The Book With No Name (22 page)

Jensen had been sitting in the office tapping away on his laptop for most of the day with absolutely no success whatsoever. He had access to files and information about the general public that might well have been considered a gross invasion of privacy, had anyone other than a handful of high-grade Government employees known about them. He had been checking through all the data he could find regarding the five murder victims whose deaths he had been sent to investigate, and finally, after what had been a painstaking search that had yielded not so much as a sniff of a lead, he now had something.

And it was good. So very good. But it was also extremely random. That’s what made Jensen so damn good at his job. He would check every single possible avenue of investigation, no matter how unlikely the chances of finding anything. Employment records for the deceased had brought up nothing. Clubs the victims had frequently attended, nothing. Known acquaintances – again, nothing. So what had Jensen found that linked all the five victims?

Somers had been out of the office for much of the morning, chasing up leads and drinking coffee, most likely. When he returned, coffee in hand, he was greeted by the sight of a very smug-looking Miles Jensen sitting in his own chair behind his own desk, no less.

‘You’d better have a damn good reason for sitting there looking so pleased with yourself,’ said Somers, putting the container of coffee down on the desk and pulling up the chair that Jensen usually sat in.

‘Today’s category is horror movies,’ said Jensen, smiling.

‘
Copycat
or
The Ring?
’

‘
The Ring,
obviously.’ Somers answered without a second’s thought. ‘
Copycat
was that low-grade serial-killer movie where any film buff worth his salt will spot the killer in the opening scene before the credits have finished rolling.’

‘Really?’ Jensen sounded surprised. ‘I don’t remember that bit.’

‘Oh yeah. William McNamara, who was a real up-and-coming actor at the time, was in the opening scene among a whole load of extras. I remember watching it and thinking, why the hell would a guy who’s been the lead in several smaller pictures be sitting with a load of extras unless he’s going to be the surprise killer later on? I was right, too, not that it ruined the film particularly. I believe the director did that.’

‘Well, I’ve gotta say I thought
Copycat
was a pretty good film with a fair bit that was original, despite what the title might suggest.’

‘You surely don’t think it’s better than
The Ring,
though? Right?’ questioned Somers.

‘Well, I always thought
The Ring
was a bit far-fetched, but you know what? About twenty minutes ago I guess I changed my tune.’

Somers tilted his head to one side and began to run a hand through his silver hair, as he often did when thinking. He looked intrigued.

‘Go on. What have you found? Don’t tell me all our victims have watched a videotape and then died within seven days?’

‘Not quite,’ said Jensen, throwing a bunch of papers on to the desk in front of him. Somers reached out and picked them up.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘Library records.’

‘
Library records?
’ He put them back on the desk as though they were hot.

‘Yep. Each of the first five victims has taken out the same book from the City Library. They’re the only five people ever
to have taken this book out. So, effectively, everyone who has ever read it is dead.’

Somers didn’t look convinced. ‘What about all the other libraries and bookstores that stock this book?’ he asked. ‘Surely our killer can’t bump off everyone who’s bought their own copy, or borrowed it from another library?’

‘Don’t you want to know what book it is?’ Jensen raised his eyebrows to imply that he was surprised Somers hadn’t already asked.

‘Let me guess. Is it Victoria Beckham’s autobiography?’

‘Nope. That would only make sense if these killings had been suicides.’

‘True,’ smiled Somers. ‘Go on. What book is it?’

Jensen leaned forward and pointed to a line halfway down the top page of the sheaf of papers he had put in front of Somers. His partner picked them up again and took a look at where he was pointing.

‘
The Mighty Blues?
’

‘No, the one below it,’ said Jensen, pressing his finger down harder on the page.

‘
The Highly Embarrassing Goat?
’

‘Nope,’ said Jensen pressing his finger even harder. ‘The one above that.’

Somers glanced up. He had an irritated look on his face. Then, as if realization had dawned on him a little later than it should have, he looked back down, his face losing its frown as he did so. He stared at where Jensen was pointing. At first sight it looked as though
The Mighty Blues
was followed on the list by
The Highly Embarrassing Goat,
but upon closer inspection there was a blank entry in between, with alongside it the name of an author listed as ‘Anon.’

The Mighty Blues
Sam McLeod Anon.

The Highly Embarrassing Goat
Richard Stoodley

Life On The Game
Ginger Taylor

‘Is that a book with no name?’ he asked.

‘I think so,’ said Jensen. ‘The top sheet you’re holding there is a list of all the books taken out by Kevin Lever. The sheets below list all the books taken out by the other victims. They’ve all borrowed this untitled book by an anonymous author. We need to find that book.’

‘Jensen, you’re a genius.’

‘No, I’m just lucky enough to have access to a shitload of confidential files the existence of which most people would consider to be a blatant breach of human rights.’

Somers tutted quietly under his breath. ‘That may be true, my friend,’ he said, ‘but when used correctly for the greater good, that sort of file can save lives. The person ripping tongues and eyes out of his victims’ heads is the one breaching human rights, don’t you think?’ He thought it sounded a bit sententious, even to him, but it was more or less right.

‘Can’t argue with that.’

Somers flicked through the pages of library listings for the other murder victims. There were records for only five victims, though, a point that he had overlooked when Jensen first mentioned the book. He didn’t want to tread on the other’s success, but he had to ask. ‘So what about Thomas and Audrey Garcia? Or Elvis, for that matter? Did they not rent this book out?’

‘That’s our one problem,’ Jensen admitted. ‘None of those three was a member of the library. They haven’t taken out any books. So our killer must have had a different reason for killing them. We’ve kind of established a motive for killing Elvis anyway, so let’s forget about him.’

Somers shook his head. He – they – had to be certain, so he pressed on. ‘Maybe this is nothing. Maybe it’s just a mistake with the library records. You know, a typo or something. Perhaps there are several books that come up on the system with no title or author. Maybe they …’

Jensen butted in. ‘Nah. I told you. I checked
all
the records. These are the only five people to have taken out a book with no name, by an anonymous author, from the City Library. It’s too much of a coincidence. Maybe Tom and Audrey knew
one of the other victims and saw the book without having borrowed it themselves.’

‘Didn’t you check to see if the victims were linked in other ways, though?’

‘Yeah. Nothing came up, but who knows what I’ll find if I keep digging?’

‘You keep digging then, Jensen. And don’t stop ’til you find our killer. Hey! What is it?’

Jensen had been intermittently tapping away at his laptop at Somers’s desk while talking to the older man, but now he was sitting motionless, staring open-mouthed at his monitor.

‘Somers,’ he said excitedly, ‘I think I may have just done exactly that!’

Somers sat up straight and dropped the library listings on to the table. ‘What is it?’ he asked again. ‘What’ve you found?’

‘You’re not gonna believe this. According to my records, in the time we’ve been talking, someone else has taken out the book with no name. We just got ourselves a lead!’

Somers stood up, unable to contain his excitement. ‘Who? What’s his name?’

Jensen peered closely at the screen on his laptop. ‘It’s a woman. The name is Annabel de Frugyn.’

‘
Annabel de Frugyn
? What the hell kind of a name is that?’

‘A stupid one, you ask me. Hang on, let me see if I can pull up an address.’

Jensen tapped away on his keyboard frantically. Every time he pressed ‘enter’ and stopped typing for a second he frowned a little more.

‘What is it? Ain’t there no address?’ Somers asked impatiently.

Jensen ignored him and carried on tapping away at the keys for about thirty seconds, tutting and frowning every now and again. At last he spoke. ‘Nothing. I got nothing. This person, this Annabel character, has no address. I don’t believe it: a book with no name, written by an anonymous author,
and it’s been lent out to someone with no address. What are the odds?’

Somers shook his head and leaned towards Jensen. He grabbed hold of the edge of the desk tightly with both hands until his fingers went white. He was clearly frustrated.

‘The odds on Annabel de Frugyn staying alive get slimmer every second she has that book in her possession. We’ve got to find her before she gets killed. You do what you can with your bag of tricks to find an address for her. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way and ask around town. Someone must know who Annabel de Frugyn is. Let’s just thank our lucky stars we’re not looking for a John Smith.’

‘You got it,’ said Jensen. ‘First one to find the address wins. Loser’s a pussy and buys the drinks, right?’

Somers was already marching out of the office.

‘I’ll have a coffee. Black, two sugars,’ he growled.

Dante and Kacy would have gone straight to the pawnshop and got rid of the stone if they could, but there was a slight problem. The place had closed down. What to do next? It seemed crazy just to throw the stone away, especially as it was probably pretty valuable.

The best idea Dante could come up with was to take it to a gentleman of his acquaintance who worked at the Santa Mondega Museum of Art and History. Professor Bertram Cromwell was an old friend of Dante’s father and had been kind enough to fix him up with his ill-fated job at the museum. Dante had grown to like Bertram Cromwell during his short time working there, and had felt extremely guilty for letting him down when he’d been dismissed after the unfortunate vase-breaking incident. Cromwell hadn’t held it against him, however, and had been good enough to give the young man a reference when he had applied for the job at the hotel. For this Dante would always be grateful, for it had saved him from heading back home to Ohio with his tail between his legs.

Upon first meeting him, Dante had not been able to help noticing how much Cromwell looked exactly how he had expected a professor to look. He had immaculately combed wavy white hair, thin, narrow glasses that he peered over when he was talking to any of his staff, and about a hundred different suits, expensively hand-made. He was probably in his late fifties, but he had the look and swagger of a man ten years his junior. Being so obviously well educated, he was never less than polite, and he had the knack of being friendly without seeming in the least bit condescending. He was definitely one
of those people that Dante wanted to be like if he was rich or clever. At the moment he was poor and cunning, which wasn’t really the same.

The museum was one of the largest buildings in Santa Mondega, taking up an entire block on the main street. It was a large white building, eight storeys high, built in the Federal style. Hanging along the front of the façade were flags from every country in the world. One of the impressive things about the Santa Mondega Museum of Art and History was that it contained something representative of every country in the world, whether a priceless work of art or a simple sea shell.

Dante and Kacy made their way up the three long white concrete steps at the front of the building and then through a set of glass revolving doors that took them into the reception area. Professor Bertram Cromwell was in a large room full of paintings to the left of the reception hall. He was finishing off a guided tour he had been giving to a group of students. There were about fifteen of them, and they were busying themselves by constantly taking photographs rather than listening to anything Cromwell had to say about the paintings they were being shown. Dante recognized that Cromwell was coming towards the end of the tour. He knew how much the Professor hated giving talks to ignorant tourists who declined to listen, but, professional that he was, he would see it through to the end without missing a single piece of educational information. Nevertheless, he would no doubt be looking forward to this tour ending so that his torture at the hands of all the flashing cameras would be over.