was one that looked like a photograph, but this was one of those that looked like a load of different-coloured paint thrown haphazardly on to a canvas. If there was any hidden beauty in it, it was wasted on him.
Eventually the students bustled past and out of the building, leaving Dante free to get up from the sofa to approach Cromwell. Kacy slipped her hand into his and followed on a half-step behind.
‘Hi, Cromwell. How ya doin’?’ Dante inquired cheerily.
‘I’m very well, thank you, Master Vittori. It’s nice to see you, and you too, Miss Fellangi. What can I do for you?’
‘Cromwell, I need you to look at something for us. We’ve kind of stumbled on to something that might be quite valuable, and well, y’know, we were kind of looking to cash in on our good fortune.’
Bertram Cromwell smiled. ‘Have you got it with you?’
‘Yeah, but can we go somewhere private to show it to you?’
‘I’m actually a bit busy, Dante.’
‘Trust me, Prof, you’re really gonna want to see this.’
The Professor raised an eyebrow. He didn’t look convinced that they weren’t wasting his time, but he was too kind and too polite just to send them away without humouring them a little.
‘Well, this must be something special. Please, follow me. We’ll go to my office.’
Dante and Kacy followed Cromwell down a maze of corridors for several minutes, exchanging idle pleasantries with him as they glanced at the many paintings and artefacts on the way. Dante had worked as a janitor at the museum only recently, yet he recognized none of the articles on display. He wasn’t an art lover and he wasn’t in any way interested in historical artefacts, so it was a safe bet he wouldn’t recognize anything on the way back out, either.
Kacy, on the other hand, was looking at everything they passed and taking it all in, not because she was interested in the exhibits, but because she wanted to make sure she could remember the way out. She had only met Bertram Cromwell once before, and she hadn’t yet formed an opinion of him. It therefore made sense to her to be particularly cautious and memorize the route they were taking, on the off chance that she and Dante needed to make a hasty escape. The visit to the Mystic Lady had made her a little paranoid, and increasingly suspicious of everyone she met.
Rightly so.
Twenty-Eight
Cromwell’s office was situated below ground level. It was a very large and spacious room, and certainly one of which any occupant would be proud. Facing the door was a nineteenth-century polished oak desk with a frighteningly large chair covered in black leather set behind it. There were two smaller but no less fashionable leather-covered chairs on the other side of the desk. He beckoned Dante and Kacy to seat themselves in these as he made himself comfortable in the massive chair behind the desk.
