“Other name?”
“Mirrorman—it was the name of his made-up superhero as a kid. I think it’s…” Kate shook her head, hardly able to say the words, to get her head around it. “I’m sure it’s Joe. He’s got a beard and most of his face is covered but I can see his eyes. It’s Joe, I’m sure of it.”
“Wow!” Andrew seemed to ponder this for a while before saying, “So what does all this mean?”
She smiled, knowing that Andrew was deliberately prompting her to get there ahead of him, to make her spell it out.
She obliged. “If—and I know it’s still a big if—but if Boomer is real, then there’s a possibility that the stories are real. And if the stories are real—”
“Then Joe didn’t make it up,” Andrew finished for her.
Joe may not have been a fantasist. And if that was true then why was he taken away like that? And why the hell did those agents lie?
SIXTEEN
Act One of The Mikado was coming to a close. It was a private gathering of Riyad bin Shahd’s closest friends and business associates—forty men, all dressed in traditional Arab robes. There were women laid on for the evening but they waited in an adjoining room—the entertainment during the interval and aftershow party.
To the outside world, Prince bin Shahd was a traditionalist. He was not in the Saudi government but everyone knew he was powerful. He was a global kingmaker who worked behind the scenes and got what he wanted. One of his contradictory predilections was for the work of Gilbert and Sullivan. The Mikado was both ridiculously puerile and fascinating at the same time. And the silly operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan were the only thing that made him laugh.
He suspected that most of his guests didn’t understand the Western humour, but it was important to appreciate how other people thought, and humour was one of the great avenues of insight. As the chorus completed their end of act song, bin Shahd applauded and his guests followed his lead. The curtain fell and he stood, nodding to the servants to open the doors to the antechamber where the girls waited patiently.
“Your Highness,” a man called Hamasalih said, moving in from the side. He was dressed Western-style in a suit and everyone knew he was security. He leaned in close, conspiratorially. “Your Highness, I have news from Spain.”
“Has Amir done his work?” the prince said without looking at the security man.
“He has.”
“Did he make the crook suffer?”
“Undoubtedly. You know Amir enjoys his work.”
It hadn’t been about the money. It was the principle. Riyad bin Shahd was investing in property around the world. He knew how fragile the Middle East was and his investment in apartments was just one of his alternative strategies. The loss of a few hundred thousand dollars was nothing. The loss of pride was everything. No one scammed bin Shahd and lived to tell the tale.
He waved for a pretty girl to bring him a glass of champagne. She scurried over and he looked at her lasciviously as he took the proffered flute from her. Later, he thought, and then, after a sip of the Krug 1990, he looked into the eyes of his security man. “His tastes are perhaps his weakness.”
Hamasalih inclined his head in agreement. “But he is also the best,” he said. “He traced the fraudster even though the man was in a different country using a different identity. He has also made a remarkable discovery. He has found the fraudster has a connection to the other man.”
“Mirrorman?”
“There’s a link to the Czech Republic.”
Bin Shahd nodded slowly. He took a long drink of the champagne and luxuriated in the sensation as it ran down his throat. He had been waiting for the news that Mirrorman had been traced, and here it was. He looked askance at his aide but the man had no idea and continued to explain.
“A fortuitous coincidence or perhaps a logical connection,” Hamasalih said with a smile. “Whichever it is, I have had our men working in Prague.”
As bin Shahd walked his security man into a private room, he decided it was time to explain the strategy. The hunt had been started and it was better everyone behaved as expected, but the prince himself could not be involved.
He closed the door, locked it and waved Hamasalih to a map on the wall. He said, “Tell me what you know.”
Hamasalih provided an update on the investigation and ended by saying, “We traced him to a man called Petr Sikorski.”
“No, tell me what you know—about why we are doing this.”
“This is about the death of your son at the hands of the Americans.”
The prince inclined his head.
Hamasalih continued: “Mirrorman has information that is harmful to your Highness.”
The prince waited. The pause caused a flicker of doubt on his security aide’s face. Yes it was time to explain.
Prince bin Shahd said, “The Americans play a foolish game. They think they make the rules and yet they don’t. They think they understand the rules and yet they don’t. They have foolish notions of right and wrong, white and black, good versus bad. And yet they play both sides, they give money and they take money. They give arms and they fight those same people they previously armed—and behind it there is always the money. They claim to trust God’s will while all the time they pray to the god Mammon. Do you understand, Fouad?”
Hamasalih nodded and was honoured at the prince’s use of his given name.
“Sit,” the prince said. “I will tell you what happened and what you will make happen.”
Awe lit Hamasalih’s face when bin Shahd finished. “Masterful,” he said.
The prince pointed to the map. “So the first connection was to Prague and we have traced Mirrorman’s movements since? Is he in America?”
“He left Prague a year ago.” Hamasalih stood and tapped on a small island to the west. “He went to England to be with a new woman.”
“Do we have a name?”
“Yes, and an address.”
“Any other details?”
“No. Our man, Amir, says the connection didn’t know. There is a slight complication that the police have become involved. But as you know, the police are often unwittingly helpful.”
The two minute bell rang to announce the imminent start of the second half of the operetta, but bin Shahd was too preoccupied to enjoy his favourite show.
“Amir has done a good job so far,” he said. “Get him to the UK and locate the woman.”
SEVENTEEN
Lisa had met her in Windsor for a glass of wine and a chat. Although Kate had worked a late shift at the club after a full day at the hospital, she felt uplifted by Lisa’s enthusiasm for her story about the photograph.
She walked Kate home, insisting on seeing the intriguing picture. “So that one’s Joe,” she said, handing her the photo. “Dishy.”
After Kate said goodbye and returned upstairs, she looked into Tolkien’s intelligent eyes. “What do I do now, Tolk?”
Tolkien said something that was probably amazingly insightful but totally incomprehensible to human ears. However there was also a strong chance it included the phrase: pick me up and stroke me.
Her mobile rang. It was a number she didn’t recognize but when she heard the voice Kate realized it was about time she programmed it in.
“Hello, dear. It’s Ann from downstairs.” That’s how she always began when calling. “I took my net curtains down and can’t put them back up. Would you be a dear and give me a hand?”
Ann: American, kindly, and in her seventies. Kate felt guilty that the only time she saw her was when Ann called and asked for help. She needed two replacement hips and had a six month wait. Kate didn’t dare tell her that she worked at the hospital where Ann was on the waiting list. Kate couldn’t have done anything about the waiting list but guilt by association is a terrible thing.
She was about to knock on her neighbour’s door when Ann appeared, eager and enthusiastic.
Her cornflower blue eyes flashed. “I always know when you’re leaving,” she said. �
��I hear you run down the stairs.”
She had said this before and Kate apologized for the noise.
“Oh no,” Ann said with a smile, “I love to know that other people can run.” And she sounded sincere.
Perhaps I should spend more time with Ann, Kate thought. Ann was one of those people who see the good in everything and everyone.
The elderly lady waved Kate into the lounge and insisted that she didn’t need to take her shoes off. The room, like the whole apartment, was pristine.
Kate decided it was a good job Ann couldn’t climb her stairs and see the state of her own home. Darcy criticized Kate’s lack of domesticity. “Looks like I got Mum’s housework genes,” she would say. Kate’s response was that she cleaned the house weekly but within a day the carpet looked grubby. She blamed the combination of a beige carpet and a hairy cat. However, the truth was she suspected Tolkien contributed very little.
Ann pointed to the windows. “I washed my nets,” she explained. “You know, in the States I wouldn’t dream of having net curtains. But they are so handy, and I am on the ground floor. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I’ve just made some fresh.”
Not really a coffee drinker, Kate accepted the offer out of politeness.
As Ann walked painfully slowly into the kitchen, hobbling on a stick, Kate looked around the room and focused on the photographs on the sideboard. A family history. She knew Ann had a daughter about Kate’s age—Brie. Kate had met her once and knew she worked for a foreign bank and lived thirty-odd miles away.
Ann’s husband had died six years earlier and she had moved to be near her daughter, who had married an Englishman.
At least twenty photographs of the family adorned the sideboard. No one else, just the three of them in the pictures. In studying the pictures Kate wondered whether she would have similar family photographs one day. Her own sideboard just had a stereo, stacks of CDs and paperwork that needed to be dealt with.
Ann appeared in the kitchen doorway carrying a tray with two cups and a plate of biscuits. She balanced it in one hand, struggling in silence as she used the stick with the other.
Kate rushed over and took the tray from her. “You shouldn’t have,” she said, carrying it to the coffee table in the centre of the lounge floor.
“Before I sit down,” Kate said, “what do you want me to do with the net curtain?”
“It’s there, on the windowsill.”
It was a simple matter for Kate to stretch the fitting over the retaining hooks either side of the window. Ann was smaller and must have struggled to remove it in the first place. Returning it would have been impossible.
Kate was convinced that most people with net curtains had never considered washing them but Ann’s home was too pristine for that.
“Thank you so much, dear,” she said easing herself into an armchair. “I normally have my daughter do it but she’s not here until the weekend and the curtains did so need a wash.”
Kate sat on the sofa and took a sip of coffee. It was very weak, which was fine given her preference for Earl Grey tea.
“You really should get an answering machine,” Ann said after offering a biscuit that Kate refused.
“Oh?”
“Your telephone has been ringing all day.”
She clearly meant Kate’s home phone. Kate rarely used it these days due to the package she had with her iPhone. In fact, the only reason she had it at all was because it came as a bundle with the broadband.
“Sorry,” Kate said, thinking the noise had disturbed her neighbour. “I really should unplug it. Apart from my mum, the only calls I get are people trying to sell me something or BT trying to get me to upgrade.”
“Please don’t think I’m complaining, dear. I just thought it must be something important, the way it kept ringing. It must have rung fifteen times… yes, at least fifteen.”
That did surprise Kate. If it had been her mother, she would have eventually tried the mobile number. Kate pulled her phone from a pocket to check it was switched on. Annoyingly it had recently started to turn itself off occasionally. The phone was on, and there were no missed calls.
At that moment a muffled phone rang.
“There you go,” Ann said raising her eyebrows conspiratorially.
God! Is it that loud? Kate had no idea it could be heard so clearly downstairs. She made a mental note to see if she could turn the volume down.
“You should go and answer it,” Ann said.
“I’ll just check.” Kate dialled her mum’s home on her mobile. Terry answered.
“Oh. Terry. Errr… Hi, is anything wrong?”
Hesitation and then: “I’d like you to give me more of a chance.”
“Right. I mean with Mum. Is anything wrong? Has she been trying to get hold of me?”
“No. Would you like to talk to her?”
Kate said she’d call again to chat when she had more time and ended the call. She smiled at her neighbour. “Not my mum calling.”
“You should complain to the telephone company, dear—if you are getting nuisance calls.”
Taking another sip of the brown liquid that vaguely passed for coffee, Kate nodded. “I’ll do that. Does my TV bother you? If my phone is that loud, my TV must be awful.”
“Oh no, dear”—Ann gave her a kindly smile—“it’s nice to know people are in and enjoying themselves.”
Kate asked about her appointment and Ann said there was now a date for the first operation. One hip at a time. She said she was keen to get out and about and walk again. Her favourite walk was along the Thames, across the bridge to Eton, through the fields as far as the Windsor Racecourse. “Fewer tourists on that side of the river,” Ann said. “Except for when the sun is out and the field fills up with all sorts—if you know what I mean.”
Kate said her favourite walk was up through the deer park to the statue.
“George the Third,” Ann said. “Most people have no idea who the man on the horse is because it looks like a Roman emperor, but it is the Queen’s great, great, great-grandfather.”
The upstairs home phone rang again, and Kate had a strange tingling sensation in her neck. Who’s calling? What’s the urgency?
Ann looked at her expectantly but Kate just shrugged and asked how Ann knew who the man on the horse was.
“I used to be an art-history teacher, you know. A long time ago now.” The elderly lady suddenly had a wistful look in her eyes, as if remembering good old times. “When I first came to Windsor I walked everywhere, including up to the statue. I’m no great font of knowledge or sleuth, dear. You’ll find there’s an inscription around the back. Did you know that Windsor’s guildhall was designed by Sir Christopher Wren?”
Kate pretended she didn’t. But she hadn’t heard the rest of Ann’s story, which followed.
“Well the person commissioning it insisted that four columns were required to support the broad overhanging section. Wren said they weren’t needed, so to prove a point he put them in for show only. Don’t believe everything you see.”
Kate laughed.
“Was that funny?” Ann asked, uncertain.
“Just similar to what someone once said to me.”
Ann nodded. “I don’t know about that, dear. Anyway, at some point someone didn’t trust that the floor didn’t need supporting. So the council had wooden blocks inserted above the columns—just in case!”
Kate found herself thinking about Joe: about not believing what she read, not believing what people said about him. Ann was still talking about Windsor and then about her daughter’s job at the bank. Kate found she wasn’t really listening. She heard her landline ring again. Would it ring again in another ten minutes?
Kate excused herself: “Thank you for the coffee and biscuits.”
“Oh no, thank you once again for putting up my nets, dear.” Ann levered herself to her feet, expertly using the stick, and hobbled to the door.
Kate said, “Anytime. And when you are up to it, let’s do your favourite
walk along the river.”
Ann’s cornflower blues twinkled with expectation and Kate left her on the doorstep feeling that she had doubled her good deed for the day.
At her door, she kicked off her shoes and climbed the stairs. This time she padded quietly, very conscious of any noise Ann would hear. In the lounge Kate glanced at the telephone as though she could will it to talk. She stood over it and checked her watch: thirty seconds to go. The ten minute break came and went. She picked up the receiver and dialled 1471 to check the last number to ring.
Number withheld.
She watched the phone for a few more minutes and the phrase a watched kettle never boils went through her head. She laughed at herself for such a stupid thought.
Still no call.
She went into the kitchen to prepare penne pasta with chopped vegetables and green pesto. She poured a glass of Chardonnay.
The phone rang and her heart missed a beat before it raced to make up for it. Kate gulped at the wine and walked to the phone. She imagined Ann standing downstairs willing her to answer it. Kate reached for the handset and hesitated.
She picked it up.
“Who is this prosim… please?” a man’s voice said on the line, his voice heavily foreign.
Kate swallowed. It was an unusual way to start a conversation, and her heart continued to race. She felt a surge of discomfort, an overwhelming urge to put the phone down. Eventually she spoke. “Tell me who you are.”
There was a hesitation and then: “My name is Inspector Cerny,” he said,and this time Kate detected a familiar accent. “I am from theČeské policie. Please, what is your name?”
Kate’s mind spun. Czech police? “What’s this about?”
“Before I speak, what is your name?”
“Oh yes, sorry.” She tried to compose herself, focus on the call, stop her mind racing through possibilities. She said her name.
“Prosim… please your address.”
“I’m not happy—”
Before she finished, he interrupted. “You are in Wind-sore?” The policeman struggled with the name of the town. “—England? Yes?”
I Dare You: A gripping thriller that will keep you guessing (A Kate Blakemore Crime Thriller Book 1) Page 7
