The Divinities

by Parker Bilal

  ‘Point taken, and for your information, I didn’t ask for this.’

  ‘Okay.’ Drake waited for an explanation.

  ‘I was taken on by Julius, Doctor Rosen, as his assistant. He was training me to take over his practice.’

  ‘Then he died.’

  ‘Which was inconvenient, to say the least.’ She had a habit of tossing her hair when she spoke, which he found distracting. ‘So, I was left with my own patients, who are still in treatment, along with the commitments he had made before he died.’

  ‘You can’t just cancel? He did die, after all.’

  Crane sighed. ‘Julius meant well, but he was terrible at arranging his finances. He left me saddled with debt. I have to take everything that comes my way.’

  She broke off as the coffee arrived. For a moment there was silence.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me all this, you know.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you.’ She put down her mug. ‘Look, the point I’m trying to make is that we’re both stuck with it. I have a contract to fulfil and you’re obliged to do what Wheeler tells you.’

  Drake dipped his head. ‘So far we’re on the same page, at least.’

  ‘Then maybe we should just play it loose. You let me tag along and if I see something I let you know. Win-win.’

  ‘Sounds tremendous.’

  She smiled at that.

  ‘Tell me, you’ve helped on a lot of cases?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘That’s that they call a non-committal answer.’

  Crane tapped a fingernail on the side of her mug. ‘Ever see pictures of hangings in Tehran in the early days of the Islamic revolution?’

  Drake sat back and looked at her. ‘We’re not dealing with a hanging.’

  ‘The point is that this is unusual in a number of ways, principally the setting.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘How much do you know about sharia law?’ She waited a beat before going on. ‘After 1979, the Islamic Revolution was in such a hurry they put an industrial slant into their punishment schedule. They used to hang people in the streets from construction cranes.’

  ‘How about stoning?’

  ‘That too. Ever hear of Muaz al-Kasasbeh?’

  ‘The Jordanian pilot?’

  She nodded. ‘In 2015 his plane came down in Syria. Islamic State executed him. They burned him alive, then dumped a truck load of rubble on him.’

  ‘That’ll do it.’

  ‘They were burying him in a manner that would be deemed undignified. At the same time following the tenets of sharia.’

  ‘Stoning him alive. You think that’s what this is?’

  ‘I think it’s a possibility worth considering.’

  Drake wasn’t convinced. ‘Wheeler hinted you did some kind of work abroad.’

  Crane smiled. ‘I’m here as a consultant on a case. I’m not being cross-examined.’

  ‘So, you don’t want to talk about it, or you can’t?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’ She got to her feet. ‘Shall we go?’

  Drake wondered what she was holding back. He hung back and called the forensic medical examiner. Archie Narayan wasn’t exactly happy to hear from him.

  ‘Why are you bothering me? I told you, it’s too early to have any proper results.’

  ‘All I’m asking for is a breakdown.’

  ‘No, Cal, what you are asking for is a miracle.’

  ‘Listen, doc, you know the position I’m in, right?’

  ‘You need to be patient. I understand you’ve got Wheeler breathing down your neck. But that’s not how things work. We have protocols, methods, procedures.’

  ‘Must be something wrong with the line. I can hear violins.’

  ‘I’ve already speculated far more extensively than I should. Why bother making me go to all the trouble of carefully composing my words in a report if a rough breakdown, as you put it, would suffice?’

  Archie Narayan was one of the most stubborn, uncooperative coroners Drake had ever encountered. He was also the best. Drake heard him rummaging around his desk.

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. Magnolia Quays. Limestone dust and micro-fragments found in the throat and nostrils of both victims indicating they were breathing when they were buried.’

  ‘So he buried them alive.’

  ‘It looks that way. I would think that they would have lost consciousness quickly, but still . . .’

  ‘Not a pleasant way to go.’

  Archie Narayan made a sound like a whale expelling air. ‘Murderers are, in my view, not in the business of making their victims’ departure from this world a pleasant experience.’

  ‘Any sign the victims had engaged in sexual activity?’

  ‘You mean in their lifetimes? As two adults, I would have thought that highly probable, although I couldn’t give you any precise details.’ He gave a loud sigh. ‘If you mean with one another, prior to death, then initial examination would suggest not, but don’t quote me on that.’

  Through the window Drake could see Doctor Crane pulling a pair of sunglasses from her jacket.

  ‘Let me ask you, did you ever have any dealings with a forensic psychologist by the name of Crane?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Worked with my old friend Julius Rosen.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘She can be very persuasive.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Just watch your step, she takes no prisoners.’

  ‘You’re doing wonders for my mood. One last question. Any signs this could have been part of a religious ritual?’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anything.’

  Archie gave a cluck of impatience. ‘You should listen to yourself some time. Talk about clutching at straws.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The reception desk at One Hyde Park was manned by a uniformed crew who were unhappy to see Drake’s badge. Kelly let out a low whistle as they came into the lobby.

  ‘Should have worn the Pradas.’

  ‘Too late for that now.’

  A young concierge with an accent that wavered between the East End and somewhere in the Balkans led them over to the lifts and used a card key to take them up.

  ‘Miss Hideo is in some kind of trouble?’ he sniffed.

  ‘Whatever happened to discretion?’ Kelly asked.

  The man grunted but kept his mouth shut. He stared at the indicator panel above his head for the rest of the journey.

  On the ninth floor the lift doors opened to reveal a marble-lined entrance hall and a Filipina maid. She ushered them into a large living room. It seemed to project into space, with glass walls on three sides, windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a view over the park and the placid surface of the Serpentine.

  ‘Try closing your mouth,’ Drake murmured.

  Before Kelly could respond a door on the right opened and a woman entered. He would have put her age at about thirty, with an angular face and round eyes. There was something informal and detached about her.

  ‘Please,’ she gestured for them to be seated with a slight bow. If her appearance was western, her manner was eastern. Drake remained standing while Kelly sat down opposite Miss Hideo, who was struggling to hold back tears. ‘You’ve come about my father.’

  ‘I believe you spoke to one of my colleagues?’ Drake asked.

  Yuko Hideo nodded. ‘They said my father had been found on a building site?’ She turned towards Kelly. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘That’s why we’re here. We’re trying to find out what he might have been doing there.’

  Hideo spoke with a slight French accent. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Do you know if your father was meeting someone last night?’

  The young woman was clutching her hands together, opening and closing her fingers. ‘We had reservations for dinner.’

  ‘Was it a special occasion?’ Kelly’s voice was gentle.

  Hideo
nodded. ‘My birthday. My father never missed my birthday.’

  ‘You’re a biologist, right?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘A zoologist. I specialize in marine mammals.’

  ‘Marine mammals? Like seals?’

  ‘Seals, dolphins, whales.’

  ‘Nice.’ Kelly leaned closer. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, where does all this come from?’ She gestured at the room they were in, the view of the park. At first Yuko Hideo seemed not to understand, then she dipped her head.

  ‘My mother inherited money. When she died, my father moved here to be near me.’

  ‘Miss Hideo, I understand this is a difficult time for you,’ said Drake. ‘But we have to move quickly.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hideo’s daughter tilted her head in a slight bow.

  ‘In order to find out why your father was killed we need to establish his relationship to the other victim.’

  ‘He was not alone?’

  Drake shook his head. ‘Does the name Marsha Thwaite mean anything to you?’

  Hideo shook her head wordlessly.

  ‘Was your father seeing anyone?’ Kelly asked gently. ‘A woman?’

  ‘I tried to encourage him. After my mother died he basically lost interest. I told him he should go out more.’

  ‘So, is it possible that he might have met Mrs Thwaite somewhere?’

  ‘It’s possible, but then I’m sure he would have mentioned it.’

  Drake’s eye was drawn to the pictures hanging on the walls. A few large photographs of landscapes, mountains. Sharp cut ridges and icy peaks. The sketches alongside looked traditional. Deft ink strokes on rice paper that looked almost like calligraphy. These were of birds.

  ‘Did your father do these?’ Drake asked.

  Yuko Hideo stood up and came over. ‘Yes. Birds were more than a job to him, they were his . . . passion. Birds and mountains.’

  ‘Mrs Thwaite ran an art gallery in Knightsbridge, the Arcadia. Did you ever hear of it?’

  ‘An art gallery? No.’ She was silent for a moment, then cleared her throat. ‘Now I remember he mentioned a Ukiyo-e print that was for sale.’

  ‘Ukiyo-e?’ said Kelly.

  Hideo turned towards her. ‘A traditional woodblock form. Very old. He was debating whether to buy it. My father hated spending money on himself. He was very tough that way.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ interrupted Drake. ‘What are we talking about?’

  ‘Ukiyo-e means, Pictures of the Floating World. This was an eighteenth-century work by Jakucho, an undervalued artist. A painting of a white phoenix.’

  ‘Right,’ said Drake, none the wiser. ‘So, how did he hear about this?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Yuko looked down at her hands. ‘He must have told me, but I wasn’t paying attention. I encouraged him to buy it.’

  When the interview was over, she walked them to the lift. ‘He was a good man,’ Yuko said. ‘I find it hard to imagine anyone wanting to hurt him.’

  ‘You need to give yourself time,’ he said, shaking her hand.

  ‘I really hate that.’ Kelly slumped against the side of the lift as the doors closed. ‘Somebody’s life has just been shattered. It makes me feel like a vulture picking over a carcass.’

  ‘So what ties a bird-lover to the wife of a construction developer?’

  ‘I thought you were going to tell me.’

  Drake was thinking of his conversation with Doctor Crane. After talking to Yuko Hideo the idea of a connection to some kind of radical Islamic action seemed even more unlikely.

  ‘Milo found nothing on the phones to link them?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Drake settled back behind the wheel, his mind going over the picture that was forming. The traffic was stalled. Ahead of them a stretch limousine was racked across the road trying to manoeuvre itself onto the forecourt of the big hotel across the street. It wasn’t clear what the problem was, but people were already out of patience. The driver of the limousine clearly didn’t know what he was doing. The long vehicle rolled backward off the ramp. As they all waited for him to work out what to do a yellow Lamborghini growled into view and, switching into the opposite lane, cut across the line of waiting traffic, drove straight past and onto the forecourt. Kelly laughed.

  ‘That showed them.’

  The limo was still lumbering about trying to straighten up. As the cars began to move again, Drake eased the BMW into gear. As they went by he watched a doorman in top hat and tails step out to open the door for the passengers of the Lamborghini.

  ‘Ever get the feeling we missed out on something?’ Kelly asked.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was a short ride down the Brompton Road to Beauchamp Place, but the traffic was slow, clogged with coaches and double deckers. Drake watched a pair of young mothers in hijabs and sportswear jogging along behind ergonomically designed pushchairs. Kelly used the time to do some digging on her phone.

  ‘Married for nearly nine years. His second. Her first. No children. He has two from his first marriage.’

  ‘Where are you getting all this?’

  ‘Hello! magazine did a full spread on them a couple of years ago.’ Kelly looked up from the screen. ‘I know it doesn’t sound reliable, but hey, they know their stuff.’

  ‘Spoken like a true fan of celebrity gossip,’ said Drake.

  ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’

  ‘Still, Thwaite doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would know how to operate a dump truck.’

  ‘Ah, well, there you would be wrong. His grandfather, who started the construction business, insisted that young Howard work his way up. I’m sure that doesn’t mean he was mixing cement for ten years, but you get the idea. Don’t you just hate it?’

  ‘Hate what?’ Drake glanced across.

  ‘Success.’

  ‘Everybody hates success.’

  At the Arcadia Gallery they waited while Marsha Thwaite’s assistant dealt with a client in a sharp blue suit and keffiyeh. The white walls were hung with art works, some contemporary and abstract, others more figurative, landscapes and portraits. Drake recalled the eclectic mix in the Thwaites’ living room.

  ‘What makes people decide what they are interested in?’ he asked the assistant when she was free, as he squinted at a price tag that he wasn’t quite sure he had read correctly.

  ‘Oh, it’s very subjective.’ The woman made it sound like a mystery of the cosmos.

  The business card she held out gave her name as Bianca Darca. On the home stretch of her forties. Made up to the eyeballs. Dyed blonde hair and glossy lipstick. The revealing cleavage was designed to take your eyes away from her features, which were layered with enough face paint to start a war. The string of gold baubles around her neck was so thick it could have choked a cat. She pursed her lips when she spoke.

  ‘The appreciation of art is a very personal matter. People choose one piece over another because it touches them.’

  ‘So, not just because they think it will match their furniture?’ said Drake.

  Ms Darca ran an eye over him and seemed to conclude that there was little to salvage.

  Drake ignored the look. ‘Can you tell us when you last saw Mrs Thwaite?’

  ‘Marsha? Yesterday afternoon. I left early. I had a date.’ She fluttered her eyes to hit the point home. ‘She had plans to go to the theatre with a friend.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Bianca flapped her fake eyelashes at Kelly.

  ‘The date. Just wondering if you had any luck.’

  The question seemed to fluster Bianca. ‘That is private and I hope you won’t start pushing me for a description.’ She examined her nails.

  ‘Nobody is accusing you of anything,’ Kelly assured her. Bianca didn’t look so sure.

  Drake tried to steer the conversation back. ‘You left Mrs Thwaite here alone. As far as you know, she locked up and drove to the theatre to meet her friend.’

  ‘Yes, that is what I told you
.’ She faltered then, as if the situation was just beginning to hit home. ‘I can’t believe she’s really dead. It wasn’t . . . I mean, she didn’t kill herself, did she?’

  ‘Was that something she talked about?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘No, not at all, I was just thinking.’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide,’ said Drake.

  ‘Someone killed her? Why? It makes no sense.’

  ‘Did she ever receive threats of any kind? Something unusual perhaps? A letter or card. An email. Something that worried her?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Does the name Tei Hideo mean anything to you?’ Drake asked.

  Bianca asked him to repeat the name. When he did so she shook her head.

  ‘I never heard that name.’

  ‘He’s not a client? Do you do any trade in Japanese wood carvings?’

  ‘Ukiyo-e?’ Kelly almost sounded as if she knew what she was talking about.

  ‘We deal with contemporary art, as you can see.’ Bianca gestured around her. Drake looked. If contemporary meant you had a hard time understanding it, then that was what they had.

  ‘How long have you worked here?’ Drake decided to change tack.

  The question produced a sharp double take. ‘You mean, in this country?’

  ‘I mean in this job.’

  ‘Two years, perhaps a little longer. Why you ask?’ She was growing suspicious. ‘Why do you ask such questions? Maybe I call Mr Thwaite?’ Her English seemed to deteriorate as she grew more agitated.

  ‘We’re just trying to get a better picture of the situation.’

  Bianca fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘I really think I should check with Howard. I’m not happy about this questions.’ She lifted her phone and began stabbing at the screen with a finger tipped with pink nail varnish. ‘He is not answering. Poor Howard, he must be devastated!’

  ‘I’m sure he is. One final question. Does this gallery belong to Mr Thwaite?’

  ‘Why everybody always think it is man who is rich?’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Howard lose all his money. So unfair. Such a talented man!’

  ‘He had financial problems?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Bianca hesitated before going on, realizing perhaps that she had said too much. ‘Six years ago, he lose a lot of money. A lot. She save him really. A tragedy. I can’t believe.’