Golden Relic (22 page)

Sam had been tempted to comment that Maggie's precautions were taking the cloak and dagger
routine a little too far, until she realised the normally cool, calm and extremely collected Maggie
Tremaine was actually nervous.

"You realise this is not going to be as easy as getting the box at the hotel," Maggie noted,
tapping her foot impatiently.

"It might be just as easy Maggie. If Noel left the key and the box number for Lloyd or you, then
he probably left the box in your names as well."

"Apologies Madame, for keeping you waiting," said a tall, bony man with a face like a ferret. He
was all nose, with beady eyes and a prune-like mouth overhung with a thick moustache.

Mr Halim introduced himself as the manager and escorted them through a security door, down a
short hall and into a secure room where he offered them coffee.

"Thank you, but no," Maggie stated. "We would just like to check my box and be on our way."
Maggie placed the key and a page from a notebook, on which she'd transcribed the number from the
drink coaster, on the table in front of her.

"I will also need your name and some identification," Mr Halim pointed out.

"Of course," Maggie agreed, handing him her passport. "My name is Maggie Tremaine."

"This says Mar-ga-ret," he enunciated.

"Yes, Margaret Selby Tremaine."

"Very good. I will now check the number against the register and return here with the box if all
is as it should be. You understand this is procedure for someone who has never been to our
bank."

"Oh I understand," Maggie nodded. "This is nerve-wracking," she added when Mr Halim had left the
room. "What do you suppose the 'procedure' will be if I'm not authorised to claim the box?"

"A week of intense police interrogation which escalates into an international incident when the
Australian Government has to negotiate your release from jail," Sam pronounced.

"You're trying to get me back for what happened yesterday, aren't you?"

Before Sam could think of a smart retort, Mr Halim entered the room, placed a safety deposit box
on the table and left again, without saying a word.

"Boy are you lucky," Sam said. "I hear the Cairo cops are really tough on fraud suspects."

"Ha, ha," Maggie said, before inserting the key and opening the lid. She removed a heavy tin, the
size and shape of a school pencil box, bearing a label which said, 'For LM or MT'. There were also
two manila envelopes - one addressed to 'Lloyd or Muu-Muu' and the other to Patrick Denton.

Maggie prised the lid off the tin and removed a great wad of bubble wrap, inside which was
something wrapped in red cloth. She laid it on the table, glanced at Sam and unfolded the cloth.

"Good grief!" was all Sam could manage to say. It was a finger. Lying there on the table in
front of them was a finger: a huge gold - she picked it up -
solid
gold finger. It
was about 15 centimetres long by five thick.

Sam looked at Maggie whose expression registered something, puzzlement maybe, but not surprise.
"Maggie," she snarled, "you knew about this, didn't you?"

"Not…really," Maggie replied.

"What is it?"

"It's a pinky finger, Sam. Apart from that I don't know, except…"

"Is this the missing and priceless artefact you told Pilger about?" Sam interrupted.

"Not precisely, no," Maggie said. She started to undo the buttons on her shirt.

"But it
is
a priceless artefact."

"Undoubtedly. But I couldn't say whether it's missing or not, because I've no idea where it comes
from." Maggie pulled her shirt out from her trousers.

"Why are you getting undressed?" Sam asked. "And what on earth is that?"

Under her shirt, Maggie was wearing what looked like a soldier's utility vest, except this one
was black, hugged her tightly around the stomach under her breasts, and featured a very large front
pocket. Maggie opened the pocket's Velcro flap, removed a cloth-wrapped object and placed it on the
table in front of Sam.

"
That
is the artefact I showed Jim Pilger," she said.

Sam removed the cloth, gazed at the artefact and took a deep breath to compose herself. Sam had a
feeling she knew exactly where it had come from, so she was making sure the urge to throttle Maggie
Tremaine had passed before she spoke. She then placed the very large gold thumb next to the very
large gold pinky finger on the red cloth. "Where did you find this?" she asked politely.

Maggie at least had the grace to look extremely guilty. "Lloyd's cottage, in the box in the
book," she confessed. "I'm sorry Sam."

"And you claim you don't know what it is, apart from the obvious?"

"I swear I don't, but I bet there's at least three more pieces, fingers - somewhere."

Sam stood up and paced the room for a moment before returning to her chair. "Honest to god,
Maggie, if I were a six-year-old I'd thump you in the arm. Very hard. And if I was at home right
now, I'd arrest you for obstructing a murder investigation."

"I haven't obstructed anything at all Sam, and you know it. We're here looking at this pinky
finger because I did the only sensible thing and went right to the top of your bureaucratic tree and
got permission for us to take this murder investigation in the appropriate direction.

"If I had shown this thumb to you at Lloyd's on Sunday, you would have felt compelled to admit it
as evidence, and that unimaginative man-mountain Homicide detective would've ignored it or tried to
shove it into his neat and cosy, but completely inaccurate, little theory about Lloyd's death being
a one-off local murder." Maggie's voice, though still firm and righteous, had grown quieter in
direct proportion to the anger expressed on Sam's face, which was now very dark indeed.

"Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?" Sam held her palms out and wiggled her fingers.
"Any other little secrets?"

"No Sam. You know everything that I know. I promise."

"Good," Sam said, although her green eyes were narrow with suspicion, "because I do not
appreciate being used. It is not nice finding out that you're not trusted by someone you trust and
respect. Don't say a word," Sam ordered, holding up her hand. Maggie closed her mouth
obediently.

"I especially don't like being kept in the dark. Had I known what it was we were looking for, and
that you already had part of it, I would not have stood around in the Khan el Khalili like a shag on
a bloody rock waiting for a murderous Turk to beat the crap out of me.

"But, although I am sorely tempted, I am not going to handcuff you and drag you home because we
are
on to something here, and you're probably quite right about Jack's reaction, had I been
in a position to turn this over to him. Besides, I can't pretend I haven't made the most of this
Egyptian expedition, nor can I ignore the fact, unfathomable as it is at the moment, that I like you
and that despite everything I'm having fun." Sam frowned, as if she couldn't believe what she'd just
said.

"Are you finished?" Maggie smiled.

"Yes. You can open the other thing now."

"Thank you," Maggie stated. She emptied the contents of the envelope onto the table.

"Oh good, another postcard," Sam said cheerfully. "What's it of this time?"

"La Compañía," Maggie stated. "It's a Jesuit-built church in the Plaza de Armas, in Cuzco. The
card was posted from Peru on May 20th."

"Peru no less," Sam said, not in the least surprised. "What does it say?"

Maggie turned the card over. "It says, 'Got your message. Come at once. Seek me on the board at
Hostal Casona.' It's signed, Henri Schliemann."

"Ha! What did I say?"

"You said this had something to do with Manco City," Maggie smiled.

"I did, didn't I. Who is Schliemann, do we know him?"

"Well, Heinrich Schliemann was the German-born archaeologist who discovered Troy. But I've no
idea who Henri is."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "He discovered Troy. Maggie, he's probably 'the finder'."

"I don't think so dear, he's dead."

"Another dead archaeologist?"

Maggie laughed. "Heinrich Schliemann is very dead, Sam. He popped off round about 1890."

"Oh," Sam grunted. "You know, there's something wrong with the progression of all these cards and
notes. If Schliemann, whoever he is, posted this to Noel on May 20th, and Noel posted his to Marsden
on May 28th, then why didn't the Professor do as Noel suggested and contact you, Muu-Muu? Even if we
factor in a slow postal boat via China he would have got the postcard sometime in June, but he did
nothing until he started going peculiar when Marcus's show arrived."

"That's a very good point," Maggie noted. "No, I know. Lloyd spent a couple of months, on and off
from early June, in the Northern Territory on a curatorial project for one of the Aboriginal
centres. Also the postcard was sent to the cottage which Lloyd only went to for the odd weekend
away. And, by the time he started to panic about all this, I was in Paris."

Sam sighed deeply. "I think it's time to talk to Patrick again."

Patrick Denton had tears in his eyes as he slid the pages back into the envelope
that bore his name.

"It's an official letter drawn up by a solicitor in London advising Noel's publishers that I have
sole entitlement to all copyrights and royalties on his books."

"That's wonderful Patrick," Maggie said, squeezing his hand. She called out to Sam, who had
excused herself from the room so she wouldn't intrude on Patrick's privacy.

Sam had to drag herself in from the balcony where she'd been standing, a glass of lemonade almost
forgotten in her hand, as she drank in the view of the Nile instead. A huge white cruise ship, not
unlike the15 feluccas had passed by in the space of a few minutes.

Sam sat down on the couch opposite Maggie and Patrick. As agreed she let Maggie begin.

"Patrick, was Noel agitated, excited or upset about anything in that week before he died?"

Patrick shrugged. "Yes. All of the above, as well as vague as a violet and extremely jumpy. But
that was situation normal in the final stages of writing every book."

"I mean anything out of the ordinary," Maggie said. "As if he'd had strange or bad news, maybe
just a few days before he died."

Patrick thought for a few moments. "Two days before he spent ages on the phone, making
international calls. He was annoyed because he couldn't get through to anyone he tried; until he
spoke to someone, um McBride I think, in Edinburgh."

"Jean McBride?" Maggie asked.

"Maybe. Anyway, he was really upset after that. But all he would tell me, was that he'd lost an
old friend. That she had died five months before and he hadn't known."

"
She
had died," Maggie repeated. "You don't know who it was?"

"No. Noel said I didn't know her."

"May I use your phone? To ring Scotland." Maggie asked, already half way to the desk.

"Go ahead," Patrick shrugged. "What's this all about, Sam?"

"Probably nothing," Sam lied, keeping her promise to Maggie not to upset Patrick with any talk of
foul play. "You said Noel had coffee with an acquaintance the morning he died. Who was that?"

"Andy Baxter. He's an English mystery buff and aspiring crime writer who tracked Noel down
through the museum just the week before. But Baxter wasn't there when Noel had his stroke."

Baxter, my arse, Sam thought. She reached into her pouch and pulled out some snapshots of the
Rites of Life and Death staff, courtesy of Ben Muldoon's surveillance team.

"Yeah, that's him," Patrick said, pointing out Andrew Barstoc. "Don' tell me he's a criminal or
something?"

"Or something, Patrick. He claims he's a businessman. I think he's a smuggler. And, before you
ask, we don't know what he wanted from Noel, unless it was info about Professor Marsden," Sam
lied.

"I met Mark too, briefly," Patrick said, tapping the photo of Bridger.

"Did Noel spend time with Marcus Bridger as well?" Sam asked, puzzled.

"Not really. Mark dropped Andy off at the cafe two days before Noel died. I didn't stay for
lunch, so I don't know if they spent any time together when Mark came back to collect Andy."

"I just spoke to Angie McBride in Edinburgh," Maggie said, slumping down onto the couch next to
Patrick. She was as white as a sheet. "Her sister, my friend Jean, was killed in a hit and run
accident two days before Christmas last year."

"Oh shit," Sam uttered.

"That is an understatement," Maggie said. Her hands were shaking, but she took a breath and
turned to Patrick. "I don't suppose Noel had had a sudden urge to go travelling anywhere."

"Yes, as a matter of fact. The day before he died he came home and announced we were both going
to Peru. Just like that. He'd booked tickets for the Saturday. We never made it, obviously."

"Did he say why he wanted to go there in particular?" Sam asked.

"He'd changed his mind about Mexico and had decided to set the tenth Jake St James book in Peru,
but he needed to track down a guy called Schliemann who was an expert in…something."

Sam glanced at Maggie, as a shiver crawled its way up her spine. "What now?" she asked.

Maggie's raised eyebrow and half smile spoke volumes.

"You're kidding?" Sam said. "You're not kidding," she added.

Sam still couldn't believe it. One moment she was trying to get her head around the
fact that she was in northern Africa, and the next she found herself on a whole other continent
altogether. She couldn't believe that five days after unexpectedly leaving home for Egypt she was
suddenly in South America. She couldn't believe she was travelling in a country she'd never actually
considered visiting and that she was within spitting distance of Maccu Picchu. But mostly she
couldn't believe that she was going to die on her second day in Peru because Maggie had entrusted
their lives to a questionably-qualified pilot who insisted on flying his antiquated cargo plane way
too close to the ground. The 'ground' in this case being the Andes, over which they were flying en
route from Lima to Cuzco.