‘One to a woman named Nina Mishra,’ says Donna. ‘She’s a professor of historical archaeology, in Canterbury.’
‘A professor, goodness me,’ says Joyce.
‘Professors,’ says Ron, with a gentle eyeroll.
‘Have you been to see her?’ asks Ibrahim.
‘We only just got the records back this morning,’ says Donna. ‘So no.’
‘Feels like a job for us, perhaps?’ says Elizabeth.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Chris.
‘Splendid,’ says Joyce. ‘I was hoping we were going to go to Canterbury.’
‘And the second phone call?’ Ibrahim asks.
‘About ten minutes after the call to Nina Mishra,’ says Donna. ‘But untraceable, so far.’
‘Untraceable,’ says Elizabeth. ‘No such thing.’
‘It comes back as “Code 777”,’ says Donna. ‘We see it from time to time.’
‘Ah,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Code 777,’ says Joyce. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Happens with high-end criminals,’ says Chris. ‘It’s blocking software, highly illegal, very expensive, but means you don’t have to keep buying burner phones.’
‘Probably from the dark web,’ says Ibrahim, nodding sagely.
‘So Kuldesh rings a professor,’ says Joyce. ‘And straight afterwards rings a high-end criminal?’
‘There will be other explanations,’ says Elizabeth.
‘I look forward to hearing them,’ says Chris.
‘There are two key questions,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Was Kuldesh trying to sell this heroin? And, if so, to whom?’
‘I don’t buy any of this,’ says Ron. ‘Sorry. Kuldesh gets a stash of heroin and decides to sell it? Nah. He’d be terrified. Someone else has come in and nicked it. I guarantee you. No way has Kuldesh stolen it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says a voice. ‘Couldn’t help overhearing.’
They turn to see Big Dave, the stranger from the funeral.
‘Only I think I was the last person to see him alive,’ says Big Dave.
‘When was this?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Evening of the 27th,’ says Big Dave. ‘About five. I was closing up, not much business that day.’
‘Did he say anything?’ asks Chris. ‘Tell you where he was going?’
‘Nah, he just wished me Merry Christmas,’ says Big Dave, buttoning up his coat. ‘And then he bought a spade.’
16
The journey home from the funeral had been full of theories. Rival drugs gangs, blackmailers. Ron, as always, wondering if the Mafia might be involved. But certain interesting questions remained. Why had Kuldesh not simply done as he was told? Why had he rung Nina Mishra? And who was the second call to? The Code 777 call? Elizabeth had brushed off Chris’s comment about criminals, but he was right. To have a number that leaves no trace is a very difficult undertaking. And is a tactic used by a very particular type of person.
And, key to it all, of course: where was the heroin now?
Elizabeth yawns, her long day done, and opens her front door.
Instantly she can tell something is wrong. Senses that something very bad has happened. This is a sense she has learned to trust.
The TV is off, that’s unusual. Stephen will sit and watch all day now. The History Channel. He used to tell her about what he watched, but not so much these days. Sometimes she will watch with him in the evening. It is mainly Nazis and Ancient Egypt. Not bad.
She slips off her coat and hangs it on one of the hooks in the hall. It is next to Stephen’s waxed Barbour jacket. The walks they used to take, the two of them. Yomping for hours, then a pub with a fire and a friendly dog, help Stephen with the crossword. Now they try for an hour a day, through the woods. No country fireplaces. Another thing lost, and so little left. She touches the sleeve of the jacket.
It is quiet, but Stephen must be here. There is a smell she has smelled before. Familiar, but from where?
Has Stephen fallen? Had a heart attack? Is she about to find him on the floor? Grey face and blue lips. Is this how it ends, this beautiful affair? With her strong man slumped on a carpet? With Elizabeth alone. Without a goodbye?
‘Elizabeth?’ Stephen’s voice, from behind the door of his office. Elizabeth nearly buckles in relief. She pushes the door open and there he is. He’s fully dressed, shaved, his hair neat, sitting at the desk he has worked at for years. Surrounded by his books – Islamic art, Middle Eastern antiquities, a shelf of Bill Bryson. For hours she would hear him in here, bashing away on an old word processor he refused to upgrade. She always teased him that he typed like an elephant, but she knew the joy behind it. How he loved his work, writing, lecturing, teaching, corresponding. What she would give to hear his galumphing typing again.
‘Hello, dear,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We don’t often find you in here?’
Stephen motions for Elizabeth to sit down. She sees he has a letter on his desk.
‘I want …’ starts Stephen. ‘If you don’t mind, that is, I want to read you a letter I was sent today?’
She sees the envelope on his desk. The post had come after Elizabeth had left. ‘Please,’ she says.
Stephen picks up the letter from his desk, but before he starts reading he looks straight at Elizabeth. ‘And I need you to be honest, if you understand? I need you to love me and be straight with me.’
Elizabeth nods. What else is there to do? Who has sent Stephen a letter? And about what? Kuldesh perhaps? A clue to his murder? A plea for help to an old friend?
Stephen begins to read. He used to read to her in bed. Dickens, Trollope. Jackie Collins when he was in the mood.
‘Dear Stephen,’ he begins. ‘This is a difficult letter to write, but I know it will be a great deal more difficult to read. I will come straight to it. I believe you are in the early stages of dementia, possibly Alzheimer’s.’
Elizabeth can hear her heart beating through her chest. Who on earth has chosen to shatter their privacy this way? Who even knows? Her friends? Has one of them written? They wouldn’t dare, not without asking. Not Ibrahim, surely? He might dare.
‘I am not an expert, but it is something I have been looking into. You are forgetting things, and you are getting confused. I know full well what you will say – “But I’ve always forgotten things. I’ve always been confused!” – and you are right, of course, but this, Stephen, is of a different order. Something is not right with you, and everything I read points in just one direction.’
‘Stephen,’ says Elizabeth, but he gently gestures for hush.
‘You must also know that dementia points in just one direction. Once you start to descend the slope, and please believe me when I say you have started, there is no return. There may be footholds here and there, there may be ledges on which to rest, and the view may still be beautiful from time to time, but you will not clamber back up.’
‘Stephen, who wrote you this letter?’ Elizabeth asks. Stephen holds up a finger, asking her to be patient a few moments more. Elizabeth’s fury is decreasing. The letter is something she should have written to him herself. This should not have been left to a stranger. Stephen starts again.
‘Perhaps you know all this already, perhaps you are sitting reading this asking, “Why is this blasted fool telling me what I already know?” But I have to write, because what if you don’t know? What if you are already too far down the slope to know the truth of your slide? If these words seem distant, I hope, at least, that they will ring a bell deep within you, that you will recognize the truth of what I am saying. And you know you can trust me.’
‘Trust who?’ says Elizabeth.