‘I can just see you, in the library,’ says Joyce. ‘Opposite a shy boy in glasses.’
‘Stop projecting, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth, looking out through the waiting-room window, across the stone buildings under silver skies. Students bunched and hunched against the cold, scurrying towards warmth. But Joyce is not to be stopped.
‘You catch his eye, and he blushes, and looks down at his book. His hair falls over his eyes, like Hugh Grant. You ask him what he’s reading …’
Through the window Elizabeth sees a young woman drop her books. In Joyce’s world, a fellow student would stop to pick them up for her, and their eyes would meet.
‘And he says, I don’t know, “A book about history,” or something, and you say, “Forget history, let’s talk about our future.”’
‘For goodness’ sake, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth. Annoyingly a handsome young man is now helping the woman pick up her books. She is tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
‘And you put your hand on the table, and he puts his hand on your hand. Then he slips off his glasses, and he’s very handsome, like Colin Firth, and he asks you to dinner.’ Joyce continues her story as the clumsy girl and the handsome boy go their separate ways. In Joyce’s world they would each glance over their shoulder, moments apart. Which is exactly what they do. Typical.
‘And you say no. But then you say, “I shall be here again tomorrow, and again the day after, and one day I shall say yes,” and he says, “I don’t even know your name,” and you say, “One day you will.”’
Elizabeth looks at her friend. ‘Have you been reading books again?’
‘Yes,’ admits Joyce.
The door opens and Elizabeth takes in Nina Mishra. Tall, elegant, an unnecessary purple streak in her hair, but she looks fun enough.
Nina smiles. ‘Elizabeth and Joyce? So sorry to have kept you.’
‘Not at all,’ says Elizabeth, standing. The appointment is taking place seven minutes late, and that is absolutely within the realms of acceptability. Twelve minutes is the cut-off for rudeness. Nina ushers them into her office and sits down behind her desk, as Elizabeth and Joyce take seats across from her.
‘I love the purple streak in your hair,’ says Joyce.
‘Thank you,’ says Nina. ‘I love your earrings.’
Elizabeth hadn’t noticed that Joyce was wearing earrings. They look fine.
‘You want to talk to me about Kuldesh?’ says Nina. ‘What a horrible shock. Were you friends?’
‘He was a friend of my husband,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Were you friends?’
‘He was a friend of my parents, really,’ says Nina. ‘But he would ask for favours from time to time. And, for Kuldesh, I would always say yes. He had that effect on people.’
‘Favours?’
‘Things he had come across,’ says Nina. ‘What was my view.’
‘As an historian?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘As a wise friend,’ says Nina. ‘Kuldesh was not always after my opinion on antiques. Sometimes … morality.’
‘So not so much valuations, as –’
‘It was more questions concerning’ – she is picking a word carefully – ‘provenance.’
‘They talk about provenance a lot on Antiques Roadshow,’ says Joyce.
‘Meaning, is this stolen?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Is it stolen?’ says Nina. ‘Is it too good to be true? What is it doing in England? Any time something didn’t seem right, he knew he could call on me. What does the law say? That’s one of my areas. And he trusts me. Trusts I would never tell.’
‘And how often were things not quite right?’
Nina smiles. ‘My parents were both dealers, Elizabeth. Unsuccessful ones. Far too honest. The world of antiques and antiquities is not always squeaky clean. My parents knew it, I know it, Kuldesh knows it.’
‘Knew it,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Oh, God, yes,’ says Nina. ‘Poor Kuldesh. Sorry.’
‘What did you speak about on the day he died?’
‘How do you know we spoke?’
‘We’re not always squeaky clean either,’ says Joyce.
‘But I promise we are friends,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And I promise we are not the police.’
‘Then who are you?’
‘We’re the Thursday Murder Club,’ says Joyce. ‘But we don’t have time to go into all that now, because we have to get the 4.15 train.’
Nina puffs out her cheeks. ‘Kuldesh asked how I was, we made small talk, I was in a hurry, I wish I hadn’t been now, so he got to the point and he said he had a problem I could perhaps help him with.’
‘A problem?’ says Elizabeth. ‘Those were his words?’
Nina thinks for a moment. ‘A dilemma, that’s what he said. A dilemma. He needed advice.’
‘Any sense of what the dilemma might have been?’
Nina shakes her head.
‘And if you had to guess?’
‘Here are the things it would normally be. Someone has brought in a piece Kuldesh knows is stolen. Should he buy it anyway?’
‘No,’ says Joyce.
‘Someone has brought in a valuable piece, and has no idea of the value. Should Kuldesh let them know what they have?’
‘Yes,’ says Joyce.
‘Or someone has asked Kuldesh to sell something, or to store something, and to keep it off the books.’
‘Money laundering,’ says Joyce. ‘Well, we know all about that.’
‘Do you now?’ says Nina.
‘And what did your instincts tell you this time?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘He’d never sounded quite like this before,’ says Nina. ‘So whatever it was, was serious.’
‘Or valuable,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Or valuable,’ agrees Nina. ‘But, if you want my instinct, I would say he was scared and excited.’
‘Like Alan when he sees a cow,’ says Joyce.
‘I suppose,’ says Nina. ‘It was more, “What have I got myself into?” than “You’ll never guess what I’ve just bought.”’
‘That’s very helpful, Nina,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Have you ever taken heroin, I wonder?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Heroin? Have you ever taken it? I notice you have a purple streak in your hair, perhaps you enjoy an alternative lifestyle?’
‘She’s charming, your friend,’ says Nina to Joyce.
‘She doesn’t understand fashion,’ says Joyce.
‘You think heroin was involved?’ Nina asks.
‘We think a man called Dominic Holt left a parcel of heroin at Kuldesh’s shop on the morning of the day he died,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Oh, Kuldesh,’ says Nina, and slumps a little in her chair.
‘Under sufferance, we think,’ says Elizabeth. ‘But, yes, even so.’
‘The next morning,’ says Joyce, ‘another man comes to pick up the parcel, but Kuldesh is nowhere to be seen.’
‘Kuldesh stole the heroin?’ asks Nina. ‘He wouldn’t be so stupid. Impossible, sorry. Impossible.’
‘And yet he was shot dead,’ says Elizabeth. ‘After having spoken to you, and, who knows, perhaps even arranging to meet you? And the missing heroin has yet to be found.’
‘So it does look a bit suspicious,’ says Joyce.
‘He didn’t arrange to meet you?’ asks Elizabeth.