by Mark McKay
Chapter 2
The next day Nick returned the hire car to a depot in Sevenoaks. The VW Golf that had belonged to Lauren, his murdered girlfriend, was still parked in the outbuilding at Oyama’s place and he decided to take that to Cornwall. Oyama told him that he’d started it up occasionally in the intervening period since Nick’s last visit and it was running well, so it seemed foolish not to use it. Driving Lauren’s car again brought back painful memories of the circumstances of her death and the events that had followed it. He knew now that he’d been out of his mind with grief when he’d killed her two kidnappers and then the woman who was ultimately responsible for her abduction. For those actions, he had no regrets.
He put his sword into its canvas shoulder bag and placed it in the boot of the car, along with his other luggage. Oyama had given him a handgun and plenty of ammunition, more out of operational procedure than in anticipation of any real need to use it. But if there was someone running around Cornwall whose idea of a good time was decapitating people, and if Nick should run into him or her, he wouldn’t hesitate to use either weapon. He would prefer not to, of course. He had been unofficially exonerated of the deaths of the three people he’d killed and he thought it best not to push his luck with the powers that be by adding to the tally. He agreed with Oyama that he’d report on a daily basis, every evening at 7pm.
‘Though there probably won’t be much to tell you, at first,’ he said to the sensei, as he got into the car.
‘Just see what you can find out. Will you talk to the police?’
‘They won’t talk to me unless I have something of value. But I’m an ex DCI, remember. I’ll play that card if I have to.’
Oyama grunted. ‘When they find out why you left the force, they may decide you’re the last person they want to talk to.’
‘I’ll just have to be a private investigator, then. Mariko supplied me with a licence. Hopefully it will stand up to scrutiny.’
‘Good luck, then. Stay in touch.’
Nick started up the VW and drove off. He had a long journey ahead of him. It was a good six hours and more to Penzance, where Maria Frost lived. He’d agreed to meet with her this evening, just after checking into his hotel. So that gave him plenty of time to think about their meeting. He felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of doing some proper investigative work again and just hoped it wouldn’t take too long to at least get a lead on whoever had murdered Julian Frost. And more to the point, why.
The Frost residence was a stone cottage, two miles inland from Penzance. That evening, Nick drove through a small village with a sprinkling of houses, a store and a pub, and then a minute later he was there. The cottage was one of three and it was located at least fifty yards from its nearest neighbour. He turned off the main road on to a gravel access road that fronted all three cottages, and then stopped at the last of them. Maria Frost had told him she had a blue Peugeot which would be parked outside, but there was no sign of it. His was the only car here. He got out, and as he did so he saw the Peugeot approaching. A moment later it pulled up behind him and a woman got out.
‘Mrs Frost? I’m Nick Severance.’
Maria Frost was in her thirties; tall, blue-eyed and blond-haired. She wore a grey cotton sleeveless dress with a corded waist. She had no makeup on and her bare arms and shoulders were showing signs of sun burn. The combination of long blond tresses and hippie-chic attire gave her a bohemian look, which wasn’t exactly unusual in this part of the country. There were plenty of artistic types in Cornwall. Her face looked thin and drawn, and a little distrustful.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just popped out to post a letter in the village. Come in.’
He followed her up the path to the front door. She led him through the hall and into a large kitchen, complete with Aga cast-iron cooker, bare-brick walls and wild flowers hanging in bunches around the room. She filled a stainless-steel kettle with water and put it on the cooker to boil.
‘What kind of tea do you like? I’ve got all sorts. Herbal tea, green tea, builder’s tea, you name it.’
‘Green tea is fine.’ He’d drunk so much of the stuff in Japan that he’d developed a taste for it.
She looked mildly surprised. ‘You don’t look like the green tea type.’
He watched her as she got out the cups and found the tea she wanted, and then spooned it into the teapot. Her actions were slow and a little robotic, as though her body had forgotten how to make these simple movements. She persevered, though. She poured the nearly boiled water into the pot.
‘Needs to brew for a bit,’ she said, looking round at him. ‘Have a seat.’
The kitchen had a central storage unit with a big marble worktop. He perched next to it on a breakfast bar stool.
‘Do you feel up to telling me about it?’ he asked.
She turned and folded her arms across her chest. ‘I went through this once with the police, you know.’
‘I’m not the police.’
She let out a long breath and her arms flopped to her sides. ‘I know. I’m sorry. When Mr Oyama said you might be able to help I was all for it. But really, what can you do that the police can’t?’
Nick shrugged. ‘Maybe nothing. But let’s just say with my approach there won’t be so many processes and procedures to worry about. That’s the beauty of independent investigation.’
‘I see.’ She checked the teapot; it passed the test and she poured two cups. ‘Here you are,’ she said, handing Nick his drink. ‘Where shall I start?’
‘I understand you were out when it happened. Tell me the whole thing from the moment you came home that night.’
She glared at him; a piercing blue-eyed stare. Then she lost it. ‘I found my decapitated husband on the lawn outside, that’s what fucking happened!’ she shouted.
She turned her back on him and stood with her hands gripping the edge of the cooker, head bowed. Her breath was fast and shaky. Nick walked across and stood behind her.
‘I can come back,’ he said.
She swung around and pressed her hands into his shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. Her breathing was slowing and there were no tears.
‘Sorry I shouted.’ She dropped her hands. ‘Sit down, I’ll tell you.’
He went back to his seat, and she took a minute to compose herself. Then she began. She had returned from her yoga class, just after 9pm. She remembered seeing or feeling nothing unusual about the house; nothing disturbed, nothing out of place. She knew Julian would probably be out in the garden on such a beautiful evening and when she saw the gin bottle on the kitchen worktop, she was sure of it. She made herself a drink and then went out to the garden to see if he wanted another one.
‘I screamed when I saw what had happened,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t move. Then my neighbour, Luke, appeared. He’d heard me. He called the police.’
‘How long did it take them to arrive?’
‘I don’t know. Not long, I think. Luke handled all that.’
‘Can you think of a reason for anyone to murder him?’
Maria shook her head. ‘Not really. But it must be connected to his research.’
‘Why?’
‘Julian was a botanist, Mr Severance. He had just returned from several months in Brazil and Peru. He went out there with a colleague and they were interested in finding out about some of the medicinal plants that the native people use. The idea was that they’d select a few for scientific analysis and find out if they really did have medicinal properties.’
‘That all sounds innocent enough.’
‘You’d think so. Julian was excited about something when he came back. He brought back some powder that he said came from the roots and bulbs of something they found in Peru. Said we should mix it with orange juice and take it for a week. It was supposed to be a powerful aphrodisiac, for both sexes.’
‘Did you try it?’
‘We did. After four or five days, we felt the effects. I felt wonder
ful and so did he, and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. It worked.’
‘And you think this powder had something to do with his death?’
Maria topped up her tea. ‘Possibly. His laptop was missing, which had all his research work on it. The study had been turned upside down, too. The powder was the only plant sample he brought back with him, so I’m guessing that must have something to do with it. I told the police all this, too.’
‘You said he had a research partner. What’s he got to say about all this?’
‘Yes, he lives in London. His name is Ray Curtis. He came down for the funeral and I asked him about the powder. He said he knew nothing about it and that Julian must have just neglected to mention it.’
‘Did you believe him?’
She raised her eyes. ‘I don’t know the man. I have no reason not to believe him. I don’t, though.’
‘I’ll take his contact details if you have them.’ Nick thought for a bit. ‘One other thing. Swords like the one Mr Oyama makes are expensive. Do you mind me asking, where did Julian get the money from?’
Maria looked back at him. ‘He married it. My family is rich and I’m a trust fund girl. Does that answer your question?’
‘Yes. And I’m sorry for your loss. Are you staying here alone?’
‘No, I’m just here talking to you. I’m staying with Luke and his wife until someone finds whoever killed my husband.’
‘Where did Julian keep his swords?’
‘In a room upstairs. They just hang on the wall.’
‘Can I take a look?’
‘Be my guest.’
Nick went upstairs and found the room with the swords. The door had a lock, but it was on the latch. He went in and looked at the various types of swords that were mounted on two of the walls. Oyama was right, Mr Frost had amassed a decent collection. A huge claymore, rapiers, broadswords. But no Japanese swords. Oyama’s must have been the only one; he could see the empty mounting pegs for it halfway up the wall opposite the door. Did the killer just calmly walk in here and select his weapon?
He went back downstairs and out into the garden. He pictured Julian Frost at the garden table, drinking gin and tonic and waiting for his wife to come and join him on what should have been a perfect summer’s evening. No doubt soon to be made even more so, if the powder Maria had mentioned was still having its effect. He went back to the kitchen, where she was waiting.
‘I’ve written down the address and phone number for Ray Curtis,’ she said. ‘And you’ve got my number. I’d appreciate a call if you find out anything.’
He took the post-it note from her. ‘Yes, I’ll call you. I might have more questions.’
‘And there’s this,’ she said. She handed him a little glass jar, filled with an amber powder.
‘Is this it? Does it have a name?’
‘I don’t know what it’s called. Get it analysed, it might tell you something.’
‘I will. Do the police have a sample of this?’
‘Yes. The detective in charge is called Russell. I’ve got his phone number, do you want it?’
He nodded, and she wrote it down on a second post-it note and then handed it to him.
‘Thanks. I’ll leave you in peace, now.’
She showed him out and walked him to his car.
‘Don’t forget to call me, Mr Severance.’
‘I won’t. You have my number, too. If you remember anything you think might be useful, let me know.’
He drove back out on to the main road, in the direction of Penzance. She watched him go. She was still watching him when he looked in the rear view mirror a few seconds later. Then he rounded a bend and she was gone.
The next morning, he left Penzance. Last night at the hotel he’d pondered his conversation with Maria and wondered if he should contact DCI Russell. He’d decided against it, for now. He wasn’t a genuine licenced investigator and he didn’t want his fake credentials tested. But even if those credentials were accepted and Russell was happy to work with him, he doubted very much that the man knew any more than he did. The only advantage the police had on him currently was the fact they’d done a forensic examination of the scene of the crime. Whether that resulted in any progress, remained to be seen. In the meantime, the next stop was Ray Curtis.
Rather than drive all the way into central London, he decided to park at Sevenoaks station and take the train instead. He called Curtis from the station car park to see if he could meet. When Curtis answered, Nick explained who he was and what he’d been up to.
‘Maria Frost gave me a sample of this powder that Julian brought back. But you know nothing about it, is that correct?’
‘Yes, it is. We weren’t always together while we were in South America. He could have picked it up in a number of places. Bring it with you, I’d like to see it.’
Curtis sounded genuinely curious, perhaps Maria had been wrong to doubt him. He told Nick to come straight over, as he was at home. Nick took the next available train. Once he arrived in London he switched to the tube. Curtis lived in Ladbroke Grove in West London, on a road with rows of grand Victorian houses that had mostly been converted into flats. A couple of hours after the phone call he had found the address and was ringing the doorbell. He was buzzed in to the entrance lobby. The door into the ground floor flat immediately to his right opened, and a man appeared.
‘Ray Curtis,’ he announced. ‘Come on in.’
Nick went in to a large reception room with an ornate corniced ceiling, complete with ceiling rose. A big sash window overlooked the street. The room was furnished with a sofa and easy chairs and it seemed to double as a workspace. There was a desk in one corner with a large computer monitor on it. The space on the desk and around it was filled with what looked like reference books, some of them open to display full page colour plates showing plants and flowers. On the wall opposite there was a bookcase filled to bursting with what looked like even more weighty tomes.
‘Bit of a mess,’ said Curtis, as he watched Nick take it all in. ‘Have a seat.’
Ray Curtis was in his forties and the word that came to mind when Nick took a good look at him was ‘bulldog’. He was short and broad, with a wrestler’s build and big, powerful-looking hands. His hair was close-cut and curly, and his face was lined and tanned; a dark tan that you had to work hard to acquire during the course of an English summer. The eyes were brown and clear and they seemed to be measuring Nick. Weighing him up, as though he was an opponent in the ring and the bell for round one was just seconds away.
‘So you’re a private investigator.’ The cultured accent seemed completely at odds with the ‘bruiser’ physicality.
‘That’s right. I know you’ve been through this with the police, but would you mind answering some questions?’
Curtis took a seat opposite Nick. ‘Fire away, nothing to hide.’
‘Tell me about your relationship with Julian Frost. And what you actually did in South America.’
‘OK. Julian and I hardly knew each other. We met when the pharmaceutical company sponsoring our research trip introduced us. We’d both applied for the same vacancy.’
‘What pharmaceutical company?’
‘Sanderson-Phillips. You know them?’ When Nick shook his head, Curtis continued. ‘Big, international, plenty of Research and Development spend. They wanted a botanist with an interest in medicinal plants to do a research trip to South America. Brazil, to be precise.’
‘What was the object of this research?’
Curtis laughed. ‘To find plants used in traditional medicine. Something that hadn’t been found already, that is. And see if they could be commercialised. That’s usually what these research trips are about. Anyway, they ended up hiring both of us.’
‘Tell me about your trip, then.’
Curtis and Frost had flown to Brazil the first week of March. To a city called Manaus, situated right in the rainforest and the capital of the state
of Amazonas, in north-west Brazil. They were to meet a man named Gaspar, who would be taking them into the jungle. The Research Director at Sanderson-Phillips was excited about the trip because Gaspar had promised access to the shaman, or medicine man, of a jungle tribe who ordinarily had very limited contact with Europeans. Gaspar was a member of this tribe and was one of the few who had ventured out of the jungle as a young man and stayed in the city. Even in a place as culturally diverse as Manaus, he stood out. Gaspar had survived his first contact with Europeans; he hadn’t been struck down by any disease to which he had no immunity. He wanted the same thing for his people. After much talk and a trip back into the jungle to talk to the shaman, it was agreed that if all 200 members of Gaspar’s tribe were to be vaccinated against measles and influenza, then the shaman would reveal the secrets of his medicines in return.
‘Couldn’t the medicine man ward off the measles?’ asked Nick.
‘It’s not unusual even today for tribes to come into contact with Europeans and promptly lose half the population to some western virus or other,’ replied Curtis. ‘When we got to these people, we had a doctor and a nurse with us. They set up in sterile conditions while they did the vaccinations. We had to stay well out of the way, and so did Gaspar.’
The shaman, Don Angelo, must have thought himself already immune to western illness. He led Gaspar, Julian and Ray into the jungle on a kind of ‘vision quest’ to the plant realm.
‘We did ceremonies, which involved drinking ayahuasca. It’s a sacred medicine in Brazil. You throw up violently, then you go on a little trip. He said the plants would talk to us.’
‘Did they?’
Curtis smiled at the memory. ‘No, actually. Not in words, anyway. Most of the time I had a huge neon-yellow anaconda talking to me instead. I won’t bore you with the details of our conversation.’
‘What did Julian make of all this?’
‘Oh, he was right into it, me too. We’d never done anything like that before and it was nothing if not transformative. Quite healing, too.’
