Golden Relic (6 page)

"Well, you can't contact Pavel at all; he died in Peru last year. That's him with Lloyd in the
large 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 what's-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 smiled and 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 swallowed hard. "And how did you come by that?" she managed
to ask.

"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 15 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 stopped, then frowned and returned his attention to Rigby. "It is 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 stated. "Do we have our facts
wrong?"

"Yes. No. I mean 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. Professor 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.

"Are you all right Sam?" Rigby was asking. "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, " he replied.

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 dialled her office
number. 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 in the Museum's admin offices."

"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 interjected. "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."

"Don't do this to me," Sam begged, pounding the steering wheel. A sharp rap on the
window nearly frightened the life out of her. The bizarre appearance of her sister completed the
job. Jacqui's hair was littered with sequins, teased outwards in all directions and frozen in space
and time by what could only have been the contents of 23 cans of hairspray. She was wearing a gold
mini skirt, a leopard skin singlet, fishnet stockings and very high heels.

Sam struggled out of her seat belt and out of the car. It was eight o'clock in the morning and
her sister looked like a tart. Correction. She looked like a drag queen dressed as a tart.

"I'm afraid I have to arrest you," she said. "You cannot go out looking like that."

"I'm not going out, I'm coming home."

"Oh my god! In that case, I'll have to shoot you," Sam stated. "Right after I've emptied a clip
into this useless bloody car of mine."