Читать книгу Golden Relic - Lindy Cameron - Страница 8

Melbourne, September 17, 1998

‘You and Rigby seem to know each other quite well,’ Rivers said as he followed Sam, who followed Anton’s directions to Marsden’s office.

‘I haven’t seen him for two years, but we worked closely together for six months on the Carjacker case,’ Sam explained.

‘The serial killer?’

‘Yeah. The Bureau joined the hunt when it was discovered the killer hadn’t confined his activities to Victoria. It was actually Jack and I who tracked Neville Strickland down to that fleapit hotel where he shot one of his hostages before turning the gun on himself.’

‘I remember that siege lasted nearly three days,’ Rivers said. ‘Cultural Affairs must seem pretty tame, if that’s the sort of work you were doing before – tracking serial killers.’

‘You sound like you think it’s an adventure, Rivers. It’s not. It’s awful work. I’d much rather there weren’t any serial killers to track. Luckily Australia doesn’t produce too many men like Strickland. He was a really sick individual, and I don’t mean insane. He knew what he was doing, and what he did to those women was indescribable. You’d have to see it to believe it and, believe me, it is not something you ever want to see. I transferred to the Anti- Drug Task Force after that case.’ Sam glanced at Rivers. ‘Which I suppose, when you think about it, is really just a response to a different form of serial killing.’

‘Ludicrous. Ludicrous,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘One would think they were professional enough to pay attention. I should have done it myself.’ The words, delivered as if they’d been fired from a Gatling gun, were obviously being spoken to the person they were being spoken by. A man with unbelievably wild grey hair, and wearing a suit that looked like it had been retrieved from the still-to-be-ironed basket, overtook them in the corridor.

‘I’m late, I’m late for an important date,’ Rivers whispered to Sam, as the man, still talking to himself, darted into what turned out to be Marsden’s office. Sam and Rivers followed him in.

Bookshelves, interspersed with filing cabinets, covered most of the walls, including the floor to ceiling window. Two desks, and their surrounding mess of things in boxes, sat on opposite sides of the room facing the centre. Framed photographs crowded a section of wall behind what Sam guessed was Marsden’s desk, next to which was a cluttered pinboard hanging precariously from a bent coat stand.

‘Robert Ellington?’ Sam enquired.

‘Of course,’ he snapped, as he lost control of the manilla folders he was trying to stack on the other desk. Sam bent down to help him pick them up but it wasn’t until Ellington was completely happy with the repositioned pile that he acknowledged her presence.

His eyes looked left, then right, then squinted at Sam. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m Special Detective Sam Diamond, from the Australian Crime Bureau, and this is Constable,’ she hesitated, but her new sidekick chose that moment to stare at the ceiling. ‘Rivers,’ Sam continued. ‘We’re investigating the death of Lloyd Marsden.’

‘You mean murder. The word around here is that it was murder. Poor old Lloyd. Do you think he suffered? I hope he didn’t suffer.’

‘I don’t know. But if I could ask you a few questions about Mr Marsden–’

‘Professor,’ Ellington interrupted. ‘He liked to be called Professor; God knows why. It’s a bit pretentious in this day and age, don’t you think? Call me plain old Bob, I say. On second thoughts, I probably wouldn’t answer since no one has ever called me Bob. I wouldn’t know who you were talking to, would I? But Lloyd was a trifle old-fashioned, and just because the rambunctious old bastard is dead doesn’t mean we ignore his wishes.’

‘Robert.’ Sam used his first name to try and get him back on track. When he smiled as if she’d recognised him in a crowd, she continued. ‘We understand you saw Professor Marsden at some stage yesterday.’

‘That would be correct, Sam,’ he smiled. ‘We had breakfast together, as usual, in a cafe near Flinders Street station. We walked together as far as the library, where I left him and continued on here. I also saw him just after lunch, about 2.30, when I had cause to go to the library myself. I’m researching blacksmiths and boilermakers at the moment for a future exhibit on trades during the early days of the colony. I just nodded hello to Lloyd on that occasion, as he was talking to that twerp Trevor Brownie.’

‘The assistant financial administrator?’ Sam wandered over to Marsden’s desk.

‘One of the assistants,’ Ellington confirmed. ‘A sycophantic, jumped-up little sluggerbug who acts as if the Museum’s money comes out of his own piggy bank. Sorry. Sorry. But I don’t have much time for middle-management types who have invariably, and inexplicably, risen above their limited talents.’

‘It’s a universal problem, Robert,’ Sam agreed, sitting in Marsden’s chair. The desktop was an inch deep in scattered clutter, some of which had spilled onto the floor, and one of the drawers was half open. ‘Is this normal or has the Professor’s desk been searched?’

Ellington glanced over. ‘Quite normal, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been disturbed. Lloyd had a mind like a steel trap but no sense of order.’

‘Do you have any gloves, Rivers?’ Sam asked. The Constable stopped taking notes, fished in his uniform pocket and handed her a pair.

‘You obviously knew the Professor well, Robert. Perhaps you could tell us about him.’ Sam began picking through the leftovers of Marsden’s working life. In a comparatively ordered pile on her right, topped by a shopping list, was a variety of museum-related invoices and inventories, plus a hardware store’s catalogue, a pile of what looked like chocolate sprinkles, and a red phone bill bearing Marsden’s name and a South Melbourne address. Sam scanned the phone bill and handed it to Rivers who dropped it in an evidence bag.

‘Actually, I didn’t know Lloyd all that well,’ Ellington was saying.

‘But you said you had breakfast with him ‘as usual’,’ Rivers quoted from his notes.

Sam investigated the half-open drawer. It was full of chocolate bars and empty wrappers, and a box of half-eaten donuts and cakes; a sugar-junkie’s variety of jam-filled, chocolate-topped or smothered in icing sugar or cream.

‘Lloyd and I had been eating breakfast in the same establishment for 15 years. Earlier this year, when a busload of tourists invaded the place, we had to sit at the same table and discovered we share a passion for the horses. We’ve been breakfasting together ever since.’

‘It took you 15 years to share a table?’ Sam attacked the pile in front of her, finding newspapers, museum publications, and manilla folders filled with notes and printouts about the collection Marsden was responsible for relocating.

‘That was Lloyd’s choice. He was a private, thoughtful man not given to socialising.’

‘But you were sharing an office as well,’ Rivers commented.

‘Only for the last two months. I’ve been working for this institution on and off, mostly on, for nigh on forty years. Lloyd has been here, but mostly off doing field work or fulfilling his teaching commitments at Melbourne University, for the past thirty. A long time yes, but our disciplines rarely connected. I know a great deal about his work and reputation but little about his personal life.’

Sam opened the long, deep drawer in the middle of the desk. ‘Whoa!’ she exclaimed.

‘What is it?’ Rivers stepped forward eagerly.

‘Ah,’ Ellington said. ‘Lloyd’s only other passion outside of his work. That I know of.’

‘A man after my own heart,’ Sam declared. The drawer was full of cryptic crosswords, all cut from newspapers and in various stages of completion. Sharing the space was a dictionary and a well- thumbed thesaurus.

As she shut the drawer, Sam noticed something protruding from under the large blotter that protected the surface of the desk from the paraphernalia and food scraps on top of it. Clearing everything back she lifted the blotter and set it down on the floor.

‘Make a list, please Rivers. Three Mars Bar wrappers; an airline ticket dated for this Saturday, in Marsden’s name – destination Lima, Peru; a dry cleaning bill – with pick-up for tomorrow; a prescription for malaria tablets – already filled; a catalogue for The Rites of Life and Death exhibition; and three betting slips from Sandown last Friday.’

Sam opened the full-colour catalogue which featured pictures of artefacts and photographs of “real-life” funerary and fertility rituals. On the inside cover, next to an article about the purpose of the exhibition, was a mugshot of a broodingly handsome man, of the Heathcliff variety. The caption read: Dr Marcus Bridger. MA, PhD, FSA.

Sam turned several pages of sponsors’ ads, until the catalogue settled open, through previous use, on the captioned photos of the other exhibition team members and the show’s worldwide itinerary. The fold was full of icing sugar, as if Marsden had eaten his lunch over it, so it was reasonable to assume that it had been he who used a marker pen to highlight some of the overseas tour dates.

Sam replaced the blotter on the desk and nodded to Rivers. ‘Better get forensics in to check any prints found at the crime scene against any that shouldn’t be here.’

Sam returned her attention to Ellington who had been patiently sitting at his desk. ‘Do you know of anyone who knew Marsden well?’

‘Pavel Mercier,’ he replied instantly. ‘And Maggie of course. They were the only people he spoke of with any kind of fondness or familiarity. They worked together over the years.’

‘And who are they?’

Ellington scuttled over to the bookshelves next to Marsden’s desk, drawing Sam’s attention to two shelves of hard and soft cover publications, the spines of which wore the names Professor Lloyd Marsden, Dr Pavel Mercier and Dr Maggie Tremaine, either independently or as co-authors in various combinations. The titles ranged from the readily understandable – such as Time Stands Still: An Exploration of Archaeology; The New Technologies of History; Inca Roads to Power; Aztec Glory, Aztec Blood; and Adrift in a Sea of Sand: The Ruins of Tanis; – to the more esoteric: An Interlude in Hatshepsut’s Kitchen; Sipán and Chimú: Benefactors of Tahuantinsuyu?; and Anthropomorphic Entities and the Andean Supernatural Realm.

‘That’s quite a body of work. Are they on staff here or do you know how to contact them?’

‘Well, you can’t contact Pavel at all; he died in Peru last year. That’s him with Lloyd in the big picture behind you. It was taken a good 20 years ago though, so you wouldn’t recognise him now even if he wasn’t dead.’

Sam swivelled her chair to take a look at the gallery of framed photographs. ‘What about Dr Tremaine?’

‘Ah Maggie,’ he sighed heavily. ‘Formidable woman. Formidable. Endearing too, but formidable. And I mean that in the sense that she inspires admiration while being, quite often, well, difficult to deal with.’

‘And she is where?’ Sam prompted.

‘Sydney University. She’s actually on staff here at the Museum, but took a 12-month post in Sydney to teach archaeology while whats-his-name is on leave.’ Ellington headed back to his desk but stopped abruptly, spun around and said, ‘No, actually I tell a lie. She’s in Paris. Yes, that’s right. She went to a conference in Paris, from Sydney.’

‘Is this the same Maggie who was involved in the ‘Inca trinket fiasco’?’ Sam asked, recalling Anton’s conversation with Prescott.

‘The very same. So you’ve heard about that then.’

‘Not really,’ Sam replied. And I don’t need to, she thought. ‘One of the pictures seems to be missing from the wall here.’ She pointed out the empty hook.

‘So it is,’ Ellington agreed. ‘That’s odd. No, there it is on top of the cabinet beside you.’

Sam picked up what turned out to be an empty frame, labelled ‘Manco City 1962’.

‘That’s odd,’ Ellington said again.

‘I’ve got one last question, Robert, and then we’ll let you get back to work. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Professor Marsden?’

‘You mean did he have any enemies? Strong word isn’t it? Lloyd had the tendency to rub people the wrong way. And he did a lot of rubbing, and pot-stirring, around here because he didn’t exactly agree with the Museum’s vision for the future; just ask Prescott. But enemies? No, not that I’m aware of. Certainly not anyone who’d want to stab him to death.’

‘Stab him?’ Sam echoed. ‘He wasn’t stabbed Robert.’

‘Oh. Shot?’ When Sam shook her head but wasn’t forthcoming with the facts, Ellington shrugged. ‘On the other hand, I’m wondering if Lloyd had some kind of premonition.’

‘Why?’

‘Last Friday, over breakfast, we were talking about families or at least I was; Lloyd has no living relatives. Anyway quite out of the blue Lloyd secured a promise from me, gladly given, that should anything ever happen to him I was to contact his lawyer. Immediately.’

‘To do what?’ Sam asked.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Ellington replied, searching his pockets. ‘I was simply to contact the man and inform him of “whatever had happened”.’ Ellington handed a business card to Sam.

‘Have you spoken to this James T. Hudson yet?’ Sam asked, noting Hudson & Bolt had offices in Melbourne and Sydney.

‘Of course. Lloyd had said ‘immediately’. As soon as I had confirmation that the rumour of his demise was true, I rang Hudson.’

‘So, what is your first name,’ Sam asked Rivers as they left Ellington to his mutterings and went in search of Rigby.

Rivers groaned. ‘You promise you won’t laugh?’

Sam crossed her heart.

‘Hercules.’

‘Really?’ Sam raised her eyebrows and tried not to laugh. ‘And how did you come by that?’

‘My father. Never read a book in his life but, remember Epic Theatre the old Sunday afternoon TV series of movies about blokes like Ulysses and Jason and the Argonauts?’

‘Dubbed into English, as I recall.’

Rivers nodded. ‘My Dad loved those movies. He was a Championship Wrestling fan too, so I guess I’m lucky I didn’t get named after Titan the Terrible. It’s useful on the Internet though. I can use my own name and people just think I’m a nerd with a hero complex.’

‘Dia...mond.’ Rigby’s bellow bounced off several walls as Sam and Rivers rounded a corner. ‘Oh, there you are.’

‘Jack, this is not a squad room. It would be courteous to keep your voice down.’

‘Good idea,’ Rigby nodded. ‘Now, I’ve spoken to Brownie and the PR lady, but Gould, the curator, is off sick today. Anton has just directed that Vasquez guy to a room down the hall. So what do you say we do him together and compare notes on the others later. Rivers, you can chase up that personnel list.’ Rigby headed off down the hall.

‘We found a plane ticket in Marsden’s name,’ Sam said, jogging to keep up with Rigby’s long stride. ‘He was flying to Peru this Saturday.’

‘Was he now?’

‘And, I think we should check out his home next. He had no family but he may have a cat or something that should be informed.’

‘Already organised. I sent some guys there fifteen minutes ago.’

Enrico Vasquez looked like he expected to be put through a clichéd ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine. He kept flexing his shoulders, as if he was preparing himself for a good whack with a phone book, yet his expression was composed and determined. There was no guessing what was going on behind his dark eyes which, while they seemed to be looking everywhere at once, did so without making him appear nervous.

His dark hair, thin moustache and pleasant face brought Zorro to Sam’s mind, except that Señor Vasquez was short and stocky. While his expression had registered amused indifference when introduced to her, his reaction to Rigby was typical of a phenomenon that Sam had always found curious. Shaking hands was not something cops do, as a rule, with suspects or witnesses, but Sam had noticed on many occasions that men shorter than about six foot felt they had to bond with Rigby. Vasquez was no different. He offered his hand automatically, although he stepped back as he did so, as if increasing the space between them would make him feel taller. Sam had yet to figure out the psychology of this, whether it was deference, submission or merely an attempt to stake out some territory.

‘Would you care to explain why I am here?’ Vasquez demanded of Rigby. ‘The other officer refused to say anything except that someone had died. What could I know?’

‘Do you know who has died, Mr Vasquez?’ Sam asked.

‘No, I just said,’ he frowned and returned his attention to Rigby. ‘Is it one of my colleagues? Is that why I’m here? What has happened?’

‘Professor Marsden’s body was found in the State Library this morning,’ Rigby stated. ‘He was murdered.’

‘But I know nothing of this.’ Vasquez was horrified. ‘You think I know something? How can I? I barely know Professor Marsden and I have no idea where your Library is.’

‘But you were seen arguing with Professor Marsden yesterday,’ Rigby said. ‘Do we have our facts wrong?’

‘Yes. No. Your facts are incomplete,’ Vasquez replied, regaining his composure. ‘I did see Professor Marsden yesterday. But not in your Library. Between 3 pm and 4.30 we were working out some details at the Exhibition Building. And we were not arguing.’

‘You did not have an argument of any kind with the Professor?’ Sam asked.

‘No! Ah, wait. We did have a discussion, which may have appeared um...heated. Our views on the subject of cultural artefacts and their repatriation could not be more opposite.’

‘Can you explain what you mean by that,’ Rigby requested.

‘The Professor was a dinosaur, a dedicated collector whose thinking has not changed with the times. He was as much of a relic, in terms of current international museum practices, as the things he collected. He still believed in an institution’s right to hoard the artefacts of other countries, thus denying those countries their own cultural heritage.’

‘And that’s what you were arguing about?’ Rigby asked.

‘Discussing, yes. The return of such items to their rightful owners is something I am most passionate about. My part of the world has been plundered by outsiders for centuries.’

‘Where are you from?’ Rigby asked.

Strangely, Vasquez looked like he had to think about that question. ‘I have come from Colombia,’ he replied. ‘Things are changing though and maybe, one day, we will get everything back – what little there is left of our histories in South America.’

‘This desire of yours to get your stuff back seems pretty strong,’ Rigby suggested bluntly.

Vasquez laughed. ‘There was nothing personal in our discussion, Detective. Debates like the one we had go on every day in museums the world over. It’s a sign of the times. I did not kill Professor Marsden because we had a difference of opinion. In fact we ended up agreeing – and laughing, I might add – about the rather dubious merits of the Life and Death exhibition.’

‘You were laughing about your own exhibition?’ Sam asked.

Vasquez shrugged. ‘What can I say? It is Dr Bridger’s exhibition. I am simply the working curator, which means I do all the work. For me it is just a job, but career-wise it is a little embarrassing. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good show but ‘show’ is the best word for it.

‘Our artefacts may draw in a public curious to see a collection of exotic phallic symbols and mummified cats, but it is a questionable concept for a serious exhibition. Marsden and I agreed it was simply an excuse for Marcus to travel the world – and make money.’

‘Andrew Barstoc and Adrienne Douglas,’ Rigby read the names from his list. ‘We understand they went sightseeing together today. Do you have any idea where?’

‘Sightseeing?’ Vasquez snorted. ‘I find that... unlikely. And wherever they are, I doubt they’re together. Knowing Adrienne she’s probably visiting your casino.’

‘What is her job with the exhibition?’ Sam asked.

‘She’s our public relations expert, and Andrew is our expert in logistics. It’s his job to make sure everything runs smoothly, that in each new city – and we’ve been in eight in the last year and a half – we have everything we need to set up the show. But while we’ve been waiting for the second shipment Andrew has been off making business wherever he can.’

‘What sort of business?’ Rigby asked.

‘I have no idea. That is what he does. He’s a business man. He’ll be on site when the rest of the exhibits get delivered tomorrow and is always on call, but he will spend the rest of his time, as usual, taking care of his own personal...’ Vasquez shrugged, ‘business.’

Sam rubbed the back of her neck to stem the annoying prickling sensation she always got when a seemingly unrelated fact surfaced from somewhere in her memory, prompting her mind to leap to a most unlikely conclusion. Failing to convince herself that her suspicions were based purely on coincidence she was half-way out the door before she realised she moved.

‘Are you all right, Sam?’ Rigby asked. ‘You look like you’ve just remembered you left the iron on at home.’

‘Sorry. Something did just occur to me. I have to check it out straight away.’ She turned to Vasquez and asked, ‘When did you arrive in Melbourne with the first lot of exhibits?’

‘Last Wednesday.’

Sam returned to Marsden’s office and, relieved to find it empty, sat down at his desk. She put the gloves back on, took her phone out of her jacket pocket and rang her office. While she waited for Ben Muldoon to answer, she removed the blotter from the desk top again and opened The Rites of Life and Death catalogue to the contents page.

‘Muldoon here.’

‘Hi Ben, it’s me,’ Sam said, cradling the phone awkwardly with her shoulder while she used a pen to scrape some of the icing sugar into an evidence bag. ‘Have you had any leads on the origin of that new stuff that hit the streets last weekend?’

‘Nothing concrete. Just a rumour that it’s a brand new source,’ Ben replied.

‘Well, I may have news for you. I’ve got something for the lab to check first.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m still at the Museum.’

‘You found something there?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll explain when I get back. In the meantime get the squad to check out a shipment of exhibits that came in by plane from Paris today. Make a call to stop it leaving the airport if it hasn’t already.

‘It’s for a show called The Rites of Life and Death, though it might be registered in the name of Dr Marcus Bridger – or for delivery to the Exhibition Building.’ Sam disconnected the call.

‘What the hell was that little performance back there about?’ Rigby demanded as he strode through the door. Rivers was close behind him trying to get his attention.

‘I think the late Professor may have stumbled onto a smuggling operation,’ Sam stated.

‘Smuggling what?’

She waved the bag. ‘Cocaine.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘We won’t know for sure till we get this tested. I’ll take it to our lab to compare it with a sample that turned up on Sunday.’

‘There’s something else you should know,’ Rivers said. ‘The guys that went to Marsden’s place just rang in. His house has been trashed. They said things like the TV and video were broken, not stolen, and that it looks like someone was seriously looking for something specific.’