Murder on the Hill (3 page)

“Oh?”

“You see, this business”—Cordi widened her arms to indicate the house—“was left to me fifteen years ago when my parents were tragically killed in a motor accident. They, like me, were finders, travelling all over Europe and America to find pieces for films and collectors.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. And I truly was. “I didn’t know my parents. They died when I was a toddler—cancer.” God, I hated coming out with all this personal stuff to a stranger, but the woman gave me cake and I felt like relating.

There was something about her, this hidden wildness, and her tragic past that I couldn’t help but be all Hollywood Formula and relate to.

“Seems we have something in common, then,” Cordi said. She reached out and placed her hand on my wrist and squeezed. I resisted the temptation to pull away.

“So, this business and the house were left to me. My aunt helped me as best she could, but it’s always been a struggle. You can tell by the state of the place that organisation and keeping up with technology isn’t my forte.”

“It’s not so bad,” I said, out of politeness.

“That’s rubbish,” she said, giggling. “The place is a disaster zone.”

We both smiled at that.

Her sudden outburst caught me by surprise. I was starting to like this woman. “So, is this like a job trial?” I said, pointing to the box.

“If you would like it to be. I do need someone to replace my aunt, and preferably someone who knows computers and the Internet. I’ve been so busy doing this job the old way, I’ve never learned all that techy stuff. That’s one of the main reasons why Mr. Lockland recommended you. He said you were really smart with all that stuff.”

“I’m not bad,” I said.

Truth of the matter was that I was more than just not bad. Remember Henzo that I mentioned earlier? I spent two years in Tokyo learning from him. Henzo was and remains the only hacker to have ever gotten into the private servers of the
kōanchōsa-chō
, or PSIA: Public Security Intelligence Agency—the main intelligence organisation for Japan.

What did he do while in there? Sell secrets on the open market? Take down the government?

Nah, he left his résumé and a contact number.

They called him within the hour and employed him as their chief of cyber security. Henzo was one smart dude. He passed on a few nuggets of knowledge to me.

“So,” Cordelia said, sitting back in her chair. “How do you fancy investigating this wee object as part of your trial?”

Everything about the situation was telling me to turn away, leave it alone, but looking at the doru, the small, fat Buddha-looking doll in beige-coloured stone, I couldn’t help but consider Mr. Bellman. There had to be a reason for it.

“I don’t mean to be crass, but is there…”

“Payment? You’ll be paid, of course,” Cordelia said. “Could you start today?”

Before I could answer, her phone rang. She fished it out of her trouser pocket. “Hello? … oh my…” Her shoulders slumped. She lost the colour in her face. Nodding, she muttered, “I understand… that really is tragic. I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do… of course, I’ll look into it. Don’t hesitate to ring me. Okay, take care.”

Cordi hung up the phone and looked off into the distance.

I leaned forward. “Bad news?”

Her lips trembled, her voice cracked. “Mr. Bellman’s wife… she’s…”

“Dead?”

Cordi nodded and gripped her cup of coffee. Tears welled up in her eyes. “They’re saying heart attack, natural causes. She passed away this morning while Mr. Bellman was at work. He hadn’t even known until he arrived home a short while ago.” She turned back to look at me, her expression full of doubt as her gaze dropped to the doru, then back to me.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m in, if I can find a place to stay. I’m afraid I’m… between residences at the moment.”

Cordi gave me a knowing look, clearly understanding that I was essentially homeless.

“Nonsense, we’ll make room for you here. You’re welcome to stay until you find other arrangements.”

At least I had secured a roof over my head for the night, and there was cake. “Thank you, for everything,” I said, picking up the doru. “I suppose I best get to work.”

I held up the little statue in my hand, looking at it in the light.

The damned cat, Monty, leapt up onto the table and swiped a paw at my hand, knocking the doru out of my grip.

It fell to the table, bounced once, slipped through my groping hand, and crashed against the tiled floor, smashing into lots of little pieces. My mouth fell open. I held my breath, unable to believe what had just happened.

The cat meowed and darted across the table, knocking into the cake tin before diving off the table and dashing out through the cat flap. Stupid beast!

“My word, I’m so sorry,” I said, standing over the shattered remains.

“Wait,” Cordi said, slipping off her chair and crouching over the fragments. She fished her hand through the remains and picked up a small object from the middle of the shattered pieces. She held it up to the light. “Is that a…”

“Gemstone,” I finished. “A black diamond.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes!”

CHAPTER 3

A black diamond! I couldn’t believe it.

It was worth a small fortune, and I knew Cole would be able to find a buyer for it. If we sold it, I’d be able to get Ivanov off my back for good and start a new life.

Perhaps even use the money to help find my siblings.

Although my parents were dead, I knew I had four siblings—three sisters and a brother—but that was as far as my investigations had reached.

I couldn’t get through to anyone within Social Services who would help, and I didn’t have enough money to hire a private investigator to track them down. All I had of them was a worn photograph I kept in my wallet.

When I was five years old, someone delivered a letter to me at my first foster home. It included nothing but a photograph of me as a baby with my three sisters and brother—all older than me. The words, “You’re not alone,” were scrawled on the back.

Over the years, that message hadn’t helped, as I’ve often felt alone, but not today. I’d made a new friend in Cordelia, and there was this shiny diamond offering all kinds of opportunities.

“I best put this somewhere safe,” Cordi said. “I’ll call Mr. Bellman first thing tomorrow, if he’s up to it, and see if we can shed some light on all this. There is the chance that Mrs. Bellman’s death isn’t actually related to this and it’s just an awful coincidence.”

I zoned out after the words, “Put this somewhere safe.” I considered just snatching it from Cordi’s hand and making a run for it, but before I could act, she stood up and walked out into the bomb site that was her living room.

Rattling and fussing later, Cordi appeared back in the kitchen.

“Are you okay, dear?” Cordi said, offering her hand to me to help me up off the floor.

“I’m fine, just a little tired and freaked out with all this terrible business,” I said, trying not to show her my disappointment that she’d secured the diamond somewhere in the labyrinth of junk.

“It’s quite the mystery, that’s for sure.”

“So what now?” I asked. It was getting on for early evening. I was supposed to be working for her, but I had no clue of what to do next. I hadn’t dealt with a dead body before—whether it was natural causes or not.

“Well,” Cordi said, flicking the switch on the kettle, “if you want to go out to my car and bring in my laptop, you can show me your skills in finding some information on this doru. I’ll dig out my catalogues and see if I can find anything on the diamond.”

Cordi tossed her car keys to me.

“Sounds like as good a plan as any,” I said.

Going through the claustrophobic corridors of the house, I approached the living room. I looked behind me to make sure Cordi couldn’t see. The piles of crap and shelves of books completely obscured the view from the kitchen.

The living room was much like the hallway: overwhelmed by the weight of shelves and cupboards, all overflowing with one thing or another.

There was even a clothes rack full of old ball gowns that I assumed came from some ancient film. A dozen clocks ticked out of sync, and a beam of light, breaking through the large bay window, cut a slice through the gloom, illuminating the thick dust.

I held my breath and stepped further in, being careful not to step on anything, all the while trying to figure out where Cordi had stashed the diamond. I was hoping to see an obvious safe or something, but no such luck.

There was just too much stuff.

“Are you okay?” Cordi yelled from the kitchen. “The front door can stick in the frame sometimes. If you’re having a problem, just give it a kick. The laptop’s in the boot, by the way, in a black leather bag. It’ll be under some papers probably.”

“Got it, Cordi,” I shouted, having left the living room. I’d start my search again later.

For now, I supposed I’d better at least help with Mr. Bellman’s mystery, and I stepped outside.

The weather was just how I liked it: warm enough to chase away the blues, but not so hot that you had to deal with sweaty boobs and crotch. The street was quiet. Little traffic and fewer pedestrians.

A few doors down, on the opposite side, a cashmere-sweater-and-pearl-wearing woman stood outside her town house, smoking a cigarette.

She caught my eye, and I waved a welcome. She turned her nose up and looked away.

Classy.

Ignoring her, I pressed the button on the car’s key fob and the boot opened.

The light inside illuminated the interior, showing me that Cordi’s crazy-person system of organisation had extended to her car.

Papers and boxes filled the space.

I rolled up my sleeves and began my first automobile archaeological dig. I feared what I might be touching as I groped around trying to find the laptop amongst all the crap. I leaned further in, one foot off the ground, when finally, with my fingertips, I felt what might be a laptop bag.

But before I could grab it, I smelled cigarettes wafting on the wind, and the light from outside turned to shadow. A hand grabbed my ass and pushed me into the boot.

“Hey,” I yelled, but too late.

The boot lid slammed shut, locking me in darkness, my body crunched up against the boxes and papers. The lid had hit my head and I felt a swelling starting to develop. I kicked out and slapped the underside of the boot, yelling and screaming.

The smell of cigarettes made me think of the posh woman from up the road—was it her that did this, but why? I tried to focus on my breathing, slowing it down and avoiding using up all the air or hyperventilating. It was just someone being an ass, it had to be.

I’d be let out any minute…

The engine started, rumbling through the car, and then we were moving.

I tried to recall the turns, but I quickly got disorientated. After a short drive the car stopped, and I heard footsteps approach.

The boot lid sprang open, the sudden change of light blinding me. A hand reached and grabbed my wrists, pulling me out. I collapsed awkwardly out of the boot onto hard, concrete ground, skinning my knees.

A pair of heavy, black boots and jeans obscured my vision. Beyond those massive tree-trunk legs, I saw they had taken me to some kind of industrial area. The worst thing was that beyond this sparse place, I saw nothing but trees behind a high chain-link fence.

A chill crawled down my back, and my stomach lurched with fear. I’d seen gangster films. I knew these places were often used to whack some perp.

The hand finally let go of my wrist. Another figure approached. I got to my feet and leaned back against the car.

There in front of me was Frankie—Ivanov’s head goon—wearing a perverted leer as he looked me up and down. I shivered at the thought of his hands on me and tried to pull my shirt closed, three of the buttons having popped off during the struggle.

“My dear, sweet little thief,” came the voice from my right-hand side. I didn’t need to look to know who it was— Anton Ivanov.

My faced jerked to the side as my cheek bloomed with pain. Frankie had slapped me. My eyes filled with tears. I blinked them free as I rubbed my face. “I’ll give you that one for free, Frankie,” I said, trying to show it didn’t hurt, and failing.

“Now, now,” Ivanov said. “This is all rather unnecessary, don’t you think, Harley?”

His great bulk blocked out my vision, making me feel like a trapped rabbit. His buzz-cut hair and tanned, scarred face were the picture of someone who had fought ruthlessly to get where he was.

Although not an especially tall man, his cruel eyes and barrel chest spoke of someone who could, and would quite happily, do unspeakable things to people in order to get his way.

“You’re early,” I said pathetically. “I’ve four more days to pay you.”

“I know that,” Ivanov replied, leaning in closer so I could smell the scotch and stale cigars on his breath. “Are you suggesting I can’t work a calendar? Are you saying my time-keeping is wanting, Harley?”

“Of course not, it’s just…”

He shook his head, a silent warning for me to shut my stupid mouth before I antagonised him further.

“Listen,” he said, placing a great gorilla paw of a hand on my shoulder. It looked as though it could crush my head like a melon. “Frankie here tells me you’ve hooked up with some woman to investigate an incident at Bellman’s jewellery store.”

Despite his excellent English, his Russian accent gave him that Soviet-esque harshness.

I remained silent, thinking it to be the best course of action. He didn’t need my confirmation; he’d obviously had Frankie follow me and knew what I was up to.

“That presents quite the opportunity, don’t you think?” he asked.

“I… I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, playing dumb. Of course I knew what he was referring to.

“It’s quite poetic, is it not? You steal diamonds from me, and just a few weeks later, you’re on a legitimate job with access to a jeweller. One could say this is karma looking out for me. And being the open-minded fellow that I am, it would be remiss of me not to take advantage of this good fortune to the fullest.”