“That’s where exhibitions like mine become so important,” Bridger stated. “The Rites of Life and Death features treasures from all over the world, mostly on loan from their places of origin. My aim is to take the world to the world. More people have seen some of the Hindu relics that were lent to our show after their return to India, than ever saw them in the museum in London.”
“I know that’s true, Marcus,” Sam said. “I was entranced by the Gold of the Pharaohs exhibition that came here a few years ago, partly because I knew it might be as close as I’d ever get to Egypt.”
Bridger laughed. “I was lucky. My father was an archaeologist, so my entire childhood was submerged by other times and places.”
“You know,” Sam caught her breath as Bridger’s hand brushed against the small of her back to direct her from the lift to the reception room. “You know,” she repeated, “I come across people from all walks of life during my investigations but I have to say I have never met a group who, collectively and individually, are as passionate about their work as you all seem to be.”
“It gets in your blood,” Marcus stated. “It’s not work, it’s much more than a job, it’s a life.”
“In your case, Marcus, it really is in the blood. Your career choice seems to be inherited.”
“Yes, my father’s passion for his life’s work was quite inspiring. He once organised a protest, long before the sixties made it popular, to prevent a golf course being built next to a sacred site. But I feel I have to say, and I don’t mean to sound old-fashioned Sam, that your career choice seems a strange one for a woman.”
Sam shrugged; she was accustomed to this attitude. “I’ve always loved figuring things out, solving puzzles. In a sense, Marcus, our work is similar. We’re both detectives rummaging around in the lives of dead people. Mine just happen to be more recently dead than yours.”
“True,” Marcus acknowledged. “I’ve never thought of it like that, and I admit I never thought it strange that women wanted to be archaeologists. Speaking of which, is that your young constable with Maggie? I thought she meant the older guy was escorting her.”
“Jack? He wouldn’t be seen dead at a shindig like this,” Sam laughed, looking over at Maggie and Rivers who were seated at a large table with Prescott, Adrienne, Andrew Barstoc, the dreaded Enrico Vasquez, Robert Ellington and three people Sam had never seen before. Glancing around the other tables in the intimate dining room she recognised several museum staff, including Peter Gilchrist and Anton, as well as people she’d seen working at the Exhibition Building.
There were two spaces left at the main table, between Rivers and Adrienne. Bridger, ever the gentleman, pulled Sam’s chair out for her before sitting down himself.
Ellington introduced Sam to his wife Miriam, and to Joan Harris, head of Museum PR, and her husband Paul. “I believe you know everyone else,” he added.
“We’re so pleased you could join us, Sam,” Adrienne smiled, although she’d given Bridger what could only be described as a filthy look.
“Sam dear, you look stunning,” Maggie stated.
“And you look like a million dollars,” Sam said, admiring Maggie’s gold silk frock-coat.
“Not quite a million, but it was the only thing I splurged on while in Paris.”
“Any progress on the case Detective Diamond?” Prescott asked.
“He’s already tried me,” Rivers muttered to Sam.
“This is a social evening Mr Prescott. Officially, I am not here.”
“Ah yes, of course,” Prescott murmured, his immaculate exterior barely managing to conceal his impatience, or his curiosity as to why, in fact, Sam was there.
When the drink waitress arrived to take orders Sam motioned to Rivers to lean back a little so she could address Maggie. “Did you manage to get in touch with���”
“My friend?” Maggie interrupted hurriedly. “No. But I made several calls this afternoon and I’m expecting at least one to be returned this evening,” she replied.
“Yes Miriam, it is indeed tragic,” Prescott was saying. “And I’m just praying it doesn’t reflect too badly on the Conference.”
Maggie tried not to laugh when she noticed Sam’s expression. She leant across Rivers, her hand on his knee, and whispered, “He really only opens his mouth to change feet, you know.”
“What with ominous postcards and���”
“Mr Prescott,” Sam interrupted before he could spill the beans about poisons and suspect lists, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask���someone.” Preferably someone else, she thought, hesitating as a waiter informed Maggie she had a phone call.
“And what would that be, Detective Diamond?” Prescott asked.
“How can the Museum of Victoria host an international museum conference when Melbourne doesn’t actually have a museum at the moment?”
Uproarious laughter from everyone at the table, except Rivers, made Sam wish she’d kept her mouth shut. She raised her hands, “Okay, obviously I have no idea what I’m talking about,” she said.
“The new Melbourne Museum may not be finished,” Prescott began, “but it is a prime example, in production, of just where museums are heading in the 21st century. The old idea of a museum as one building able to display only a small part of its collection at any one time, has given way to the multi-campus concept - a network of museums and galleries which focus on different aspects of culture, science, and natural and social history.”
“Part of the new Museum is open,” Joan Harris said. “The IMAX theatre has been operating for a while now.”
“What’s that?” Rivers asked.
“It’s an experience and then some,” Joan enthused. “The screen is six-stories high and designed to show in amazing fidelity the latest films on technology, human history and nature.”
“Getting back to what I was saying,” Prescott stated, “we do have Scienceworks, the Immigration, the Hellenic and the National Wool museums, not to mention a reputation within the museum community for our superb natural history collection - even if it is in storage.”
“And work is proceeding on the National Air and Space Museum at Point Cook,” Ellington volunteered. “We also have heritage buildings, parks, cultural sites, folk museums like Sovereign Hill at Ballarat, even the Old Melbourne Gaol. And of course the term museum covers the Botanic and Zoological gardens and the National Gallery.”
“I surrender,” said Sam, laughing along with everyone else.
“Did they put you back in your box, Sam?” Maggie asked, returning to her seat.
“Oh yes,” Sam said. “What’s with you? You look like the cat who���”
“That was the call I’ve been waiting for,” Maggie smiled. “Everything is arranged, Sam.”
“What everything?” Sam asked.
“The arrangements for our trip.”
“Our trip? What trip?”
“You and I are flying to Cairo tomorrow.”
“We are?”
Chapter Six
Melbourne, Monday September 21, 1998
“Have you got your toothbrush?”
“Yes, I’ve got my toothbrush. My toothbrush is not the problem,” Sam growled, tipping everything she’d just packed out onto the lounge floor. “The problem is this backpack is too small. Why did you let me buy this fiddly little handbag thing?”
“Hey, I was all in favour of that triple-decker sea trunk contraption,” Jacqui said. “Let me have a go while you see who’s at the front door.”
Sam did as she was told, tripping over several pairs of shoes on the way out of the room. She opened the front door to find Maggie and a perfectly strange young man in a black suit.
“Thank god you’re here,” she said to Maggie. “I’m having a luggage crisis.”
“That is not a good way to start the day,” Maggie said. “Have you got your passport?”
In a nanosecond Sam’s expression changed from exasperated to dumbfounded. “Bloody hell. Maggie, I don’t
have a passport. I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t go anywhere. I shouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere; I’m an idiot. Jacqui’s quite right about me not coping with spontaneous acts. I mean how the hell can I when it requires so much forward planning?”
“Sam, please stop babbling,” Maggie pleaded.
“Excuse me,” said the guy in the suit. “Are you Detective Diamond?”
“No, she left town on the Stupid Express last night,” Sam declared. “I’m her alter ego.”
“I’ve got a package from the Bureau for a Detective Sam Diamond,” the guy said hesitantly.
Sam pulled out her ID, accepted a small envelope and signed for it. “What is it?” she asked.
“No idea,” he said, heading off down the path.
“Please come in Maggie. Last door on the right,” Sam directed, ripping open the package as she followed Maggie down the hall.
“It’s a passport,” she stated. “It’s my passport,” she added in amazement, turning the page which featured her personal details and standard Bureau photo, to find a freshly stamped Egyptian visa. “You did this, didn’t you Maggie? Is this a forgery? I’m sure the ink’s still wet. Who the hell are you, Mata Hari’s daughter or something?”
“I told you I know a lot of people,” Maggie said, stopping dead in her tracks. “Heavens above, Sam! No wonder you’re in a tizzwoz. You’ve got everything here including a redhead.”
“I’m the sister,” Jacqui pronounced. “And I assume you’re the breakfast archaeologist.”
“The what?” Maggie asked.
“Just say yes, Maggie,” Sam suggested.
Maggie nodded vaguely and then waved her hand at the piles of clothes on the floor. “Honestly Sam, we’re only going to Cairo for a few days. Why have you got that gargantuan backpack?”
“It’s not that big,” Sam protested. “I can only fit half my stuff in it.”
“You don’t need all that stuff. Get rid of all the warm clothes for a start. It’s hot in Cairo. Just pack underwear, socks, three T-shirts, one pair of jeans, some loose trousers, a couple of long-sleeved shirts, walking boots, a pair of sandals, one windcheater, a lightweight jacket, basic toiletries and a towel. And make sure you’re comfortably dressed for the plane. Wear runners.”
“What if we’re there for more than a few days?”
“That’s enough for a year, Sam. If I was sure it was only going to be a few days you’d be taking half what I just suggested. And I have everything else we need including a first aid kit, so you can put that emergency field hospital back in your warehouse.”
“What if we get separated or I get lost or���”
Maggie glanced at Jacqui. “Is she always like this?”
“Yep. And she will get lost too. She’s got no sense of direction, unless of course she’s memorised the map and can manage to find one recognisable landmark.”
“Do you mind?” Sam objected. “She is in the room, you know.”
“I just want to know what I’m in for, Sam. You seemed so level-headed yesterday.”
“I was, I mean I am. I’m���”
“She’s cactus,” Jacqui stated. “She’ll get over it, round about the third whisky on the plane.”
“How about you trot off and make us some coffee, sister dear,” Sam suggested sweetly.
“Good idea. Maggie’s going to need it.” Jacqui quipped.
“Here Sam, this is for you. It’s a money belt. Put your passport, travellers’ cheques, credit card and drivers’ licence in it,” Maggie said. “You wear it under your clothes,” she added as Sam put it on over her jeans.
“Under? With all that stuff in it?”
“You strap on a gun everyday, Sam, I’m sure you’ll get used to this.”
“Speaking of guns, which we weren’t really, but it reminds me I have to go and see Jack Rigby from Homicide before we go. I can’t run off to Cairo without filling him in on the case.”
Rigby was just wrapping up a team briefing as Sam and Maggie approached his office at the end of the squad room. He motioned for them to enter and then dismissed everyone else except Rivers, who leapt to his feet, said good morning to Sam and grinned idiotically at Maggie.
Sam looked questioningly at Rivers, who sat down again and gave his undivided attention to his notebook, and then glanced at Maggie, who smiled suggestively.
Sam shook her head in bemusement and then said, “Jack, I’d like to introduce to you Dr Maggie Tremaine: archaeologist and lecturer at Sydney Uni; long-time friend of the late Professor; and connected, it seems, with everyone in the known universe who has influence.”
Jack smiled. “I’ll just pretend I understood that last bit,” he said, nodding at the empty chairs. “Are you the Maggie responsible for the Inca trinket thing Prescott mentioned?” he asked.
“‘Fiasco’ is the term that’s being bandied around and I most definitely was not responsible.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply, um���I’m glad you’re here Sam,” Rigby said, changing the subject, “we’ve got a few more leads. For a start, Gilchrist’s alibi sucks. Excuse me, Doc,” he said, glancing at Maggie, before continuing. “Could you and Herc talk to him again this arvo?”
“I can’t Jack, I’m going to Cairo today,” Sam said, as if it was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.
“You’re going to Cairo.” Rigby frowned as if he thought he’d misheard. “Which Cairo?”
“There’s only one as far as I know,” Sam stated.
Rigby shook his head. “You can’t go just go to Cairo, Sam.”
“Why not?”
“Why, would be a better question.”
“Maggie and I have some leads of our own, which I’ll give you, that necessitate a trip to Egypt.”
“They ‘necessitate’ a trip to Egypt?” Rigby repeated. “What the hell does that mean? Are you saying the murderer has left the country and nicked off to Cairo?”
“No, but we believe the answer to why the Professor was murdered might be in Cairo.”
“The answer might be in my garden shed too, but I’m not going to spend the week in there looking for it,” Rigby snorted, eyeing Sam as if he thought she’d gone completely mad.
As Sam had spent most of the previous night wondering the very same thing, she could hardly take offence. She smiled and filled Rigby in on the details about the package Marsden had sent to Maggie, their search of the cottage and the details about the postcard from Cairo. She didn’t mention the photograph of Manco City or anything about Incas, partly because it was probably irrelevant but mostly because she knew Jack would still be laughing next week if she had.
“So Sherlock, you’re telling me that you and Dr Watson here are just going to flit off to Cairo on the basis of this flimsy load of old cobblers,” Rigby asked, waving his hand at Marsden’s cryptic notes and the key to his cottage which Sam had laid out on the desk as she spoke.
“Yes Jack, and what’s more, odd as it may seem,” Sam said casting a sideways glance at Maggie, “I am under orders to do just that.”
“Whose orders?” Jack demanded as if that person had also lost their mind. “Pilger’s?” he said in disbelief. “Blimey Sam, I realise your or rather the ACB’s interest in this case is primarily one of damage control because of the Conference, but this is crazy. What’s the man thinking? We’re up to our armpits in suspects right here in Melbourne.
“Gilchrist is failing his degree, apparently suffers some personality disorder that makes him resent anyone, like Marsden for instance, who tries to help him and has an alibi you could drive a truck through. Some bird in publicity had a mile-wide crush on the Professor and, allegedly, has a tendency to overreact when rejected. And Marsden did owe money to a Melbourne bookie, about eight grand worth. Then there’s my prime suspect, Haddon Gould, who apart from having a questionable sense of reality and a big time grudge against the Professor, was also the last known person to see him alive. To cap it off his museum plant collection just happens to
include varieties of the genus Chondrodendron from which curare can be extracted.”
“Really Jack? Is Gould the only one who has access to those plants?” Sam asked.
“No, but I doubt Marsden’s bookie slipped in and cooked up a batch of poison,” Rigby snarled.
“It’s your case Jack. I’m sure you’ll cope while I’m away for a few days,” Sam remarked.
“Of course I will, but it’s beyond me what it was about these silly notes that convinced the Minister to send you half way round the bloody world.”
“Not what, who,” Maggie corrected. “I convinced Jim Pilger of my belief that there is much more to this whole thing than just Lloyd’s murder.”
“Oh you did, did you. And what is the basis of that belief exactly?” Jack asked.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Maggie admitted. “But I think it has far-reaching implications.”
“Far-reaching implications?,” Rigby echoed. “You’re not related to Prescott are you?” Jack asked, eyeing Maggie warily. “Speaking of the Director of Conspiracy Theories, isn’t it your job to keep him reigned in Sam? And, not that I think it’s connected with the murder, but what about the limerick sent by that illiterate whacko?”
“You are going to miss me, aren’t you Jack?” Sam grinned.
“Don’t bet on it,” Rigby said. “I just don’t want to see Prescott on the evening news denying sabotage rumours of which the media had no previous knowledge.”
“Well I don’t mean to throw a spanner in your works Jack, but I think the limerick is related to the murder, not as a threat of sabotage, but as a device to throw us off the scent.”
Rigby closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Why, pray tell?”
“Because I think it was sent by an educated someone who wanted us to think it was written by an illiterate whacko.”
“Lovely, that brings us back to everyone at the Museum,” Jack complained. “So when are you coming back from Cairo?”
Golden Relic Page 13
