Stone Cold (1/2)

A tall woman leaned against a Corinthian column, thumbing a message into her smartphone. With her untamed white corkscrew curls, nutmeg-colored skin, gamboge trenchcoat and mustard-yellow boots she cut a striking figure. Around her was a dimly lit classical antiquities museum crawling with police in black and white uniforms. Biting her lower lip and frowning with the effort of concentration, she struggled to summon the right words. It was five o’clock in the morning and cold as hell but this was urgent and she absolutely could not afford to mess this up.

It was vital to make sure that news of the deaths of Professors Simone Gess and Harry Jackson would break without creating an undue sensation. After typing and then deleting several phrases, she finally plumped for evasion: ‘Due to an unforeseen event….tragic loss to the archeological community…sorely missed.’

Anyone might think that their deaths, though unexpected, were run-of-the-mill: a car accident, perhaps, or an avalanche on a skiing holiday. A bit misleading, but there were reputations at stake, after all. The National Museum of Antiquities relied on public patronage and private donations. If the media found out that anything so unusually horrible as (for example) human sacrifice had occurred in such an institution, difficult questions would need to be answered.

As the museum’s director, Gillian Harper was not prepared to answer such questions, not yet. For the moment it was as much as she could do to press ‘send’, her hand was shaking so much.

Gess and Jackson were the power couple of British archeology—between them they’d helmed prestigious book deals, TV shows, speaking gigs. There was even a pair of action figures made in their likeness, available for ten pounds each at the museum gift shop. Whenever one of them was booked to present any special exhibit, the event would be sold out months in advance. They were friendly with royals, rock stars, politicians, philosophers. For god’s sake, there was even a biopic in the works.

And now they were dead. In hermuseum. It could not be more awful. A wave of self pity crashed into her gut with the force of a unusually violent wave.

Her phone jangled, a modern rendering of Gilgamesh.

“Angie? Thank God you’re there!” she burst out. “It was the night guard that found them; doing his first round, in the Mesopotamian hall. He called me on my home number. In all my time as director—fifteen years now—that has never happened so I knew straight away something was seriously wrong. It was grisly,” she shuddered. “I don’t need to tell you that this is going to be a catastrophe if it gets out in public. I want it sorted as soon as possible and frankly I have pretty low confidence in the plodding pc’s. Do you know anyone? That’s F-I-S-H-E-R? Can you text me the number? Eight o’clock? Wonderful. You’re a true angel, in more than name.”

At eight o’clock in the morning Gillian’s doorbell rang twice.

She opened the door. She frankly stared at the creature in front of her. She’d not had a wink of sleep and had no idea who or what this person was. A fresh-faced kid, bespectacled, dressed in a kind of old army overcoat and scuffed brown oxfords, was holding a folded scooter in one hand. A girl guide maybe? Or a boy scout?

“Hello?” Gillian asked, with some irritability.

“My name is Fisher. Adrian Fisher, the private detective.” The kid’s voice was high and clear, worthy of the Vienna Boys’ Choir.

“You?”

“Yes ma’am,” Adrian pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, down which they’d slipped.

“Wait here please,” Gillian said and shut the door in her face. Hastily, she called Angie.

“It’s me. What is going on? That detective you recommended has shown up. Is this a prank? Because I am really not in the mood for pranks right now. My job’s on the line...A bit young? A bit…They’re twelve at most! She’s the best? I don’t care! I doubt if it’s even legal to discuss what happened with someone that young.”

Angie’s voice squeaked along for a minute, the sharp tone managing to silence Gillian, who listened, frowning and sceptical, chewing her lip. Finally, she sighed.

“Seriously, I have my doubts. If it were anyone else I would not be doing this but … you haven’t lied to me yet. But if your detective starts sucking on a lollipop she’s out.”

Gillian returned to the door, opened it and led Adrian Fisher into an opulent sitting room.

“Glass of water? Tea? Coffee?” She resisted saying ‘sippy cup.’

“No, thanks,” Adrian chirped. “I breakfasted earlier. Waffles. My absolute fave.”

Gillian winced.

“Right. Well. I’ve heard that you solve problems. And I have a very serious problem right now. If you can deal with it then I will pay you very well.”

Adrian nodded, then smiling, put her head on one side.

“I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of it all. But before we get down to brass tacks, what would you feel comfortable with me calling you?”

“Pardon?” said Gillian.

“How should I address you? I always like to check with my clients first. Ms.? Doctor? Miss? One lady insisted on ‘Madam’, which I thought was rather humorous,” she guffawed.

“Just Gillian,” the museum director answered coldly.

Adrian nodded wisely.

“Understood. Formality dispensed with. I’m Adrian. Shake on it?”

Gillian did not proffer her hand. Adrian shrugged.

“One more thing, Gillian, what are your expected outcomes from our relationship?”

“Stop it,” said Gillian.

“Stop what?” Adrian looked surprised.

“There is no relationship. You’re here to find out what happened in my museum last night. That’s it. I am paying you money, you’re here to solve a crime.”

“Oh,” said Adrian. “I see. You feel threatened. That’s OK.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You feel threatened because I’m relatively young. I get that all the time. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” Adrian smiled disarmingly.

Gillian took two deep breaths.

“Look, I admit you seem very young to be involved in homicide investigations but Angela told me your credentials are excellent so that’s good enough for me. it’s Let’s get started, shall we?”

“Sounds great,” said Adrian. “First up, what actually happened?”

“You don’t know anything about it?” Gillian said with some alarm.

“Not yet. Tell me everything,” Adrian drew her legs up under her so she sat cross-legged on the Chesterfield, her elbows resting on her knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes closed. “Take your time.”

Gillian gritted her teeth. According to Angie, this odd pixie had a reputation as being ‘Scotland Yard’s secret weapon’. She’d believe it when she saw it.

“Two very important professors were murdered in the National Museum of Antiquities last night. At three o’clock in the morning I got a call from a security guard telling me that he’d found the couple dead in the Mesopotamian hall. They’d been stripped naked, bound hand and food, placed on a stone altar and had their throats cut with a Sumerian dagger. Flowers had been strewn around them. In short, the murder appeared to have a ritual character.”

“Any idea why they were in the museum?”

“That’s easily explained. I hired them to do a special after-hours tour of the museum for a group of five VIP guests. The tour started at 10 o’clock and ended at midnight. My colleague Angela had arranged for a chauffeur to pick them both up outside the museum gates at 12.15. She called him later on to check that the pick-up had gone well and he said yes, he’d taken a well dressed couple who’d requested that instead of taking them home as arranged, he should drop them at King’s Cross Station. Clearly, the fellow doesn’t watch Lost in Time or he’d have figured out that they were frauds.”

“Anyway, the next thing I know, the security guard is calling me at two o’clock in the morning to say the museum has turned into a slaughterhouse.”

Adrian nodded.

“I’m guessing that the Mesopotamians didn’t actually sacrifice people in that way? At least I’ve never heard of it happening…”

“Oh no, you’re right; historically it’s rubbish,” Gillian said.

“Who were the VIP guests on this tour?”

“The actress Rita Davies, the backbencher Sir Omar al-Zamir, the footballer Titi Bajo, the pop singer Bowie Jangles and a Visiting Scholar of Assyriology at Cambridge Marie Laurent.”

“Never ’eard of them,” said Adrian cheerfully.

“Yes, well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Gillian muttered.

“And why were they there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are they all Assyria buffs? Or was it some special occasion?”

“Oh, I see. It was a promotional sort of thing: Stars at the Museum. We were filming it.”

“There was a film crew?”

“Yes, a small one. Two guys basically.”

“Anyone else in the building?”

“There was a security guard posted at the gate.”

“How did the guests come and go?”

“They took their own transport. I don’t know exactly when they left or how but it’ll be recorded on CCTV. ”

“I’ll need to see that footage,” Adrian said decisively. “And what about in the Mesopotamian Hall—is there footage from there?”

“Whoever it was managed to stay out of sight of the camera.”

“Which means they knew where it was.”

Adrian took a Rubik’s cube out of her coat pocket and started playing with it. In two minutes she’d solved the combination.

“That’s amazing,” said Gillian.

“What? Oh this. It’s a habit. It helps me think. Listen, I need to get into the museum tonight. To stay there. Is that possible?”

“Well, if it’s clues you’re looking for, wouldn’t it be better to do it in the day time? The museum’s closed anyway. Why do you need to go at night?”

“Clues! I don’t do clues Gillian. Basically, I need to be there at the same time it happened.”

“Why?”

“To recreate the atmospheric conditions. Also, do you have a popcorn maker?”

To be continued…