The Sudoku Inheritance

Part I - Foreplay

"I've seen you somewhere, haven't I?"  

"Oh, please," she said in exasperation, "that's so corny." 

But I had. "The Game Fair, Earls Court, last month." 

She seemed momentarily startled but quickly regained her disdain. "I can assure you I have no interest in partridge, pheasant, quail or any other sort of game. It's barbaric. A rich man's obscene sport." A pause. "It's left here." 

Ha! A reaction. Now we were making progress. I slowed to take the turn, deliberately taking my time. 

The Game Fair wasn't about meat and wasn't actually held in the big exhibition hall at Earls Court. Rather, it was a competition between a bunch of gaming geeks and computer nerds in a small meeting hall about two streets away; and it wasn't a big glam and glitzy affair sponsored by the heavyweights like Microsoft and Sony, it was more in the crisps and lager league. In reality, it was a bunch of ballsy guys and gals trying to outwit each other in front of thousands - well, maybe a few hundred - enthusiastic, noisy onlookers. There were no material prizes only the satisfaction of winning and the adulation of the crowd when us victors suddenly gained a following of groupie girls. Unfortunately a Chinese girl of about sixteen with a body like a weightlifter wearing thick tortoiseshell glasses had pursued me ruthlessly until I beat a hasty retreat for home. 

I explained the setup to Jasmine. 

"Playing games all day seems like a total waste of time to me," she said. 

I considered a robust defence but decided to keep my ammo dry for now. My winner's boast at the fair, Games and girls are the same - keep trying and eventually you'll beat them into submission probably wouldn't be my best line right now. We drove a little further in silence whilst I constructed a new gambit. But too late. 

"Here is fine, by the stone pillars," she said, and opened the car door even before I'd pulled tardily to a halt. 

She collected her stuff from the boot and refused all help. "I can manage," she said, adding a reluctant, "Thank you." 

"Not at all, I was just..." Hoping? 

And she melted into the black night, back to Mount Olympus, or wherever else goddesses go on a miserable wet evening. 

Chapter 2.  

Back at my place, I slewed into the underground car park with a delicious squeal of tyres on the wet painted floor. I gathered my bags and noticed she had left a document folder in the boot. I dismissed the idea of driving straight back to her place as I didn't know exactly where she lived, but the real reason was that the folder may have contained some useful insights into this enigmatic woman - like an address. 

I walked through the marble-lined concierge and nodded to George at the desk, "Evening, Mr Spitz," he said, and I took the lift to the top floor and entered my apartment. 

I could see from the living room window that the rain clouds were dispersing and the sun had long since turned in for the night, leaving its dusky red dressing gown hanging outside its door. The last of the day's yachtsmen were fighting the strong ebb and making for a safe haven in Poole harbour. The full moon was beginning to assert its supremacy of the evening sky and shone like a searchlight across the bay, silhouetting the occasional night fisherman on Bournemouth beach, eight floors below me. It was this view that had sold the penthouse flat to me: from the Needles staunchly defending the approach to the Isle of Wight in the east, to Old Harry rocks in the west, where the Purbecks kissed the sea. Brand new - no detritus from previous tenants engrained in the woodwork. Of course, the thirty percent discount that I had negotiated from the struggling builders had helped to swing it - amazing what a wad of ready cash can do when waved at people facing bankruptcy, that and the compelling logic of my argument that if the penthouse was sold then punters would have faith in the rest of the project.