by Rose Edmunds
With a pang of guilt, I realised that I hadn’t thought about Zowie in days. And the cramping pains had gone, although to be fair the painkillers may have played a role. Maybe I’d cracked it, forgiven myself, moved on as Rudi had recommended.
‘Oh that goes back to when I was married, before I got cold feet about passing down my crazy gene to future generations.’
‘A wise decision,’ she said, but not in a nasty way.
But of course it would have been Zowie’s room, had he needed one. My eyes began to water, but I held it back. Confiding in Mel would give her power over me.
I showed her to the spare room, where she was to sleep, and she sat down on the bed, pensive but seemingly resigned to her fate.
‘I guess I asked for it, by being so arrogant. Pride comes before a fall, as they used to say in the children’s home. They made you scared to feel good about yourself, in case it all came crashing down. Perhaps they were right, after all.’
I reckoned there was much Mel hadn’t revealed about her childhood. For a start, she seemed to understand when I held back information from her, unlike other female acquaintances who pumped endlessly for details of my life. Transparency was fine for those who’d been fortunate enough to enjoy a straightforward run to adulthood—they had nothing to hide, no vulnerabilities to be exposed and exploited. But Mel and I were wary, and rightly so. Shame her trust had been so cruelly betrayed the one time she’d let down her guard a fraction.
As we quaffed red wine with ready meals from the freezer, Mel asked me about my plans for the future.
‘I mean,’ she said with her usual bluntness, ‘even when you sell this place, your money won’t last forever.’
Who needed Little Amy’s brutal honesty with a friend like Mel? Little Amy hadn’t shown herself since she’d told me to “brace up”, perhaps because Mel had usurped her role.
‘Particularly if you keep on buying Armani jackets.’
I thought I’d detected a touch of schadenfreude when she’d learnt the garment had been destroyed, but now I knew for sure.
‘Actually, I’m considering setting myself up officially as a private eye, investigating frauds and the like.’
‘You should—you’re so smart at it. I was proper impressed by how you found the castle.’
‘And you know what,’ I said, as we clinked glasses. ‘So was I.’
***
In the morning, we had a setback.
‘I don’t feel at all well,’ Mel announced. ‘I’ve had a terrible night and I think I’m going down with flu or something.’
‘It must be all the emotion—you’ll be OK once we get on the road.’
‘The state I’m in, I simply can’t face such a long car journey. You don’t need me anyway, as long as your arm’s OK.’
There seemed little point in forcing her to join me against her will.
‘The arm’s fine,’ I said. I’d dispensed with the sling now and at least it wasn’t the one for changing gears. ‘So if you’re sure.’
‘Now, I guess you need a photograph of Mo… er sorry, whatever his name is… to show to the owner.’
‘What about that selfie of the two of you outside Prague Castle?’
‘I have a better one,’ she said. ‘Remember, he wouldn’t have his Beresford disguise on when viewed the place. Hang on—I’ll WhatsApp it to you.’
I stared at the photograph with disbelief for several seconds. He had no glasses, his hair was wet, and he grinned broadly in a most unprofessorial manner.
‘See what I mean,’ she said, ‘when I told you I could make something of him.’
***
En route to Warwickshire I stopped off to post Beresford’s passport. He would almost certainly have cancelled it by now, but I guessed nonetheless he’d be reassured to have the document returned. On reflection, I decided against including a note.
The traffic out of London was light and in less than two hours I pulled up at the gates of Molly’s Lodge. My arm ached though, and I was pleased to arrive at my destination.
It wasn’t hard to pretend to be an interested buyer. With a stunning garden, lounge with inglenook fireplace, spiral staircase and a good-sized bedroom, this would be a perfect little pied-a-terre—and so cheap compared to London properties. Although it had only one bedroom, there was a little annexe for visitors so I wouldn’t need to become a hermit. The only feature I detested was the rustic kitchen, preferring mine in Chiswick, which Mel said resembled the galley on the Starship Enterprise. But a hi-tech kitchen would be incongruous in this rural idyll.
‘Have you had many viewings?’ I asked the owner, a prim woman in her seventies.
‘Dozens.’
‘I’m surprised it hasn’t been snapped up by now.’
The castle wasn’t overpriced for a unique piece of real estate, and nor did I detect any bad vibes.
‘Yes,’ she confessed. ‘It’s so frustrating. I adore it here, but the spiral staircase is too much for my old knees I’m afraid, and a stair lift is out of the question. But despite all the interest, I haven’t had a single offer.’
So, not even “Beresford” had put in a bid.
‘As a matter of fact, it was a friend of mine who put me on to this place.’
I showed her the photo Mel had provided and could scarcely believe my luck when she identified him straight away.
‘Oh yes—Thomas Hardacre—I remember him. Lovely chap, so charming and his wife was very nice too. He seemed keen to get a little pad in the country, but they decided this wasn’t suitable because they plan on starting a family soon.’
His wife. Starting a family.
I tried to keep my expression neutral, and possibly even succeeded, but behind the calm façade my mind was churning. Oh, poor, poor Mel. She’d been utterly taken in. The castle hadn’t been a clue, but a terrible blunder.
‘He said he’d always wanted to live in a castle,’ the owner twittered on. ‘I guess he’ll need to find a bigger one now.’
And, as the owner of a $100 million painting, he’d have no problems affording it.
31
On the journey home I silently congratulated myself on a bravura performance, although I’d been more or less authentic in my enthusiasm for the property. It was bad news for Mel, but every cloud has a silver lining. Maybe I could live happily there and start anew. Hey—who needs a prince to move into a castle?
By coincidence, about five minutes later, Rudi called me. I felt a little guilty at not having kept him up to speed, especially after he’d been so worried about me travelling to Zurich, but my silence didn’t seem to have offended him.
‘I’m relieved you’re safe, anyway,’ he said after I’d brought him up to date. ‘But there was another reason for calling. Remember you asked me to look at my grandfather’s journals?’
‘Yes, of course.’
In truth, I’d forgotten all about it in the excitement.
‘There’s an earlier entry mentioning J’s marriage to an Eva and another about sending a present to baby Jiří. I can copy the pages for you if you like, with the relevant parts highlighted.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That would be helpful.’
***
Mel had rallied by the time I arrived back in Chiswick—that is until my news about the wife cast her back into the depths of despair.
‘The bastard,’ she said. ‘The absolute bastard. Did you ask what the wife looked like?’
‘I did not. The guy was supposed to be my friend, so I’d know already.’
I omitted to mention the owner’s comment about her being “very nice” as this would merely rub salt in the wound.
‘So I guess he didn’t leave a clue in the end,’ said Mel with a sigh, helping herself to a gigantic gin and tonic. ‘But I’ll still move heaven and earth to hunt the arsehole down and make him pay for the way he treated me.’
‘And I want to recover the picture,’ I said. ‘Confiscated by the Bolsheviks, then sold, then confiscated by the N
azis, then stolen by George’s father, and then again by Živsa’s father. Whoever legally owns the painting, it’s sure as hell not this Hardacre bloke.’
‘So we’re both agreed about tracking him down.’
‘You bet, and at least we have a name for him now.’
Over the past few months, I’d become an expert at digging around on the Internet to verify people’s identity—a handy skill for any private eye. According to 192.com there were fifteen men in the UK with the name Thomas Hardacre—a manageable number, and more so if we narrowed it down even more.
‘How old would you say he is? Did he tell you?’
‘Fifty-two, but he might have lied.’
‘OK—but we can rule out the guys where it says Age Guide twenty to thirty, or even thirty to forty—which gets it down to eight. Doable, but there are still other angles we can try.’
‘Such as?’
‘Social media. Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter even.’
But after an extensive search, I’d drawn a blank.
‘False name then,’ said Mel.
‘Not necessarily. He might have good reason to keep himself off the social media grid.’
‘Like what…?
‘Like this isn’t the first criminal activity he’s been involved in…’
‘We don’t know for sure he’s a criminal…’
Despite everything, and having referred to him as an arsehole, Mel was still trying to make excuses for him.
‘Come off it, Mel—we do.’
‘So, we’d better start checking out those eight men.’
‘No—let’s try another way first. His mother’s name is Molly and if she’s still alive, it may be easier to get to him through her.’
Sure enough, there was one Molly Hardacre in the whole of the UK, living in Stoke-on-Trent. Better still, her telephone number was helpfully listed in the directory.
‘Thank heavens for old bods not being savvy about privacy,’ said Mel.
‘Oh they’re not the only ones,’ I said, remembering younger colleagues who’d made public slip-ups on social media. ‘Anyway, why should she be savvy about privacy if she has nothing to hide?’
Now all we needed was the perfect cover story to contact the mother and ask for her son’s address.
‘Organising a school reunion?’ Mel proposed.
‘Too risky—suppose he’s still best buddies with everyone and the old biddy starts asking for names?’
Men of Hardacre’s type were seldom tethered to the past, but best to play safe.
‘No—I’ve got it. He’s won a prize on an old Premium Bond, and hers is the last address they had for him. People will always give you information if there’s money to be had—that’s why these Nigerian phishing scams work.’
‘But wouldn’t they write, rather than telephone?’
‘Yes, but she doesn’t know that. If you get her flustered enough and tell her the prize is about to be forfeited, I’m sure she’ll cough with the goods.’
What a great team we made—I was an ace at logic and data crunching, but when her brain wasn’t paralysed by passion Mel still took the prize for emotional intelligence and predicting people’s reactions.
‘We can’t call her now at this time in the evening,’ I said, consulting my watch.
‘Suits me. Let’s have another drink and ring her in the morning.’
***
Technically George was no longer my client, but he seemed interested in our efforts to unmask the fake Beresford, so I called to report progress.
‘You liked Molly’s Lodge then?’
‘Yes—I’m even considering putting in an offer.’
‘Be careful,’ he cautioned. ‘There’s got to be a reason why no one’s bought it, even if you can’t imagine what it is.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not one to let my heart rule my head.’
And I saw Mel roll her eyes, although Lord knows she was in no position to take the high ground.
‘We’re back in the UK now too,’ George said.
‘Who’s we?’ I asked, wondering if some shady lady had suckered him in the few days we’d been apart.
‘Stan, of course,’ he said.
‘Oh yes, how silly of me. But I thought you planned to stay in Prague for a while.’
‘I did until I discovered that HMRC want a meeting with Stan, and we flew back yesterday to bring matters to a head. Problem is, he thinks he can hold out on them, and just pay the tax on the assets they’re already aware of, though there’s more. I’ve told him it won’t wash, but he refuses to listen.’
‘Would you like me to pop over and talk to him?’
‘That would be great. In fact, you could help him negotiate with them, given your professional expertise.’
I was done with tax, but I could certainly put the fear of God into Stan about the need for full disclosure.
‘No thanks—I’m out of the profession, but I’ll have a chat with him and then recommend someone. Incidentally—how was the DNA test?’
‘Positive—we’re half-brothers.’
I filled him in on the additional evidence from Maxmilián’s journal, not that it mattered so much now.
‘Disappointing,’ said George, ‘that my father turned out to be such an inadequate human being.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather know the truth than not?’
George hesitated.
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied eventually.
32
Poor innocent Molly lapped up the fiction we’d spun her like a cat with a bowl of cream. I let Mel do the talking and admired the way she adroitly moved the conversation along, so the old woman was sucked into an irrefutable chain of logic.
‘Ealing,’ said Mel, triumphant at having obtained the address. ‘Not too far from here so we could go now and…’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I get how dead keen you are to confront him, but let’s use our brains first. Remember—he’s not a harmless academic trying to secure a toehold onto immortality. We have no idea who the heck he is or why he stole the picture, and he might be dangerous.’
She opened her mouth to object, but I cut her off before she’d uttered a word.
‘And don’t you dare tell you’re better than me at reading people, because this whole episode has shown matters in a different light. Fact is, someone ran me off the road, shot at me, and murdered Viktor Živsa in cold blood.’
‘Ha,’ she said in a dismissive tone. ‘That was nothing to do with Mo.’
‘He’s not Mo. He’s Thomas and we don’t know the first thing about him.’
‘But he was piggybacking off your investigation, so why try to kill you?’
‘If he was piggybacking. We can’t take anything for granted now.’
After much discussion, we decided on a full-frontal approach, hoping the element of surprise would work in our favour. We agreed it would be best if one of us remained outside to get help if things turned ugly. And though desperate to confront him, Mel ultimately conceded that I’d be better placed to approach the meeting dispassionately.
All we now needed was a mechanism for me to alert Mel if the situation became unsafe. The phone would be useless, as I couldn’t very well ask him to hold off attacking me while I made a quick call.
‘How about a rape alarm?’ Mel suggested. ‘I had one once and they make a hell of a noise.’
‘Great idea—let’s buy one. I’ll keep it to hand in my jacket pocket and if there’s any aggro I’ll pull the pin.’
‘But you won’t need to. Because I’m utterly convinced Mo’s incapable of violence.’
No matter how many times I told her, she still didn’t seem to get it. Fact was, the man she’d fallen in love with didn’t exist.
***
Google Maps street view revealed that Hardacre lived in a characterless modern town house—in no way a fitting residence for someone who aspired to own a castle. It looked like a safe house for spies, chosen precisely for its anodyne appearance.
&
nbsp; We deliberately left our visit until the evening, as he’d be less likely to spot Mel sitting in the car under cover of darkness. I manoeuvred the Mercedes into a tight parking spot a couple of doors down the road, easily within earshot of the alarm. Then, under Mel’s watchful eye, I rang the doorbell.
I barely recognised the man who answered. Gone were the metal-rimmed spectacles, the tweed jacket, the corduroy trousers, the Oxford brogues and the laughable hair comb-over. Instead he wore jeans, a polo shirt, and smart loafers, with a trendy buzz cut completing the image. I hated to say it, but he looked pretty fit—a guy you might chat up in a bar even. He drew back in surprise when he saw who’d come to call.
‘Amy,’ he said. ‘You’re a smart cookie but I didn’t expect this…’
Now it was my turn to be supercilious.
‘You should never underestimate people, as I’m sure the real Maurice Beresford would be at pains to point out.’
‘Tom Hardacre,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘But you know that already.’
Even the handshake was different now, firm and confident with no trace of clamminess.
‘I must congratulate you on your resourcefulness.’
His voice had changed too—the careful, educated articulation replaced by standard Estuary English. And crucially, Beresford’s arrogance had vanished—this too, it seemed, had been part of the act.
‘I suppose you’re after an explanation,’ he said.
‘I have it already—you’re a lying, thieving piece of shit.’
‘Oh, that’s a tad harsh when you haven’t heard my half of the story. Everything I did was for the best of reasons, but let’s not discuss it on the doorstop. Why not come in for a drink?’
His affability was disarming, but in no way guaranteed my safety—I’d read somewhere that the most successful serial killers are charming. Still, equipped with my alarm and a back-up plan, I agreed.
Once inside, I examined the furnishings—bland, inexpensive and typical of rented accommodation. The few pictures on the wall were cheap prints—unworthy of a man allegedly interested in art. I saw no sign of the wife and indeed I’d have said the place lacked a feminine touch.