Webster thanked her. With the change of subject her shell had briefly fallen away.
“Do you go?” he said.
“I used to. But now they won’t give me a visa.”
“Because of what you’re doing?”
“Because of my father. And the work. Others go.”
There was a pause while Webster weighed an opportunity.
“Did you know Cyrus Mehr?” he said.
“Of course.”
“Was he one of them?”
Ava frowned and her tone was cool when she spoke. “Is that what you’re doing? Finding out how he died?”
Webster shook his head. “No.”
“Wait. Is this job you’re doing about him? Fuck.” She looked away, working something out, then looked back. “Is he not telling me something? Has this got to do with the trust?”
“No,” said Webster, raising his hand an inch and doing his best to sound reassuring. “Nothing at all.” He paused to let her see that he was being honest. “If it was, I wouldn’t have tried to get out of here earlier, would I?”
She thought about it. “Not unless you’re exceptionally cunning.”
“I’m not.”
“And it’s not about Mehr?”
“No.”
“So why ask?”
“Public relations aren’t my strong suit. I prefer investigating things.”
Her eyes were still on his, still wary. “It needs investigating.”
“You don’t believe the official version?”
“I don’t believe anything that comes out of there.”
“So what happened?”
She thought for a moment, reaching up and slowly rubbing her ear.
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t think we ever will.”
“Did people talk about it? In Iran?”
“Not in Iran, no. Not that I know of.”
“Outside Iran?”
She gave him a searching look, deciding something.
“I don’t think anyone talked about it enough.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go. I’m sorry. It’s been nice talking to you.”
She stood, holding out her hand. Her eyes, which never left his, seemed to say that she was genuinely sorry: she had said too much, but he should not rule out the possibility that she would talk again. Webster watched her walk across the room and out of the door, graceful and composed, and before showing himself out took a last look at Qazai’s cabinet. A piece he had not noticed before took his eye: a dull silver jug embossed with grapes and leaves curled around nightingales and a solitary, lurking jackal, its single eye picked out with a tiny bright green stone.
6.
CYRUS MEHR WAS BURIED IN RICHMOND, where he had lived with his wife and his sons in a house that looked out onto the green. Their number, Webster was almost sorry to discover, was in the telephone directory.
The articles published after his death had reported only that Mehr had been killed in Isfahan while on a buying trip. They hadn’t mentioned how. His body had been found in his hotel room and local police were acting on the assumption that robbery had been the motive: the original reports, distributed by the Iranian state news agency, had mentioned that a number of receipts had been found in his possession, and that the most likely culprit was a “collaborator” in Mehr’s “smuggling conspiracy.” They had not identified the objects assumed to be missing, but speculated that they were “national treasures” stolen from museums and archeological digs. There had been a struggle, but neither Mehr’s wallet nor his passport had been taken.
This account had been picked up by the international agencies and then by most British newspapers, who had added little more than some basic biographical information about the man himself. Mehr had had dual citizenship; he had left Iran as a teenager, moved to London, set up his business at the beginning of the 1980s, and married his wife, Jessica, in 1990. He was the head of the Qazai Foundation, and “a much-loved figure” in London’s art world. The story had run for a day or two, padded out with the odd opinion piece about murder rates in Iran and the like, and within a week had faded to nothing.
Webster had read all the articles several times and wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t sure, to begin with, whether Mehr would have stored his treasures, if that’s what they were, in his hotel room, or that any smuggler would have insisted on receipts with every piece of contraband. Nor did it seem likely that someone who had come for a Safavid prayer rug would have taken the trouble to remove the passport from Mehr’s jacket or the watch from his wrist. But most of all there was something in the tone of the Iranian articles that wasn’t right—a sense that the matter had been instantly understood, concluded and dismissed. It reminded him of similar statements he had heard too often in Russia, about the sudden death of awkward people.
So Mehr’s murder occupied Webster’s mind, partly because it was a mystery, partly because he couldn’t quite believe that Qazai being accused of smuggling and Mehr dying for it were not somehow connected. But a mystery it looked set to remain. He had spoken to the foreign journalists who had covered the story, and they had been unable to add anything to what had already been published. He had found sources at two Iranian opposition groups, one in London, one in Paris, and neither knew any more than he did. He had even tried the Foreign Office, who had brushed him off with a coldly polite referral to their previous statements on the affair.
In short his inquiry found nothing, not so much as a hint, until the only people left to call were the Mehrs themselves. His conscience baulked at the thought, but he found a justification: it was possible, after all, that Mrs. Mehr would welcome some interest in her husband’s death—even possible that she would welcome some assistance. Her interests and Webster’s were aligned, he should remember, because they both wanted to know why he had been killed, and by whom.
So he steeled himself, and feeling more or less ashamed despite all his rationalizing, made the call. At least only mild deception was necessary; the number was in the phone book, and he could be himself. The phone rang five times and he was close to hanging up when a woman answered.
“Hello.”
“Mrs. Mehr?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Ben Webster. I work for a company called Ikertu. Darius Qazai is my client.”
He waited for her to say something in acknowledgment but there was only silence on the line.
“He’s asked me to write a report about him. About his reputation. It’s for his investors. I was wondering if I could ask you one or two questions about your husband’s relationship with him. With Mr. Qazai.”
There was a pause of a second or two before she spoke.
“He hasn’t said anything to me.”
“No. I’ve asked him not to call people. It prejudices the result. If you like I can show you a letter of introduction that he’s signed.”
Another pause. “I don’t really understand, and I can’t think what you’d ask me. Or why you’d think it was appropriate.”
Then she hung up.
Webster took a deep breath, closed his eyes tight and sat for a moment, letting the shame wash through his body.
It was half past two, and the sun was shining. He should be leaving for an appointment at his daughter’s school. He glanced at his watch and dialed one more number.
“Cantor Sassoon. Good afternoon. How may I direct your call?”
“David Brooks, please.”
“Hold the line.”