22
The trail went cold.
Weeks passed. She never came back. Not that there ever was a trail. Erica disappeared as readily as she’d entered his life. He had nothing to go on. A first name. He didn’t even have a surname. And there was a chance even Erica might be false. He refused to believe it, of course. He hung onto the notion that he had a sister like a dying man hangs onto his last breath. The forensics team descended, scraped off slivers of black paint from his wall, took fibres from the carpet, dusted for prints, and looked a little displeased he’d attempted to paint over the symbol. They made a mess of the wall by the time they’d chipped away at it. They shook their heads when he told them he’d cleaned the carpet of muddy footprints ages ago.
Clive Foster contacted him the day after he’d been hauled in by the police. ‘I say, you’re not in trouble are you?’ he asked. ‘Only I had the law around here asking about your prints, who bought them, that kind of thing.’
‘So who bought them?’ said Gareth, intrigued.
‘I checked the edition numbers and it turns out those were the ones sold on the night of the exhibition to the woman claiming to be your sister. You remember, the rather attractive one I told you about? Didn’t take an address or anything for the receipt.’
‘Did you tell the police that she claimed to be my sister?’
‘I told them she seemed to act a little strange and left it at that. Not a fan of the police, old man; bad for business having them sniff around. This isn’t going to get to be a habit is it? Only I have my business to think about. You know how it is. Some of my wealthier clients, let’s say they’re particularly edgy when the law gets involved.’
‘Clive, I haven’t had so much as a speeding ticket before now. I hardly think you and your wallet need worry over this.’
‘A relief, old man. Strange, though, I had this Canadian guy in the gallery asking about the same set of prints a while before the police. He was interested in knowing all about you.’
Gareth frowned. ‘Canadian, you say?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Middle-aged, grey hair, nice teeth?’
‘You know him?
‘I’m getting to know him better than I’d like,’ he replied. ‘What happened?’
‘Never thought anything about it. People are generally interested in the artists or photographers. Gave him your card with your number to call. He pushed for an address but as you know I don’t give out those kinds of details. Told him Pembrokeshire, that’s all. He didn’t buy anything though.’
And that was it. Beyond that last phone call his search for Erica came to a crashing dead end. Weeks passed and he got his life back on track after what he assumed was to be an extremely unsettling but short-lived period. It began to feel like it had all never happened. Then DI Styles turned up out of the blue at his door.
Gareth let him in. He asked to see where the symbol was.
‘I’m afraid I’ve painted over it some more and you can’t see it. Do you have any more information on all this? Why it appeared here?’
Styles touched the wall where the symbol was, and gave a vague answer that neither confirmed nor denied. ‘Have you heard anything more from the young woman?’ he asked.
‘Not a thing.’
‘Remember, you must contact me if you hear anything about her,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s evidence that the murdered woman wasn’t living alone. There might have been someone else living there in the flat with her.’
‘You think it’s the same woman I knocked over?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said.
‘What did you find out about the jewellery?’
Styles had unexpectedly wandered off, walking around the small room, his body appearing relaxed with his hands behind his back, but his eyes were like that of a raptor seeking prey. ‘Generally quite old, mostly Victorian, a few Georgian pieces, all good quality according to our experts, so someone with an eye for good stuff. We’ve estimated it as being around?90,000 in value. The provenance has yet to be determined, but it’s most likely stolen and the young woman probably had a hand in its disappearance. A fence, maybe.’
Gareth felt the sting of disappointment that Erica might prove to be nothing more than a common thief. ‘But there’s no proof of that, is there, that she stole it? I mean, she could have come about it quite legitimately.’
Styles looked at him like he was dealing with a child that could not, or would not, understand. ‘Innocent until proven guilty and all that,’ he said. ‘But my advice is to not take her at face value, or believe a word she told you; she’s probably conducting some kind of scam. At the very least she’s involved in something extremely suspicious, maybe even dangerous. So, as I said, your first port of call is me if you see anything of her or hear from her again,’ he reiterated, this time with more of an edge to it. ‘Do you remember a certain sapphire and diamond brooch amongst the jewellery?’
Gareth nodded. ‘Vaguely,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know if the stones were real or not.’
‘Oh yes, very real indeed. Turns out it’s by Cartier, hallmark for 1938, a commission piece. This brooch alone has a value of?60,000. Also turns out that this particular brooch was reported stolen over seventy years ago.’
‘You’re telling me it’s been lost seventy years and only just turned up?’
‘Reported missing in January 1940. It was one item from a significant number of others stolen at the time from a family mansion. At today’s value the hoard amounts to over one million pounds, maybe far more, given that amongst it there were two rare paintings by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Back then they weren’t worth much, but today they fetch huge sums. The son of the man who owned the stolen property never gave up searching for it. He’s had photographs and information on it circulating ever since; there’s even a webpage devoted to the missing stuff. It’s paid off because the brooch has now found its rightful owner. Bit of a time lag, admitted, but he’s pleased as punch; at least one family heirloom returned and all that.’
‘How come she had it?’ he asked, feeling deflated.
‘All manner of things could have happened to the brooch and the other pieces since 1940, passed through all kinds of dirty hands, a section of it finally ending up in her little collection. She’s been nicknamed the Magpie down at the station.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘We’d very much like to have her in for questioning,’ he said, all humour instantly gone. ‘The brooch is still being held as possible evidence in a murder investigation, so we can’t release it yet. But, more to the point, the gentleman to whom the brooch now belongs has offered a not insubstantial reward for its return and any evidence of the other missing pieces. You, sir, are to be the recipient of that reward. Aren’t you a lucky man?’
‘I couldn’t take it,’ he said.
‘That’s up to you, sir. All the same, I’ve been told to give you this.’ He handed Gareth a piece of paper. ‘He’s desperate to meet the man who found his father’s property. Sentimental value, you see. Wouldn’t hurt to meet him; he’s an old guy and you know how they can be. You might also be interested to know who the man is.’
‘I might?’
‘He’s not exactly your ordinary man on the street, this one. He’s Sir David Lambert-Chide.’
‘The pharmaceutical guy?’ said Gareth.
‘The one and the same,’ said Styles. ‘His father founded the company. As a billionaire he’s not short of a bob or two, so if it were me I wouldn’t be too hasty in refusing his generosity. Could be worth your while,’ he said, glancing around his Spartan living room. ‘And it’s not as if you don’t deserve it, being recognised for doing your civic duty.’ His voice barely hid the sarcasm. ‘Like I say, sir, up to you what you decide to do. Naturally, we didn’t give your name out to him.’
The meeting concluded and Gareth walked the officer to the door. ‘You really think she’s a thief?’ he asked.
‘I think she’s not what she seems,’ he returned.
