The Manhattan Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  Should she go to the hospital, to see if George was okay? She looked at her watch. It was only twenty minutes since they’d taken him in.

  She thought about calling Rose, but decided not to. She might ask her to pick up Alek if she heard she wasn’t going away. That was the last thing she needed. Looking for Sean with Alek beside her would be impossible.

  She decided to ring Sean’s aunt and uncle. She had to tell them they weren’t coming. What exactly was she was going to say?

  Sean’s aunt, Karen, was kind, but there was a toughness to her, a wiry strength. That’s the way her generation was. Everyone was supposed to stand on their own two feet, as far as Karen was concerned. Sean’s uncle, Frank, was different. He was warmer, friendlier. But he had Huntington’s. And he didn’t need her ringing up, panicking, telling him everything that his favourite nephew might or might not have done.

  As she rang Karen’s number, disappointment rose inside her. Not for her, but for them. They’d been looking forward to seeing her and Sean. She felt guilty now, as if it was her fault they weren’t on their way to Paris.

  ‘Karen here.’

  The urge to put the phone down, to avoid telling her bad news, was strong.

  ‘Hi, it’s Isabel.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Where are you, honey?’ Her tone was happy, but a note of worry could be heard at its edge. A worry she was supposed to dispel with her reply.

  Her mouth was dry, hard, as if she’d sucked on blotting paper.

  ‘I’m in London, Karen. I’m sorry. Sean’s gone missing.’ Better to come straight out with it.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Missing?’ Karen’s tone made her concern clear.

  ‘He didn’t come home last night.’ Her voice sounded stronger than she felt.

  ‘Have you tried his office?’ Karen spoke fast.

  ‘I’ve been to BXH. He’s not there.’

  ‘Did you guys have a fight?’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that.’ Isabel straightened her back and looked over her shoulder. A young boy with cropped hair was staring at her. A shudder ran through her.

  ‘Have you called the hospitals, the police?’

  She licked her lips. She couldn’t tell her about the police being at their house. ‘The police know he’s missing. I’m sure I’d have had a call by now if he was in a hospital.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it?’ There was something distant about her tone, as if she was thinking about something else.

  ‘What’s going on with the big merger? There was tons about BXH on the TV before we left. Frank thinks it’s just what they need.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on with the merger, Karen. All I know is Sean was supposed to be out celebrating last night.’

  ‘Celebrating?’ Karen sniffed. It felt like a criticism. ‘Does he often disappear after a night out?’

  ‘No,’ said Isabel, firmly.

  ‘Do any of his colleagues know where he is?’

  Karen was trying to help her, by telling her to contact people, but her condescending tone made her advice hard to take. It wasn’t the first time Isabel had heard it.

  ‘I have to go now, Karen.’ She didn’t want to go into any more detail.

  ‘Call us. As soon as you find out where he is. And if there’s anything we can do, let us know.’

  ‘I will. I promise. I’ll call you.’ She cut the line. She needed answers.

  33

  Henry Mowlam put the glass of Chardonnay on the small wooden table in front of Major Finch. She was pressed up against the corner of a red banquet. They were an hour out of the office and two drinks down already.

  The Chandos pub, near Trafalgar Square, was just far enough away from the control room in Whitehall where they’d spent the day, to not have to worry about every second person recognising them.

  Their corner table was surrounded by a mass of humanity enjoying a night out. The noise level of conversation was a wall of sound that almost certainly ensured their own conversation could not be listened to.

  ‘Have you decided?’ he said. He turned and stared into Major Finch’s eyes. They were blue, large and, if he thought about them too much, very attractive.

  Major Finch smoothed the hem of her knee-length black Mark’s & Spencer skirt. Her right leg was crossed over her left.

  She let her head fall back to the banquet and closed her eyes.

  ‘You don’t give up, do you, Henry?’

  He put his pint of Old Brewery bitter down and glanced at the party of twenty-something Italian tourists at the next table. Not one of them was looking their way.

  ‘Do you blame me?’ He took another sip of his pint. Their Friday-night-after-work-drinks were one of the few pleasures in his life, since his wife had divorced him.

  ‘I can’t be the only level seven officer you know, Henry.’

  ‘No, but you’re the only one I know well, and who probably knows the answer to my question off the top of her head.’

  Major Finch turned to look at him. ‘I suppose you think because I’ve had a few drinks you can have what you want?’ She smiled.

  ‘I was hoping.’ He shrugged, picked up his pint again. He’d been pushing his luck with Finch since soon after his divorce papers came through.

  ‘You can’t have any more resources for watching Isabel Ryan, Henry. And I’m not changing my mind just because you bought me a drink.’

  ‘Even after what’s just happened?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going beyond what we should be doing anyhow. It was supposed to be an observation operation, not a personal protection one.’

  Henry sighed, looked away.

  Finch leaned towards him until her mouth was near his ear. She breathed heavily as she spoke. ‘I’ll give you this much, Henry. That symbol you keep asking about is upsetting people in the Met, the Home Office, MI5 and GCHQ. That’s a bit of a record.’ She leaned back.

  He let the edge of a smile linger for only a second on his lips. He was obviously going to have to tease what he wanted out of her.

  ‘Why? You have to tell me why.’

  Their eyes locked. The rest of the pub was just noise now.

  ‘Certain people don’t like ritual murders on their patch. Your speculation about that poor girl’s murder has stirred things up.’

  ‘I don’t like coincidences,’ said Henry.

  ‘Do you think we’re going to get more deaths like that?’

  ‘My crystal ball needs a good clean, but if I was a guessing man I’d say there’s a real possibility. People used to die that way during the inquisition, when they tortured people, pulled their tongues out and other stuff you wouldn’t believe. There were inquisitors in Constantinople too, when the Catholics ran the place. We have no idea what they believed they had to do to save the city.’

  ‘It’s what whoever murdered that girl believes that worries me.’

  ‘That symbol at the back of the book is the key to it all, I reckon.’

  ‘So what would you think that symbol was, if you saw it on the street?’ Her head shook as she finished the sentence. Her hair was loose now and her white top was open an inch more than it should have been.

  He shrugged. ‘It’d be a signpost. Go straight ahead, if it was pointing up. Go right or left, if it was pointing either way.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She looked all knowing. It was probably an act.

  ‘That doesn’t tell me anything.’ He downed the rest of his pint. Would she be on for another, he wondered.

  ‘Henry, Henry, Henry, it’s all staring you in the face. The bloody symbol is a signpost. It’s pointing somewhere.’

  ‘Great, you are a proper genius. I’ll get on to the Nobel committee first thing tomorrow.’ He snorted. ‘So where does it point, Miss Genius?’

  She sighed. ‘I’ll tell you this, and no more. The symbol in the book does not point directly north.’

  ‘So where does it point? Has anyone figured that out?’

  ‘N
ot exactly, but a few people think they’re getting close.’

  ‘The colours, those two-headed eagles, they’re clues, right?’

  ‘That’s the theory.’

  ‘So what the hell is this place they point towards? Some treasure trove?’ That would be interesting, he thought. A Byzantine treasure trove could be worth a hell of a lot.

  ‘This is the part you’re not going to believe.’ Her grin widened.

  ‘Try me.’

  She finished her wine and put the glass down.

  ‘I will.’ She leaned towards him again.

  ‘Are you ready?’ She nodded towards the door.

  Henry smiled. This time he didn’t try to wipe out his smile. It would have been too difficult.

  34

  Isabel walked up Regent Street. She couldn’t feel her fingers any more, or her feet. Was she in shock? She wanted to be home with Sean and Alek, sitting at their kitchen table, with Alek’s favourite apple pie in front of them; the warmth of the kitchen all around. She could almost smell it.

  She pulled her phone out, and rang Rose’s number. There was no answer. Her fingers jabbed at the phone. She called Rose’s mobile.

  It was turned off.

  She looked at her watch. Had Rose taken Alek to the cinema, as she’d promised? That had to be what was going on. She took a deep breath. If there was one thing she had to do, it was to stay calm. Rose was the most reliable person ever as far as children were concerned.

  She’d never let her down.

  She breathed deep, closed her eyes. The last thing she needed was to crack up. A group of people passed her. One boy bumped into her. She looked around, startled. Was there any possibility someone was after her? She looked in a shop window, watched people pass in the mirror of the glass, examined everyone who was hanging around. She couldn’t see anyone suspicious. An ACE PLUMBING van was pulled up on the far side of the street, but there was no one visible in it.

  No one was watching her.

  What should she do?

  If only she could go back twenty-four hours, find Sean, persuade him not to go to that club.

  She let her breath out. She should start visiting hospitals. Wasn’t that what people did if someone didn’t come home; look for them? Maybe he’d lost his wallet, his ID, his memory? But where should she start?

  University College Hospital, on the Euston Road, of course.

  That was where they’d taken George. And if anything had happened to Sean in the West End last night, that was where he’d have been taken too.

  She looked down at herself. Would she even be allowed in the hospital at this hour? She was bedraggled-looking, her jeans were wet, clinging to her calves, but she didn’t care. She hailed the first black cab with its light on.

  ‘Is it accident and emergency you’re looking for, love?’ The driver pulled up at the front of the hospital.

  The tower block of the hospital, there must have been fifteen or sixteen floors to it, was lit up like a corporate headquarters.

  ‘Here’s fine.’

  She paid him, then went inside the main entrance. The hospital was still busy, despite the time. She went to the bright yellow-fronted reception desk. Two women wearing white shirts with an NHS logo in blue on their left breast were sitting behind the desk dealing with a queue of people.

  ‘I need to find out if someone’s been admitted,’ she asked the smiling woman behind the reception desk when she finally turned to her.

  ‘What’s the name?’ There was a computer in front of her. The reception area had an airy, bright and antiseptic feel.

  ‘Sean Ryan.’

  The woman looked at her screen, tapped at her keyboard.

  ‘Sorry, love, we have no one here by that name.’

  She breathed in. Then she blurted out.

  ‘If someone were found …’ The words were stuck in her throat. ‘Dead or without any identification, what do you do?’

  ‘Come back in the morning, love. Someone will help you then. All I can tell you is the names of the people who are registered.’

  She remembered George.

  ‘Has a George Donovan been admitted?’

  She looked at Isabel over her thick black glasses. ‘Hold on.’ She tapped at her keyboard again.

  ‘He’s in the acute admissions unit. Are you a relative?’

  She blinked, nodded. Would it work?

  ‘I’m his sister.’ In a metaphorical sense, of course, but she didn’t say that.

  ‘Go to the first floor, that way.’ The woman pointed behind her, to where a staircase led upwards.

  As Isabel went up, she checked her wallet. Would they ask for ID? She felt like a criminal. Maybe she could tell them her maiden name was Donovan. She’d just keep it simple, find out if he was okay. Then she could go home. She walked along a bright clean corridor. A big arrow sign pointed her to turn left.

  As she pushed the door of the unit open a male nurse brushed past her. Then she was in a small reception area with new-looking black leather chairs. A man in a blue collarless shirt was peering at her from behind a counter straight ahead.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said. His tone had a note of anxiety. It was late, of course. Visiting times were probably long over.

  ‘I’m looking for George Donovan.’ She put her elbows on the high, shiny plastic-coated surface of the reception counter.

  ‘Do you have ID?’

  She showed him her driving license. He looked at the picture, then at her, as if he was wondering if she was using someone else’s. Thank God driving licenses don’t show your maiden name.

  ‘Thanks, we have to check everyone these days,’ he said, apologetically. ‘Go on through. He’s in a cubicle at the far end. One of the nurses will direct you.’

  She passed through a double door into a busy corridor. A man with a pale bare chest was on a trolley. A nurse was leaning over him. Other patients were staring at her from high beds. There was an irritating whirr from the ceiling. A pungent antiseptic smell filled the air. The unit was Friday-night busy.

  She kept walking. Eyes stared at her hungrily, as if she might have some special news for them. There was equipment everywhere, humming, blinking. The smell of antiseptic was stronger now. A notice told her to clean her hands. She stopped to squeeze some antiseptic gel on to them. As she did a plump black nurse came towards her.

  ‘Are you here for George Donovan?’

  She nodded. ‘Is he all right? I was with him when he got hit.’

  ‘He has internal bleeding, a fractured skull. Would you like to see him?’

  Isabel nodded.

  The nurse took her to a door on the right and opened it.

  ‘He’s sedated. It’s better if we don’t disturb him. You can’t stay long. A few minutes, that’s it.’

  George was lying under a white sheet, surrounded be a semicircle of medical equipment. A low hum filled the air. He had a couple of drips connected to him. His head was bandaged with white gauze. Isabel felt something rise up inside her. She’d been walking around with this guy only a few hours before. He’d been trying to help her. The welling almost burst to the surface. She pushed it down. Stop.

  ‘A colleague from his work was here earlier. A nice woman.’

  ‘Which colleague?’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t get her name.’ She sounded irritated that Isabel was asking her questions.

  ‘What was she like?’

  The nurse looked at her oddly, her head turned sideways. Isabel didn’t care what she thought.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help you. Lots of people go through this place every hour.’ Her expression hardened, as if she didn’t like where the conversation was going.

  It was time to change the subject. ‘Will George be okay?’

  ‘I can’t say. We’ll know more tomorrow.’ She was looking at Isabel’s crumpled clothes now.

  ‘I’m sorry. You will have to go.’ She stared into Isabel’s eyes. Was there a suspicious gleam there, or was she imagining it?


  ‘Okay.’

  Isabel headed back towards the reception area. She had to sit down. She flopped onto one of the leather chairs. She needed a few seconds of peace. And she needed to call Rose.

  Rose’s line buzzed at least ten times before she answered. Isabel was about to cut the call off, race to her house, start banging on the door to find out where Alek was, when Rose’s voice came on the line. She sounded odd.

  35

  Xena rubbed a little olive oil on the henna square on her forearm.

  ‘We have stayed here too long,’ she said.

  ‘Once the final sacrifice is over, and we have what we want, we will go,’ said Lord Bidoner.

  Xena stretched her arm towards him, showing him the tattoo.

  ‘The lines are straight?’ she asked.

  ‘Perfect’ he said.

  ‘My grandmother taught me. She was from Tigray. Her clan were the kings of Aksum. She taught me well.’

  The laptop screen on the coffee table in Lord Bidoner’s apartment flickered. He took his eyes off her and returned to looking at the screen. There were six boxes on it showing line graphs. Each of them was heading downwards.

  The initials ‘BXH’ were under each graph along with the name of the class of security and the stock market where the shares were listed.

  The names included the London Stock Exchange, the Hong Kong Stock Exchange, Euronext Paris, the Frankfurt Stock Exchange, and the New York and Vienna Stock Exchanges.

  ‘Everything is good?’ said Xena.

  He turned to her and stroked her bare arm.

  ‘Better than good. The BXH share price fell straight through the floor. They are calling it the greatest banking rout since Lehman’s.’

  He switched tabs on his browser. The Financial Times had a leading article about BXH’s shares being in free fall all around the world.

  ‘And no one knows what you have done,’ said Xena. She stroked his leg, rubbing her hand hard into his thigh.

  Lord Bidoner turned to her. The skin on his forehead was flaky and his grey hair was receding, but his blue eyes were fixed on her and a smile was emerging on his lips.