Читать книгу Creatures of the Chase - Mikail - L. M. Ollie - Страница 5

Boston, Massachusetts

September 15^th, 1983

Agent Stan Munroe stood at his office window and watched the wall of water as it advanced. If he was out at sea it would be called a squall; a brief turbulent storm full of fury. A storm that arrives without warning then passes on, leaving in its wake bewildered pedestrians soaked to the skin, puddles and debris. ‘Autumn will come early this year,’ he thought.

But not for Victor Yakinchuk; he’s been dead now just over two years, isn’t that right Stan so it’s his second, no third missed autumn; his favourite time of year.

Robbed and stabbed to death in an alleyway in Casablanca.

‘What the hell were you doing there, Vic?’

His whole body seemed to slump at that moment as he grieved once more for the lost of a college buddy and good friend. He tried not to think about the funeral but the memories pushed through nevertheless and with them, tears.

Victor’s brother Tony should not have been chosen to go to Morocco to identify the body and bring it home. Tony was an accountant for crying out loud. The sight and smell of his beloved brother’s body would leave him traumatized for the rest of his life.

Everyone blamed the authorities in Casablanca for the condition of the corpse but really it wasn’t anyone’s fault except the bastard or bastards who murdered him just after nine at night, leaving his body in a darken alleyway for the heat to get to it, and the feral cats. By the time the police arrived at noon the next day, decomp was well advanced thanks to temperatures in the upper 80’s. The cats backed away when the humans arrived but not so far that they were prepared to abandon their feast. Large portions of Vic’s ears, nose, finger tips and lips were missing.

It was a closed casket of course; a decision Vic’s wife Carol refused to understand. ‘I want to say goodbye to him. I want to kiss him one last time. Please, please …’ And Vic’s five year old son Josh, asking over and over again, ‘Where is my daddy?’ Calling for him as the casket was lowered into the ground. ‘Daddy daddy come quick, you’re missing it.’

By this time Carol was hysterical and there wasn’t a dry eye to be found anywhere.

It was the worst day of Stan Munroe’s life.

Victor’s elder son, twelve-year-old Kenny did not attend the funeral. He didn’t attend because as far as he was concerned the father he adored wasn’t dead; he couldn’t be dead. It was all just a great big stupid mistake and one day soon, he would come home all shame-faced just like Kenny did once after getting lost at the fair when he was eight. He remembered how upset both his parents were when he finally made it home just after dark. He remembered too the police car in the driveway, lights flashing just like a spaceship and policemen, sort of like his Dad only in uniform talking, taking notes and trying to calm his mother.

At first Kenny didn’t realize that all the activity had something to do with him so when he offered a casual, ‘Hi guys,’ he was in for a major surprise and a lengthy gauntlet that began with tears and ended with him being grounded, forever.

‘And you just wait Dad because when you get home you’re going to be in big trouble too for going away like that and not even saying goodbye. You made Josh cry and Mum too - lots.’

Munroe turned away from the window just as the telephone rang.

Put it away and get back to work Agent Munroe of the FBI.

He picked up the phone and was greeted with the ever-cheerful voice of Ted Southerly.

‘Hey Stan, got a whopper for you this time. A major like is there something wrong with this picture? I’ve got a passport renewal request from a girl twenty-three years old, married four times with four children and still two years left on her current passport. And, here’s the kicker, the prelim says she’s been dead for three years: killed in a car crash along with another student.’

‘Is her name Sarah Winthrope Churchill?’

‘Jesus, how the hell did you know? Has someone already contacted you or … I’ll tell you what her name is Stan: Sarah Winthrope Churchill Develin Capritzo Sarquazi Rose. And I’ll tell you something else for nothing, she’s one beautiful girl with pale skin, red hair and emerald green eyes; not one bit like what a black widow ought to look like.’

‘What’s the name of her third husband?’

‘Yusuf Nessim Sarquazi. Does it ring a bell, Stan?’

‘Hang on Ted.’ Munroe dropped the phone and rushed into the room next door. He returned to his desk moments later burdened down by several photo albums. Rapidly he checked the index, found the name and reached for album number five, flicking frantically to page seventeen. He stared, open-mouthed. It was a picture of two men standing side by side, dressed all in white with tall pointed hoods reminiscent of the Ku Klux Klan but these two were definitely not from Alabama.

They were staring down dispassionately at a ram nearly lost beneath half a dozen men who were trying desperately to not only position the animal correctly but hold it still. Hold it still long enough to have its throat cut from ear to ear. Below the picture someone had written

King Hassan II of Morocco – Yusuf Nessim Sarquazi Mauphet Benghazi

Eid al-Adha 1975 - Fès

The Feast of Sacrifice

The photograph was grainy which suggested it had been taken at a distance then enlarged. The angle wasn’t right either which further suggested that it was a clandestine shot probably from someone who hoped to make a buck or two, or three.

‘Hey Stan, are you still there? Hello.’

Munroe grabbed up the phone with trembling hands. ‘Ted, when are you planning to come up to Boston?’

‘I’m flying up late this afternoon so I can spend some time with my parents. Dad’s not doing too well lately.’

‘Sorry to hear that. Look, bring the Churchill papers and the photo with you. See you when?’

‘First thing so you can buy me brunch in the canteen.’

‘Meet me at the Boston PD Central – fifth floor. I’ll be with Victor Yakinchuk’s partner Neil Perry. He’ll be buying brunch ‘cause between us we’ve answered the one question everyone has been asking.’

‘And what question is that Stan?’

‘Why Victor was in Morocco.’ Munroe stared at the image of Yusuf Sarquazi and recognized something. ‘Ted, got to go. See you tomorrow.’

He hung up without waiting for a reply, reached for the index again, found the correct album then turned to page seven. Merhot Capritzo stared back at him. Swallowing hard, he eased the page alongside the photo of Sarquazi. If he didn’t know better he would have thought that they were one and the same man. Tall, slender, fine featured with pale skin, it was all reproduced exactly but it was the widow’s peak which they shared both physically and genetically that sent a shiver through Munroe.

‘Twin brothers and Sarah Churchill married both of them. God in heaven!’

‘What did Ted say about a black widow?’ He scrambled for the piece of paper where he had written her name. He swallowed hard. ‘Right, Richard Develin, Merhot Capritzo, Yusuf Sarquazi and … Rose. She married again? Does that mean that …’

He swiveled in his chair, faced the computer and began typing. Births, deaths, marriages – that’s what he did; confirm the truth, or the lie. Moments later he had the answer he was looking for. Sarah Churchill Develin Capritzo married Yusuf Nessim Sarquazi Mauphet Benghazi on the 28^th of August, 1981. The marriage took place in Morocco but he died almost exactly one year later in a riding accident in Southern Ireland; Tipperary County to be precise. Cavendish Hall, Tipperary County – the Develin ancestral home.

Four months and fifteen days later she married an Alan Rose and guess where that marriage was performed? You got it Stan: Cavendish Hall. If this woman was a black widow like Ted suggested then this Rose guy, whoever he is, must be the ultimate gold digger because she would be one stupendously rich lady.

Beautiful, wealthy, powerful - Vic, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.

Victor’s body was found on the 31^st of August just days after the Sarquazi marriage. Is there a connection? It was known that Vic bought a return ticket to Dublin via London, Heathrow. The return portion was left open as if Vic didn’t know when he would return home. Did he meet her in Ireland or was she already in Morocco preparing to marry her dead husband’s brother? Did he follow her there? Is that what happened, Vic?

What did Munroe know about Morocco? Truth was, very little but he did know that there was a travel advisory. Muggings, particularly in Casablanca and Marrakech were fairly common thanks to the huge disparity in wealth in the country but, mugging is one thing; murder, quite another. And Yusuf Sarquazi standing beside the King of Morocco; what does that say?

Stan Munroe called his computer system “Snoopy Drawers” because in a very real sense it sent back answers to questions that some people would rather not be involved in, especially when it came to the really personal and private stuff. Most of the time Munroe worked with every-day people with every-day lives but, upon occasion the system would balk, refusing to allow him to search further. Proof of that was Richard Mayfair Develin; Sarah Churchill’s first husband. He was pure MI6, the intelligence and espionage agency of the British Government and a major no-go zone. Curious, Munroe keyed in Sarquazi’s full name and was instantly warned off in a similar manner.

Old Snoopy Drawers doesn’t want you going there either, Stan.

‘So, who did you work for Sarquazi?’ Munroe whispered. He tried another name: Omar Mauphet Benghazi, the patriarch of the Benghazi tribe but again his enquiry was deflected. It didn’t matter, Munroe already knew quite a bit about him including the fact that he died in 1960. Chances are that Sarquazi was somehow related because you don’t tack Mauphet Benghazi onto your name unless you’ve got every right to do so.

Children – did Sarquazi have any, especially from her? There would have been time for at least one before he died. Ted said she had four children so …

Here you go Stan: Marcus Yusuf Sarquazi Mauphet Benghazi born June 27^th, 1982 and a little girl, Elizabeth Cathleen Sarquazi born May 25^th, 1983 – nine months after the death of her father. Munroe stared at the photo of Sarquazi. ‘Sorry, but if it’s any consolation to you, Richard Develin didn’t live long enough to see his second child born either. But of course Develin’s death was from natural causes – heart attack to be precise – so it’s not quite the same thing is it?’

Still, it’s fucking sad.

Munroe went back to the index, looked up Richard Mayfair Develin then set all three albums together side by side. Victor thought there might be a connection – other than Sarah Churchill – between Develin and Capritzo. Adding Sarquazi to the pile, Munroe couldn’t help but agree; there was a strong physical resemblance. At a guess, shared paternity?

He remembered too how Victor stared and stared at the Develin photos and how he smiled almost shyly when he admitted to meeting Develin and how he scared the shit out of him.

Munroe leaned back in his chair. Both Capritzo and Sarquazi died accidental deaths. Sarquazi in a riding accident but what exactly does that mean? Capritzo’s death, it was described as “misadventure” and at the time that was good enough but …

Quickly he punched the numbers and was relieved when the call connected and was answered in seconds. ‘Records, Karen speaking.’

‘Hi Karen, Stan Munroe here, how are you?’

‘Great Stan and how are you and yours?’

‘I’m fine, Sharon’s fine and so are the kids, thanks.’ Stan Munroe had been married to Sharon for ten years. They had two sons. He was nearly thirty-seven years old and, except for Victor’s death had lived a relatively happy and uneventful life.

‘Karen, would you look up two coroner inquests for me please; both in Ireland.’

‘Sure, just give me the relevant information.’

‘I want details surrounding the deaths of Yusuf Nessim Sarquazi, August ’82 and Merhot Capritzo, February ‘81; Tipperary County, Southern Ireland.’

‘Do you want a hard copy or can I tell you the relevant information over the phone?’

‘Give me a one-liner now then send through the hard copies.’ In the background he could hear her typing furiously.

‘Okay, here are the basics. Sarquazi died in a riding accident. His horse reared up and straight over, breaking his back and crushing him, so we’re talking a ruptured spleen at the very least. Apparently he died in his wife’s arms within minutes.

‘Capritzo, that’s not so easy. Apparently he went into a small, lead-lined vault to look at some papers belonging to his father. Somehow he made contact with the vault’s internal mechanism which was faulty – unbeknownst to everyone – shorting the system and causing the door to close. He was trapped inside long enough to asphyxiate. Apparently the door is operated by a small electric motor. And get this, it’s counterweighted which means it opens slowly but closes fast.’ She paused, ‘Stan, are you still there?’

‘Yeah, I’m here. You said papers belonging to his father. Who was Capritzo’s father?’

Karen chuckled, ‘Hey, you’re the births, deaths, marriages guy; don’t you know?’

‘And hey, I deal with legit stuff not … well, you know.’

‘God Stan you are still so proper. It’s called bastard born and, provided you’re sitting down, I’ll tell you who he was.’

‘I’m sitting.’

‘Merhot Capritzo’s father was Charles Develin who, if you check closely just happens to be Richard Mayfair Develin’s old man. How does that mess your mind Stan?’

‘Tell me Karen, how come you’re so on top of this?’

‘Because Boston PD, notably Detective Inspector Neil Perry has already sent me tripping through the files. He’s got hard copies.’

‘I’ll be seeing him tomorrow.’

‘Good, then you can have a look at the files yourself. Interesting reading by the way, especially Capritzo’s death which, quite frankly, I don’t think was an accident but hey, who am I to say.’