Authors: James Twining
The Double Eagle (10 page)
SOTHEBY’S, NEW BOND STREET, LONDON
23 July—5:00
P.M.
“I
have three hundred thirty thousand pounds to my right. Three hundred thirty thousand pounds for this unique piece. The sword awarded to Admiral Lord Nelson by Sultan Selim the Third after the Battle of the Nile. Do I have any improvements on three hundred thirty thousand pounds? Going to the gentleman on my right for three hundred thirty thousand pounds. Going once. Going twice. Sold to the gentleman on my right for three hundred thirty thousand pounds.”
The auctioneer’s hammer came down with the resounding crack of ivory on oak and a dignified round of applause echoed off the gilded ceiling.
Tom slipped unnoticed from the room, hoping to beat the inevitable crush as the auction drew to a close. The lobby was already busy and a couple of journalists brushed past him as they ran outside to ring the afternoon’s events through to their desks. The sword had made nearly five times its estimate and that, together with its illustrious provenance, was good copy.
It felt good to be back. Auctions had been a fertile hunting ground for him over the years, providing ready-made targets, especially the private collectors who seemed to have a more cavalier approach to security. But he found he was enjoying it even more now he wasn’t on the lookout for his next possible score, like walking along a street and taking time to look up at the buildings on either side rather than always concentrating on the sidewalk and where he was next going to tread.
“Thomas? Thomas, is that you?” Tom heard his name, strangely unfamiliar in its lengthened form, scrambling over the heads of the people now flowing out of the auction rooms, thick catalogues in one hand, the other poised to grab a glass of wine from one of the eager waiters strategically positioned to meet the onrushing crowds head-on. Turning, Tom immediately recognized the man in the white linen suit elbowing his way through to him and broke into a broad smile.
“Uncle Harry. How are you?” Tom held out his hand, but the man brushed it aside and instead threw his arms around his shoulders. He was about fifty-five now, Tom estimated, tall with powerful arms and a strong, square-cut face that he held high with military stiffness. Although it was fading to gray, he still had a full head of hair that parted neatly on one side and his dark green eyes twinkled merrily under thick eyebrows. He reminded Tom, as he had always done since he was a boy, of a large bear.
Up close, many might have described him as scruffy, the obvious quality of his clothes not compensating for their now faded glory. The years had certainly taken their toll on the linen suit, for example, repeated launderings dying it a pale gray, a few telltale wine stains still visible on the left lapel and the right trouser leg. The fold in the double cuffs of his blue Turnbull & Asser shirt had long since frayed, strands of white cotton hanging loose, the points of the collar blunted and worn. Against this muted background, the loud orange-and-yellow stripes of his MCC tie stood out, the yellow echoing the squat gold signet ring that engulfed the small finger of his left hand. He carried a Panama hat rolled in his right hand.
“Thomas, my boy, I thought it was you.” His voice was diamond sharp, centuries of carefully controlled social breeding revealing itself in his clear, hard, and uncompromising vowel tones.
“Hello, Uncle Harry.”
“Where the dickens have you been? Good God, man, it’s been years.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a busy time, what with the funeral and everything.”
“Yes…yes…of course.” The man’s voice was suddenly serious. “How insensitive of me. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there.”
“That’s fine. Thanks for your letter. It meant a lot to me.”
“How have you been since…?” He tailed off and looked away.
“Fine,” said Tom, placing his hand reassuringly on the man’s upper arm. “It’s been five months now and, well, you know how bad things were between us anyway. It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all.”
“I know. We were all shocked.”
The man’s face sagged in sorrow.
Tom couldn’t actually remember ever meeting Uncle Harry for the first time. He just knew that he’d always been around. He wasn’t really his uncle, although over the years he’d been much more than that to him. No, Harry Renwick had been his father’s best friend, to the extent that his father had had any friends. During the school holidays when he’d been packed off back to Geneva, Uncle Harry had been the one to offer to take him skiing, or to the movies. When he’d been sent down from Oxford and moved to Paris, it had been Uncle Harry who had set him up in a place and lent him some cash.
He was still the only person to call him Thomas, though. Tom had never known him to use diminutives. No contractions or slang or jargon, no nicknames or acronyms or verbal shorthand of any sort. The irony, of course, was that he insisted on calling himself Harry rather than Henry. Tom had never been able to figure that one out.
“Did you hear I decided to move the store back to London?”
“Really? That’s great. No, really it is. He would have been happy that you’ve kept it going.”
“Well, I’m doing this for me, not for him,” said Tom, his chin jutting in defiance. Renwick nodded and there was an awkward pause. “So what are you doing here?” asked Tom, changing the subject. “I didn’t know you were interested in naval history.”
“Well, I’m not really.” Renwick leaned his head forward conspiratorially. “But I have a client who collects this sort of stuff, so I thought I’d have a look. Keep my finger on the pulse of the market and all that rubbish you’re meant to do.”
“Do you still come to a lot of these, then?”
“No.” Renwick shook his head. “Used to. It’s not the same these days, you know. I liked it more when people were allowed to smoke. Gave the place a bit more atmosphere, a bit of an edge. You could see it, smell it. It was exciting. Not all caviar and canapés like it is now.”
He gave a dismissive wave at the finger food that was circulating through the room, the silver trays glittering under the chandeliers’ cold light like small icebergs. A man barged his way between them, shouting over the noise into his phone.
“So are you still based in London? I thought you’d moved abroad?” Tom asked as they came back together.
“No, still here, although I’ve just moved into a new place. You should come round for dinner.”
“That’s very kind but—”
“Now, let me see. I can’t do tomorrow, or the day after that. Can you do Monday the twenty-sixth?”
“Well, it’s just that—”
“No, I insist. Eight o’clock, seventy-four Eaton Terrace. Here’s my card. Don’t be late.”
“Okay,” Tom conceded. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just seen someone who owes me a favor.”
With a wink, Renwick unrolled his Panama hat, wedged it onto his head and disappeared back into the crowd, while Tom navigated his way out into the open.
Harry Renwick. Tom couldn’t believe it. Still the same after all these years, even wearing the same ridiculous suit.
He wasn’t sure if it was because he hadn’t seen him for a while and had a fresh perspective on things, but thinking about it now, the suit bothered him a little. It was only a small thing, but it occurred to Tom for the first time that there was just a hint of the deliberate to it. It had a sort of studied raggedness that seemed somehow false, like new furniture that had been painstakingly distressed to make it look old.
Tom flicked the edge of Renwick’s card a few times, thick ivory with a heavy copperplate script. He slipped it into his top pocket, dismissing his thoughts with a rueful shake of his head. Uncle Harry was Uncle Harry, just the same as always.
LOUISVILLE COUNTY MORTUARY, LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY
23 July—12:01
P.M.
F
inch’s eyes narrowed as he massaged the back of Short’s lifeless and pale head.
“What have you found?” asked Jennifer, stepping forward toward the table.
“It’s soft.” A spark of interest was now in Finch’s voice for the first time since he’d started the procedure.
“A fracture?”
“Certainly feels that way.” Finch nodded. “There are bits of bone moving around under my fingers, right here at the base of the skull.”
“Which would suggest he was assaulted, wouldn’t it?” Jennifer breathed excitedly.
“Possibly. Or dropped by one of the orderlies. There’s only one way we can be sure.”
Finch reached toward the instrument tray beside him and picked up a fresh scalpel. Pressing hard, he cut deeply from behind one ear, over the crown of the head, to behind the other ear, the thin blade scraping against the skull like a knife over unglazed pottery. At the noise, Jennifer bit down hard on her lower lip.
The cut had effectively divided the skin on Short’s head into a front flap and a rear flap. Tugging hard, Finch pulled the front flap down over Short’s face as if he were peeling an orange, exposing the top and front of the skull. He then peeled the back flap toward the nape of the neck, the flesh ripping away in one entire section.
Jennifer’s resolve finally snapped. Without saying a word she spun on her heels and walked swiftly out of the room. Finch smiled but didn’t look up. He picked his Stryker saw up off the tray and with a piercing screech tested that it was working, before lowering it to the now perfectly exposed hemisphere of Short’s skull.
Ten minutes later Finch emerged from the autopsy room, his white gown covered in a fine film of blood and bone, small flecks of cartilage hanging off his mask. He carefully took the mask off and threw it and his blood-streaked rubber gloves into the yellow surgical waste bin next to the door.
“You feeling okay?”
“Sure.” Jennifer was sipping water from a disposable plastic cup. “It just got a bit too much, you know…” She nodded toward the mutilated cadaver that lay silently in the adjoining room. She was annoyed with herself for not lasting the distance, seeing it as exactly the sort of frailty that her male colleagues were always pointing out as evidence of the unsuitability of female agents for certain lines of work. That said, she would have been even angrier with herself if she’d thrown up. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it,” said Finch, sitting down on one of the seemingly ubiquitous orange chairs next to her. “To be honest, I didn’t expect you to last as long as you did. That last bit gets everyone, even cops who’ve pulled body parts out of car wrecks. Frankly, I’d have been more worried if you’d stayed. I filed for divorce shortly after my first wife sat through the whole procedure for the first time. I figured if she could sit through that, then it was only a matter of time before she made sure I ended up on the table myself.”
Jennifer laughed and suddenly felt a lot better.
“So what’s the verdict?”
“First impressions? He died of acute CO poisoning. I need to finish off the examination of the other organs to be sure, but the lips and the fingernails are a giveaway.”
“So you’re saying there was no head injury?” She didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t disappointed.
“Quite the opposite. If the fumes hadn’t killed him, the head trauma would have. He’s got a massive comminuted fracture.”
“Caused by?”
“A baseball bat, an iron bar…something blunt and heavy because the skin isn’t broken.” Finch shrugged his shoulders. “Somebody left-handed, in any case.”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, it’s an old forensic trick. Right-handed people tend to strike down on the right side of their victim’s head. Otherwise, it’s awkward and they can’t get any real force into the blow. Short’s skull has been crushed on the left-hand side. It’s a guess, but it’s an educated one.” She stored that piece of information away, although she knew it would hardly narrow the search for Short’s attackers.
“So are you saying the suicide was faked?”
“You want my professional opinion? There’s no way he could have even climbed into the car in that state. He was knocked out and put there and the exhaust fumes just finished him off. It was just window dressing. He was already a dead man.”
“You’re sure that he was hit before the fumes got to him? There’s no way that he could have got those injuries after he died?”
“No way.” Finch shook his head firmly. “The cerebral vessels had bled into the brain causing a massive subdural hematoma. That could only have happened prior to death while he still had a pulse.”
Jennifer nodded. So it was murder. This would have Corbett bouncing off the walls. She felt herself smiling and guiltily tried to suppress it.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Not at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and finish up.” He shook her hand, his skin cold and rubbery from the gloves.
“Doctor,” Jennifer called after him, trying to sound as casual as she could. “At this stage, I think it would be better if you don’t release the autopsy results to the family. You know how it is. Until we are sure exactly what happened, I don’t want people jumping to the wrong conclusions.”
Finch shrugged his shoulders.
“Sure. No problem.”
He helped himself to a fresh set of gloves and then strode back into the autopsy room, leaving Jennifer staring pensively at the tiled floor. This opened up a whole new angle on the Fort Knox theft—an angle she was determined to pursue.
Finch suddenly stepped back into the room, his gloves half on, and interrupted her thoughts.
“By the way, Agent Browne, you did say Short had a kid, didn’t you?”
“Yes, three of them. Why?”
“It’s just that one reason you might put someone in the backseat is that you can’t open the rear doors from the inside if the child-lock is turned on.”