The Manhattan Puzzle (10 page)

‘No. She says she won’t guess,’ said Finch. She leaned down. He could smell her shower gel or perhaps it was her skin cream. It was a sweet honey smell.

‘So you think it’s more than a coincidence that someone is cutting the skin off a murder victim, when that report on the Istanbul manuscript talks about the uses of human skin?’

Henry turned to face her. She hadn’t previously taken much interest in the Istanbul manuscript, but it was clear now that she’d at least read the latest report on it.

‘There used to be all sorts of weird sects who thought using human skin to write on would give more power to whatever they wrote,’ he said. He stretched his arms out.

‘In ancient times whole books were made from human skin.’

‘Yeuuch,’ said Major Finch.

‘One of the groups who did this stuff recently was a Christian cult from the US. The authorities there were worried they were heading for a mass suicide. They thought the end times were near.’

‘I hope we’re not dealing with anything like that here.’

‘People have used bodies for religious purposes for a long time,’ he said.

He put his hands behind his head. ‘I did a bit of research on this after I read the report. Some cult in Germany in the Victorian era used the skin of murdered virgins, hung up and preserved like calfskin parchment, in some sick protective prayer.’

‘Lovely.’

‘It was also done in the Nazi era.’

‘But you still haven’t found out why Sean Ryan is missing,’ said Finch.

‘No,’ said Henry.

Finch sighed. ‘If he murdered that girl we’ll have to go back over what happened in Istanbul and Jerusalem, you do know that, don’t you?’

Henry nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to change his mind about someone by 180°.

It was one of the hazards of his profession. He shook his head.

‘Are you all right, Henry?’ said Major Finch.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. I just can’t get out of my mind the four ways you’re supposed to murder people in one of those horrible prayers.’

‘I saw it. It is sick, all right. How the hell could any of that be related to Christianity?’

‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. I reckon that’s where it all comes from.’

‘It’s worse than that.’

It took Isabel thirty-five minutes to reach the White Rose. She was lucky too. The Fulham Road was busy heading back into town, and the taxi driver dropped her at Westbourne Park station. As she crossed Elgin Avenue, anxiety gripped her as a chill wind played at the back of her neck. Memories of her life before Sean, before she’d joined the Foreign Office, jostled for attention.

With them came a tingle of fear.

She didn’t want to remember that time. She didn’t want to remember feeling so alone. She wanted to be with Sean heading for the Eurostar train to Paris. She looked at her watch.

The train would be pulling away slowly right now, full of lovers and excited Christmas shoppers all warm and cosy, heading for the pleasures of Paris in December.

She wrapped her arms tight around herself. She wasn’t going to think about that. She turned to the wind. The cold was almost a drug, numbing her. A blast of freezing wind made her lower her chin as she walked on, fast.

From the outside she could see the White Rose was buzzing. Its high windows shone bright yellow through elaborate stained glass. There was a subliminal pulsing coming from the place, as if it were alive. She pushed the door open. Her phone rang. She pulled it from the pocket of her jacket, stepping back outside to answer it.

‘I can’t wait, Isabel. I’m sure you don’t need me to find your husband.’

‘I’m here, George,’ she shouted.

The line went dead.

She opened the pub door. She couldn’t see him through the mass of shoulder-to-shoulder bodies that filled the pub.

Bastard.

He’d brought her all this way.

She saw the door on the far side. She went back out, then around the building. He was sauntering up the street on his own, head down against the wind. He must have left the bar only a minute before.

She ran after him as fast as she could. Her cheeks were burning from the cold, her soles pounding on the hard concrete.

There was a hundred yards between them. Faster. Run faster. Her chest heaved. Air ripped from her throat. She couldn’t let him disappear into one of the five-storey red-brick mansions that lined the street. And as she pounded up behind him he turned. He was drunk. His red tie pulled to one side. His hair was awry. His cheeks flushed. The collar of his black suit was turned up against the freezing wind that swept angrily down the street. She pulled her suede jacket around her neck with one hand as she stopped in front of him. She had to bend forward to ease her breathing.

‘Hello, Mrs Ryan. I thought you’d got lost.’ There was an exasperating, condescending tone to his voice. Then he grinned at her, as if she was a date he’d been trying to avoid.

His teeth were irregular. Two of them were at odd angles to the others. And there was a gap between them on one side.

George was the type of man she could never like. He reminded her of the idiots she’d met who only wanted to use women.

His accent grated too. It was Scottish, but mixed with a North London burr that seemed put on. Sean had told her George had served in Iraq, on two tours, as well as in Afghanistan. He also said George never spoke about any of it. Not one word.

‘You could have waited for me.’ She was still puffing. Her breath was filling the air between them with funnels of steam.

‘Mrs Ryan, I told you everything I could. It’s very simple.’ He rolled the
very
out for a long time.

‘When did you last see him, George?’

‘I answered that question already.’ He swayed. An Indian couple passing stared at him. They walked around him as if he were infected with a contagious strain of flu.

‘Why won’t you help me, George? I thought you and Sean got on.’ She wanted to shout at him, kick him, do something to break through his stubborn resistance. He could help her if he wanted to. She just knew it.

‘Listen up, Mrs Ryan. Sean and I worked together, that’s it, alright. An’ if he got himself into trouble, it was ’is doing. I told you, I warned ’im.’

‘What trouble is he in?’

He shook his head slowly from side to side, as if he was dealing with a child.

‘I can’t tell you a thing about BXH. You know that. You best look for your answers somewhere else.’ He turned and walked up the street.

She watched his back. His jacket was creased in a criss-cross pattern, as if he’d slept in it. He was swaying too, as if he was on the prow of a yacht in a storm. Would she get anything useful out of him in this state?

When he’d gone no more than fifty feet he put his hand out and reached for the roof of a red BMW, one of those recent models with a low profile. He started fumbling in his pocket. Was he going to drive?

She walked up behind him. ‘George, you can’t drive, no way.’

‘What’s it to you?’ He’d found his keys, was fumbling with them as he tried to locate the button to open the car doors.

She reached for them. She didn’t know why. God knows, considering what happened later, she should have left him to his downfall.

‘Let me do it.’

He looked at her, cross-eyed, and gave them up. She pressed the right button.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m not stupid, Mrs Ryan. I live one minute from here. I could drive there with my eyes closed.’

‘That’s something I don’t want to see.’ She sighed. ‘Let me drive. If it’s that near, it won’t take long.’

‘No, you go wait for your husband. Leave me alone. And good luck to you.’

She felt for her phone. It was still in the front pocket of her jeans.

‘George, you are in no state to drive. Just tell me if you’ve any idea where Sean is on the way. Don’t argue.’ She pushed him towards the other side of his car. If this was what it took to find out something useful from him, so be it.

She walked after him, pushed him. ‘Let’s go, you idiot.’

He swayed, went around the car, stumbled, and got in the passenger side.

She was inside already.

‘Is this a BXH car?’

He nodded.

‘You are a total idiot, George. You know that, don’t you? Now which way?’

He grunted and pointed. She pulled out, and headed down the road. The car had good heating, thank God. Her hands gripped the wheel.

Why was he so drunk?

‘Is it something to do with BXH, George, Sean disappearing?’

He grunted louder.

‘Come on, George.’ She tried to sound lighthearted. ‘You must have some idea. Just point me in a direction. I’m not asking you to spill any of BXH’s dirty little secrets.’

‘Let it go, Mrs Ryan. Run on home.’ His tone was even more forceful now, as if being alone together in the car gave him the right to raise his voice.

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

‘My, my, you are upset. What are you so worried about anyhow? That you’ve lost your wee meal ticket?’

‘Are you always this obnoxious, or is it just when you’re drunk?’

‘Naw. I’m usually worse.’

They passed two turns. At the next traffic lights he told her to turn right. This was a bit more than a few blocks away. They passed a row of shops, a restaurant. That was when she saw the police checkpoint. It was too late to turn around. Just what she needed. She tried to smile.

They were next.

George was silent.

The policeman put his hand up to stop them.

Lord Bidoner stepped out of the cab outside the UBSC building on Park Avenue. It was midday. The wind cutting through Manhattan was icy, but the snow had stopped. Xena, dressed in a dark pinstriped suit, similar to his own, got out behind him.

The black steel and shiny glass skyscraper, reaching so high you had to swing your head back uncomfortably to see its upper floors, glistened with lights. The foyer had a ten-foot-tall UBSC logo in gold behind a long cream reception desk. There were sleek-looking men everywhere. The reception was manned by two of them.

Lord Bidoner walked inside the building and took out his phone. He dialled a number.

‘Jurgen, we are here. Thank you for the invitations.’

He slipped his phone back into his pocket. A minute later a young man with a pale and earnest look approached them. He was carrying a gold envelope.

‘Lord Bidoner?’ he said. His accent was middle European.

‘Yes.’

The young man bowed and handed him the envelope. He clicked his heels as Bidoner took it and passed it to Xena.

‘The venue is next door, my Lord.’

Lord Bidoner didn’t bother replying. They walked outside into the freezing air. A few minutes later they were in a long conference room with white linen-covered tables and a small podium at the far end. It was on the fourth floor of the next door building, an art deco masterpiece of Manhattan.

A heavy glass chandelier dominated the room. Each table had a carafe of water and a trio of dark suited financiers. Most of them were men. They were listening intently, their devotion to their craft visible in their faces.

Lord Bidoner looked around. There were twenty-five of them listening to one of UBSC’s vice president’s speaking excitedly about currency trading opportunities. He turned to Xena.

‘We must leave here in an hour, when this talk ends.’

Xena stood, then slipped out of the room. She went to the elevator and pressed the button for the twelfth floor.

As she strode down the blue carpeted corridor she touched her wig of straight black hair and held her hand to her forehead as she passed the security camera.

Then she pulled the room pass from her jacket pocket. The pastor had been careless keeping his room card and pass together, but he probably didn’t expect to die that day.

But instead of using the pass when she reached the room, she simply knocked on the door. She had placed a white napkin on her arm and was holding it to her side. You would have been forgiven for thinking she was a waitress.

‘Who is it?’ came a feeble reply.

‘Room service.’ Xena’s tone was bright. If there was someone in the room with the pastor’s wife she could apologise and return some other time.

But when Martha opened the door Xena knew immediately that she was most likely alone. The pastor’s wife had on a black dressing gown and there was the remains of a meal on a tray on the coffee table in front of the wall-mounted TV.

It was only a few hours since the pastor had met his fate, so his wife would be a little concerned, but not panicking. Not yet.

‘I didn’t call for room service,’ said Martha.

‘We like to collect things quickly,’ said Xena. She moved past Martha and crossed to the coffee table. She couldn’t see into the bathroom, as the door was closed.

‘I will just check your bathroom,’ she said, softly.

The pastor’s wife looked taken aback. It wasn’t normal for room service to check the bathroom in a guest’s room.

There was no one in the bathroom.

Xena removed the knife from the thin sheath that sat on the inside of her thigh. She also put on the black medical gloves she’d extracted from her pants pocket. She held the knife behind her back as she came out of the bathroom.

The pastor’s wife was sitting on the bed near the phone. There was a quizzical, but relaxed look on her face.

That changed and her hand went out with a surprising swiftness when Xena spoke.

‘Do not scream and I may let you live. If you scream I will kill you.’

A startled half cry came out of Martha’s mouth. It wouldn’t have been loud enough for anyone to take notice of. In any case, she would have had to scream at the top of her voice for an extended period for anyone to take fright for her in the rooms around them.

‘Turn over. Lie down,’ said Xena.

The pastor’s wife’s face had gone bone white. She had thin lips and flaky skin.

But she did as she was told. She probably assumed she was being robbed and that her wallet and valuables would be gone with Xena in the next few minutes.

She certainly didn’t expect the weight of Xena on her back.