Say what one will about the NHS, one couldn't dispute the decadent pleasure of heated flannel blankets.
Though her head felt as though it was slowly being pried in two with a rusted crowbar, the splitting starting at the back and ending in the centre of her forehead, Mona was otherwise unscathed and the soothing warmth of the brown and white blanket cocooned her in a steaming bath of soft fabric. Her room, private and paid for in cash courtesy of John's efficiency, was full to bursting with an array of colourful flowers, and though the riot of beauty would have otherwise made her heart sing, the combination of strong scents were only making her terrible headache worse. Grace, as usual, had shown up with a ragged bouquet clutched in her grip, the sad daisies within it wilting, the leaves the spindly stalks bent and bruised.
"Get a vase for those," Mona murmured. She placed her hand across her eyes, shutting out the bright morning sunlight and Grace's propensity to open windows and curtains when they should have stayed shut. "Daisies are my favourite. It would be a shame to see their brief life cut so short because of your silly, sweaty palms."
Grace was too choked with emotion to speak properly, and Mona allowed her the soft moment, her hand clasped in Grace's as the flowers were whisked away by John who miraculously found a suitable vase within minutes. "I'm not sure what happened after we went into the cellar, so you're not going to get a whole hell of a lot
of notes from me, I'm afraid. But you can jot down that Arthur Billingsworth III and his entire family are a pile of creeps whom I will never visit in either a work or social capacity again. Pour me a glass of water, won't you, Grace? Dear me, look at the way your hand trembles, you're going to spill it all over the place. Just relax. I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine."
But emotion was wearing Grace down and though she was a true bloodhound of a copper there was no mistaking that this particular case had hit too close to home. Mona didn't dare ask how the vicar was doing. The last thing she remembered was falling down the stairs and the vicar lying in a large, circular puddle, unconscious.
The sight of his life's blood seeping onto the dirt floor in black mud was still making Mona feel queasy.
"The vicar is fine," Grace assured her, not needing the question asked and for this Mona was grateful. "He's in the same boat as you, pretty bad concussion and a broken collarbone, but he'll fully recover, as will you.
You're damned lucky, you silly cow. You should have called me! You never should have gone in that cellar alone!"
Mona let out a huff of frustration. "Right, because it was so painfully obvious that Arthur was into corpse twaddle. Don't look at me like that, I feel sick enough without you dry-heaving at my side." Grace held out a glass of water for her, and Mona refused to take it, gesturing instead that she leave it on the side table beside her bed. "It needs ice. Why don't you go and have a little walk to clear your head a bit, you're not yourself at all, you're usually reprimanding me non-stop at this point. No, my darling woman, retirement is not yet on the table. I need a good cup of tea more than tepid, stale water. Two sugars, organic if they have it, and a slice of lemon."
Grace sniffed at this, and wiped an unshed tear from her eye. "Can't gather why you like your tea like
that. Putting lemon it makes it taste like Windex."
"Just get me a cup of tea."
"Cures all ills don't it?" Grace roughly sniffed again, and then leaned over to give Mona a gentle kiss that left her body longing and her head reeling in thumping pain. "Back in a few. I'll get one for you, too, John."
John gave a nod of acknowledgement and Grace slipped out of the room, leaving John and Mona alone together. She propped herself up on her pillows with effort, the headache and residual aches from the fall down the cellar stairs poking her in odd places. She felt bruised all over, like a mishandled fruit, soft and swollen with ugly dark marks flush across her arms, legs and abdomen.
John's furrowed professional concern followed every move she made. "I'm not broken china, so don't fret. I can think of many places far more conducive to rest and relaxation than a hospital bed, true, and with all these flowers the ambience here is a tad funereal for my liking.
Believe me, John, I'd much rather be at home making you and Perrin your daily breakfast. Have you been eating properly since I've been out?"
John didn't answer her. He picked up her chart, the deep wrinkles in his brow furrowing deeper as he went over it, and he didn't bother to hide his agitation with what he found there. With chart still in hand, he went over her vitals and checked the machines monitoring her pulse, along with the drip that was steadily giving her some much needed pain killers to keep her aches at bay. He took her arm and gently bent it at the elbow, watching her wincing expression as he manipulated the joint and she fought the urge to pull her arm away. It felt like needles were poking through her skin from the inside and leaving her funny bone aching. He released his grip and let her battered arm fall softly onto her stomach.
St. Mary's wasn't a terrible hospital, though many of the nurses and doctors were familiar with Grace and her
usual basement meetings with their coroner. Manny was currently working in the morgue and had offered up promises that she would be up for a visit. John was poor company at present, he was restless as he inspected the annoying equipment she was hooked up to with a routine ease, his baby finger tapping along the side of her chart in thoughtful reflection as he went over the numbers. 'He must be having memories of his glory days,' Mona thought, and she felt a pang of empathy for John. She'd had a light tap on her cranium in comparison to what had happened to him. She'd recover fully, she didn't have bits of shrapnel floating around in her grey chunks, there was nothing cutting off the ebb and flow of information and if there were gaps that was the responsibility of her subconscious, and who knew where that was hiding.
A harried, rushed young nurse entered her room, her pink face a mask of professional courtesy, though Mona understood her bruised face coupled with how she had ended up here was all the nurses at their station could talk about. No one needed The Daily Mail when one had Nurse O'Connor on the grapevine. Nurse O'Connor smoothed down her pink elephant scrubs before taking the chart from John, who forced her to take a look at something on the chart, a silent understanding being exchanged between them.
"I agree, that would be a problem," a paled Nurse O'Connor said to him. She inspected Mona's arm and gave her a pinched smile, which did nothing to alleviate Mona's growing concern that something was seriously wrong.
John rolled back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back in professional observation. "I'll be sure to let Dr. Fraiser know."
It was an odd exchange, and John, in his little brown corduroys and his worn grey jumper, did not seem, in this moment, quite so simple. He gave her a warm smile and pressed her hand in his in a reassuring squeeze, his
adoration sweet and obvious and suddenly just a tiny bit unsettling.
Mona smiled back, and then discreetly withdrew her hand.
Arguing broke up the awkward moment and a flurry of scowls and curse words wound their way into their room. John inched his way out, getting a coffee cup pressed into his hand as he exited her room and turned left down the long corridor that led to the main exit. She earned a tired apology from Grace which she waved off, only for the action to cause a stab of tingling pain to course through her arm, from her elbow down to her wrist and back again in a tortuous ricochet. "Bugger, that hurts!
Grace," Mona said when John was well out of the room thus out of earshot. "There's something about John that's rather troubling me..."
"I got you coffee instead of tea," Grace replied, not hearing her. The source of her distraction, Inspector Powell, stood silent now, sipping at his own milky brew.
He had slid into her room like the snake he was and she hadn't noticed his arrival. Grace was still apologizing about the coffee mistake. At this point Mona didn't care if it was black paint, as long as it was hot and steaming. She took the paper cup from Grace and was shocked at how pleased her body was to finally have some caffeine. Her bruised lip didn't like the heat, but the aching bones along her jaw did and she pressed the paper cup against her cheek in sighing relief.
"Much as I appreciate the doting observance of both you and the staff here at St. Mary's, I want to go home. I can't see the point of dwindling in this bed now that I'm fully conscious. I hope you brought an overnight bag with you, Grace."
"I've done nothing of the sort! You need to get better first!"
Powell stood at the foot of her bed, oddly small
and apologetic, looking more hamster than rat these days.
He'd been gaining weight, Mona noticed, right around the middle, an actual ring of fat and flesh. Lunches high in animal proteins and thick, buttery fats coupled with sugar dense carbohydrates meant he was dining out a lot these days, special, costly meals that were the hallmark of upper class consumption. His superiors were fattening him up, and he was lapping the cream as though it was about to be wrenched from him. And well it would be. With that ring expanding around his abdomen, Powell's hunt for a promotion would not be rewarded by this case, if anything the embarrassment and association of it would harm him.
He was too enamoured with their compliments to understand that they could easily be used to mask their equal displeasure.
"We were able to arrest Billingsworth for assault, but it's getting pretty difficult to make much more stick."
Powell clung to the foot board of Mona's bed, his thin fingers like pale sticks bleached in the morning sunlight.
"Seems it's a bit embarrassing for those higher up to have associations with a man who practises necrophilia as a hobby." He coughed on this, the nature of what he'd seen and how he was being forced to deal with it at pure odds against his instincts as both a human being and a cop. "I didn't get that talk show that was promised, after all. The BBC has withdrawn from any further contact with the Yard for the next little while, at least, that is, contact with me."
"No new specials on the horizon, then?" Grace asked. She sipped at her coffee and eyed him over its rim.
"No. Nothing at all."
"Guess there needs to be a bit of breathing room for the public to be able to digest it all properly. A good decade or so before the concept of necrotutes and royal lineage can coexist..."
Powell coughed into his fist, looking paler than
Mona. "I really wish you wouldn't use that term."
"What? Necrotutes? Don't give me side eye about it, it's Manny's moniker."
"Bloody disgusting business." Powell shook his unpleasant memories off with effort. "Look, Mona, the trouble is, even with the assault charge it's going to be hard to get this bastard any jail time. He's already claiming diminished capacity due to the stress of his daughter running off with some Enfield gang banger and from the grapevine I keep my ear on, the judges know Billingsworth and his family too well to be objective. He's going to walk on all counts, even the gross indecencies to the human bodies. He's claiming he never had sex with any of them, and it was all just a creepy menagerie project."
Grace cursed out her shock. "Fuck's sake, are you telling me he's calling that sick collection of his 'art'?"
"Post modern deconstructionist or some made up term like that, I don't bloody know, he might not have stuck anything up any of them but he's a wanker through and through. It's more open secret than not and I guess we now know why the daughter ran off as soon as she was able. The more questions I've asked the more it becomes clear that miserable wife of his knew all about it. But I can't go putting anything in writing and I can't conduct family interviews. I've been choked by upper levels, I'm not allowed to say a word about it to the press under threat of outright insubordination. I could end up being a meter maid if dare to even whisper about Arthur Billingsworth III's midnight playboy funeral grotto."
Mona couldn't believe what she was hearing, for surely the blatant nature of the crimes were vile enough for some form of punishment? "He intended to kill both myself and the vicar, he tied both of us up against our will! Surely forcible confinement is still considered a crime!"
Powell and Grace exchanged looks and Mona was struck with how similar they suddenly were, both with their London Fog inspired trench coats and no nonsense black shoes, though Powell's were of Italian leather construction and Grace's were more no slip, subtle Doc Martin's. The uniformity of them bothered her, as though Grace was part of an actual breed of person that was distinct, but also influenced by the social construction around her.
Grace had told her the truth all along, she was a cop first, person second. It was in her DNA, in the very cells that made her. Powell was a mongrel of that sort, too, and now with the two of them in the room together, it was painfully obvious to Mona that she would always have that conflict of law and order versus her revolutionary chaos throughout her relationship with Grace.
Grace pulled up a chair at Mona's bedside, her coffee held with the expert clutch of a java addict. "You should have seen that little goblin in the interview room. I kept passing him mints hoping he'd get the hint, but that mossy mouth of his filled the room with sulphur. His breath made my eyes water. How that Dear Madame of his managed to procreate with him I don't care to know. Not someone you'd want to deep throat without hazard pay first."
Powell choked on his coffee at this, and was still giggling as he wiped droplets of pale beige off of the collar of his waterproof trench coat with a linen handkerchief he'd pulled from his inside pocket. An old fashioned habit he'd picked up from his elders, Mona thought, and one among many he'd soon start rebelling against. One couldn't dangle prizes in front of a sycophant and then take them away without expecting an unpleasant repercussion.
"What gets me is how he tries to justify it all."
Grace took Mona's hand in hers, the various calluses
within her grip soothing in their suggestion of strength, and yet gentle enough not to further bruise her. Mona returned the gesture with a squeeze of her own, emotion threatening to overcome her though Grace appeared oblivious. How wonderful these tiny gestures were, how so full of significance! Just to know that she was here, that she was concerned enough to be at her side and not leave her, that those who loved her understood the importance of being present in a crisis.
Victoria Hume was notably absent. No surprise there.
"He kept going on about wanting a softer family, something he could fall back on with more comfortable ease. He's used to all of his relationships being easy and free of conflict, I guess, and he got all bothered by how sharp edged everyone in his family sphere became. It doesn't excuse a thing, he's a spoiled prat who wants the world his way and he still can't see he's done anything wrong. It's like there's some weird blockage in his reasoning that can't see beyond the focus of himself. It's maddening and scary at the same time, because damn it all, if the bastard doesn't have enough money to circumvent the system and keep himself above the law. It makes me sick."
To both their surprise, Powell was in agreement.
"They're an inbred collection, that's for sure. Their social circle is so incestuous you don't dare try and breach any branch of it with any form of criticism. Like I said before, I been told to keep my gob shut."
Grace crossed her arms at this, her face a decidedly angry shade of blotchy red that made Mona wish she could simply kiss the consternation from her. Once she got in these moods, Grace would be brooding and impossible to talk to, so immersed in a case that Mona would have to prompt her to eat properly, and to force her to sleep.
Lavender would have to be introduced into her diet.
Without Grace's knowing, she would switch out her coffee with a weaker, organic hickory brew in the hopes of allowing her system to achieve some rest.
"He's got connections to the Crown Cartel," Grace muttered. "Even if he did use Anastasia as their go-between, his money is tainted by association. I don't want him released yet, and I don't care about the judge's order, we can put him up on a charge of conspiracy with the Cartel to see if we can shake loose some information."
Powell shook his head. "The man is career kryptonite. Don't do this, Grace, there's no point. He doesn't know a thing."
"He's right, you know." They all turned to see Perrin peering into the room, his tattered coat fluttered around him like feathers. The perfume of quality Peter Tosh ganja followed him into the room, and Mona closed her eyes, willing her brother to disappear. The stench was overpowering and wreaking havoc with her headache. "I was just in visiting that vicar fellow. Nice guy. Sold him some high grade grass that the organic growers are calling Evergreen Fertilizer on account of its consciousness expanding properties. He said it's not near as good as his Heavenly Father Buds. Not so sure about that, I had an excellent high from the Evergreen, but then, everyone is different. I'm not sure about that guaranteed mind expansion business, either, and I personally find that to be an individual's responsibility. If you're a close minded jackass, no amount of proper skunk is going to help you.
Hello, Mona." He stood away from the bed and refused to get closer. "You're looking as purple as a plum. Mother called to tell you she doesn't need the extra cash this week but if you could spot her a loan of twenty thousand on Friday that would be appreciated."
Mona winced at the sum. "Tell her I have no interest in her hobbies and like I've already told her I will not be wasting one red penny on her. Why isn't she here to
ask me for it herself?"
Perrin shifted foot to foot at this.
"She's...Um...She's entertaining the Count and Countess of Spain at present, they're bunking it at Paisley Cottage."
"What? No!"
"Off for a ramble every day, that's the plan, Mother says."
Mona's brain, which was not at all bruised, the synapses in painful clarity, quickly calculated the likelihood of that beautiful diamond necklace laying unsecured at Paisley Cottage, ripe for picking for any jackass to wander in and pilfer it. The statistics in favour of this scenario were further insulted by the fact that there was no question Victoria Hume had already wrapped her manicured fingers tight around it and had sloppily stolen it, She would be caught red handed and Mona knew all hopes of securing the blue diamond necklace for herself would be ruined. No visit to the isolated island off the coast of Spain to steal both hospitality and jewels, her financial gains that had already paid for a delightful trip to France were disappearing into the clench of her mother's ignorant fist. No, she won't tolerate it!
"You will inform Mother she is not to do anything stupid," Mona further instructed her brother. "A difficult task, but one that she will simply have to enact and tell her it's in her best financial interest to keep her hands off of other people's treasures." Mona pressed her fingertips to her aching skull and ignored the worried frown Grace gave her. "I'll wire her the damned money."
Powell watched the whole exchange with a mixture of confusion and pity, the emotionalism of it clearly getting under his craw. He shuffled out of the room after a pleasant, but awkward, goodbye, and pulled Grace aside to further engage her in his cause. "Not a word to anyone about Billingsworth, got it? We're really in trouble
here, Grace, I didn't want to say more in front of Miss Hume, but Chief Wilcox got a right browbeating over the whole keeping people locked in the house thing while we were searching for Arthur. In truth, the quicker we let this thing disappear, the better."
Grace didn't agree, but the time to argue with the man wasn't now, and Mona was grateful that she instead returned brooding to her seat at Mona's bedside, her scowl deeper and more disturbed than ever. Powell gave Perrin a curt nod as he left, but not without first reminding him that being that open about his Mary Jane drug dealing could have consequences with beat coppers on the make.
Perrin reminded him that more than half of the force at the Yard were his best customers.
"Where's John gone?" Perrin asked when he returned to the room. "We have plans this afternoon, I have encouraged Janine to accompany us to Camden Passage to hunt down some imported Indian silk scarves.
She loves the things, all that glitters like gold and all that."
This was a new development, and Mona was instantly confused by it. "Who is Janine?" she asked, quickly taking in the way her brother hunched at the question as though expecting a blow. Her eyes went wide in shocked understanding. "Is this a girlfriend?"
"No, not...Not really, we're friends, that's all. I mean, what do I need a girlfriend for? Who needs that sort of baggage, I see what it does to you and Grace, all wrapped up tight in each other's lives like some kind of perpetual co-dependence machine. No, that's not for me, and besides, I've got John, and if you got that kind of easygoing company having a girlfriend just complicates matters." His phone chimed a disco tune and he fished it out of his coat of many pockets after some effort to find it, his finger swiping across the screen. "She's downstairs now. I'll be back later."
"Are you going home any time soon?" Grace
asked.
For a moment Perrin looked blank. "It's a long walk to Baker Street from here, are you offering John and I a lift later?"
"I don't think your home is that far." Grace fished in her trouser pocket and took out a thick set of keys. She unhooked one and handed it to Perrin. "I'd say it's pretty close by, actually."
Perrin gave her an odd look. "Belgravia is just as far..."
"That's Mona's home. I'm talking about yours."
Grace took a deep intake of breath and wouldn't look at Mona who was now slowly piecing together exactly what was happening, her heart hammering in joyful glee. "This is the key to my former flat in Enfield. I know you like people watching and that's a big part of Baker Street's appeal, but that dump is getting razed to the ground soon and you and John need a safe place to live. I live across the street from a bar and above a pizza shop, lots of observation opportunities with a great front picture window view. I wouldn't say it's the best flat in the world, but it's large and clean and solid enough and the landlord is pretty reasonable if you don't give her too much lip.
That would be me, by the way, in case you were wondering."
Perrin took the key from her and looked at it as though it were a miraculous jewel that was set to disappear if he didn't keep staring at it. "You're just going to give me your flat?"
Grace glanced at Mona, who had her hand at her heart, knowing the significance of this admission. "Yeah. I kind of got a soft spot for this place in Belgravia, even if it does have a creepy panther portrait over the bed."
"I'll take it down!" Mona exclaimed and extended her arms wide for Grace to fall into her tearful, emotional embrace, the waves of relief and comfort washing over her
heart in crashing need. She clutched at Grace's strong shoulders with her bony fingers, knowing they had to be bruising her, but she couldn't let go. They were going to officially live together, no safety net in place, no escape route for either of them. The next step was obvious and damn if she wouldn't find the biggest diamond in the world, heavy enough to break Grace's arm every time she tried to lift her hand!
She was happily wiping tears from her eyes when the surgeon on call came into the room, his body language tense as he read over her chart. Dr. Fraiser was a lithe young man with dark hair and a soft Indian accent that was peppered with Scottish inflections. If anyone heard him over the phone they would assume he was Welsh. He had a brusque manner and never wasted time with small talk or cheery upbeat speech that was supposed to put his patient at ease. He walked to her bedside and without a word he began lifting her arm, the one John had manipulated, the pads of his fingers digging painfully into her elbow joint hard enough to make her yelp.
"That's a tad tenderized, as the bruises attest,"
Mona complained. She pulled her arm away, the residual ache coursing up and down its entire length.
Dr. Fraiser had no care for her pain. "Your doctor friend noted, quite rightly, that it's possible you have a deep vein thrombosis in your elbow, which was heavily bruised on your way down the stairs. I'm putting you on blood thinners to prevent any possible blood clots and if you experience any shortness of breath or other signs of cardiac distress you are to come to the hospital immediately. I'm confident the Plavex will do the job, but I must say, I'm rather embarrassed that this wasn't caught until now. Your friend is quite observant, where is he currently practising?"
Mona blinked, sure that was she was hearing was fiction, for it couldn't be John this man was talking about,
that silent partner of her brother who was missing most of his marbles. Well, the ones that didn't count, she supposed, for here was a surgeon standing right there in front of her going on about a job well done. "He's...He's retired,"
Mona tactfully replied and this seemed a good enough explanation for Dr. Fraiser.
"Give him yours and my thanks, then. Everything else seems to be progressing as normal, so I'm confident you can go home by later on this evening. The nurse will be by later with your discharge papers and I'll make sure your prescriptions will be ready at the nurse's desk upon leaving. You can go to your GP for a check up in a week, though I can't foresee any other complications...Unless, of course, your highly observant friend manages to catch one out. Retired, you said? I guess it's true what they say, one never does stop being a doctor no more than anyone stops breathing." He glanced around the room before putting her chart back on its hook at the end of her bed. "You've got a lot of admirers, Miss Hume. That pile of dark roses at the window is quite the riot. Last time I saw an arrangement like that was when Princess Anne came in to get a treatment for a tick bite. You must be quite the socialite."
With that blunt observation in place, Dr. Fraiser returned to his rounds, leaving Mona and Grace staring at the bouquet in question. She was usually highly capable of putting a price tag on all items within her scope of vision, so Mona took the oversight to mean the concussion was perhaps worse than she'd originally thought, and it had rattled her brain around enough to momentarily damage her monetary obsession. It was returning full force now, especially with the assessment of the arrangement, the rarity of the dark roses, which were nearly black and of a historically vintage variety, the white ceramic vase large and iridescent, an import from a Dutch designer whose ashtrays didn't go for less than five hundred pounds each.
The flowers themselves, at least two dozen in all, were a
costly venture, upwards of a thousand pounds worth of petals and greenery. As she took in the quick calculations Mona realized that this was the most expensive bouquet of the lot and was worth upwards of three thousand pounds.
"Who is it from?" Grace asked.
Instinct kicked in and Mona fought the urge to tell Grace not to pick up the small beige card with its typewritten message, the blue ink in the far left corner visible even from her bed which was clear across the room. "This is from the Crown Cartel," Grace stated, and Mona shivered, the warmed blankets doing nothing to stave off the chill that overtook her and settled deep inside of her marrow.
Frowning, Grace lifted the plain card and opened it, and Mona wanted to beg her not to read it, to simply toss the expensive bouquet out the window and to rid themselves of the threat implicit in its giving. But Grace was not so self preserving, and she read the message over to herself several times before uttering it aloud so Mona could hear it, too.
"As you may already know, we prefer our dead to stay dead. Anastasia and Boris had some grey ideas in that regard, but we were finally able to bring them around to our way of thinking. Some business ventures aren't meant to succeed. Though they assured me this was a victimless crime, I found the entirety of it too distasteful to continue.
Vigilantism is hardly our style, but it can be incorporated when we see the legal gaps. and I hope you don't mind our cleaning house for you, Inspector Grace Renard. As for you, Miss Hume, I wish you a full recovery. And don't worry. Arthur Billingsworth III won't be breathing on anyone with that terrible breath of his any time soon.
Yours,
xx
'The Ghost', C.C."
Terror crept into Mona's bones and she shivered uncontrollably, her hand at her mouth, pale pink nails caging her pale, pink lips. "They're coming for us!"
Grace, however, had a very different reaction and Mona was infuriated by her calm. Grace inspected the card, turning it upside down and looking on the back and then carefully inspecting the small note in the left hand corner in blue ink: 'GHOST-08/NIX'.
"They're going after Arthur Billingsworth III and I suspect we may have waited too long already. I need to call Powell...It's imperative we keep Arthur in this country, if he hops on a plane for holiday now we won't have any jurisdiction over his death!"
Mona sank back on her pillows at this, her bed a tad chilled. "Powell. Billingsworth. These are your concerns? For God's sake, Grace, I was the one sent flowers, this is a personal vendetta!"
"We have nothing at all to worry about, if anything the Cartel thinks it has done us a favour by getting rid of their own chaff. There is no threat here, Mona, only explanation." She shook her head and lightly chuckled at the card in her hand and Mona was sure the woman had finally cracked, the stress of the last week now leaving her in a psychotic break. She'd call Nurse O'Connor and have escorted to the psych ward upstairs, she'd insist they give her a strong sedative and heavy duty psychological therapy. The gossip at the desk would be tittering into next year, so embedded even Manny would hear about it.
"It's a filing system, and I finally know what GHOST-08 stands for. The Crown Cartel is labelling and cataloguing its various criminal activities, and this current one was the plan to assassinate Boris and Anastasia for their corpse project which the Crown Cartel did not approve of. They were given a loan for heroin peddling, not raising the dead and sending them out into the streets to turn tricks "
Mona could care less. "Who cares how they keep their books? Being on their radar is bad news and now the Ghost him or herself is sending me flowers while I'm on my deathbed! We need protection, Grace!"
Grace sighed at her dramatics. "First, you're not on your deathbed, you had bumps and scrapes that are currently being treated and you're going home tomorrow.
Second, we don't need protection because this little note is just to inform me, not attack me, or you. I'm rather grateful for it, actually, it opens up some huge evidence in regards to cracking the Cartel and I daresay this little note could be the big break in the case." Grace grinned at it before taking out an evidence bag from her inside trench coat pocket (seriously, did the woman ever go out without a plastic baggie handy in case she found some speck of dust to put a criminal in chains?) and slid the small card into it. "The way I figure it, these notations on the bottom of their correspondence is part of a larger system of cataloguing. A tad OCD, but the Crown Cartel is keeping track of their various criminal enterprises and all things in relation to each one with these index codes. GHOST-08/NIX means this is both a personal project belonging to the Crown Cartel leader, ie: The Ghost, and the 08/NIX is a signifier that this particular criminal enterprise has reached its end. GHOST-08 is no longer open for business, the plan has run its course."
"This doesn't offer me any assurance whatsoever."
Mona began fussing with the needles still embedded in the back of her hand and pressed the button frantically to call in the nurse. "I'm leaving this hospital now, I am not sitting in here like some immobile target the Ghost can wander in and eliminate. You said it yourself, he has a system in place, and the fact I'm getting these notes means I'm a part of it, and you are too! GHOST-08--Elimination of all! I won't sit here and wait to be taken out!"
"I don't think that's how it works." Grace shook her
head at Nurse O'Connor, who as she entered the room took in Mona's agitated state and Grace's firm bid for her to leave as signs that this was personal rather than medical business. She turned on her heel and left, Mona pleading at her to come back.
"For God's sake, you're being a ridiculous drama queen!"
"Our murder is imminent!"
"Hardly! I'd say those roses were given to you for a job well done!"
Mona softened in Grace's grip at this, genuine confusion mixed with possibility making her expressions near comical. "What the devil do you mean?" She didn't wait for Grace to answer, for Mona Hume as has been mentioned before is quite an intelligent woman, so intelligent, in fact, that should she have wanted to it would have been easy for her to step into the realm of subterfuge and politics and bend it to the will of her clipped high heels down secretive, hallowed government maintained halls. But Mona is too smart for such involvement, and knows that true freedom lies on the periphery, where one is mostly invisible and thus considered harmless.
"The Crown Cartel was looking for the buyer." She felt the blood drain from her face, and a feeling of nausea overwhelmed her. "Oh dear God, they're going to kill Arthur Billingsworth III."
"Probably," Grace said, shrugging. "But that's not my department until it actually happens, and happens on UK soil. That bloody bastard has to stay alive for my final interview with him." She checked her watch. "I got an hour, I'd best get back to the Yard before he's cut loose. All things considered, I'm looking very forward to that comeuppance since my own hands are very tightly tied in that regard. What do you think? Should I get a jump on Powell and contact the BBC and give them a hell of a story they can't refuse when the inevitable murder
happens? I think a French actress would serve you better in a fictional setting, maybe get a younger version of Carole Bouquet to play you. She was fabulous in 'La Mante'."
***
On an unassuming quiet side street in London, tucked away from the regular busy rabble that infects the busy circular spin of Piccadilly and well after the quiet, but overly priced million dollar row homes of Belgravia, one would find a tiny art gallery that is near devoid of all art. There are some scant pieces, a broach that once belonged to a Countess in seventeenth century Russia, and a medieval tapestry depicting a rather anorexic and disproportionate unicorn fashioned by an unknown schizophrenic Italian weaver circa 1034 A.D., but other than these and a few other items, the gallery is mostly empty. Dark grey walls enclose it into an unappealing, shadowed blankness that looks as uninviting as any tomb.
On a tiny silver plaque on the outside glass door is the simple inscription: Hume Galleria. H. Presad, Curator, and this is the only hint to any outsider of what this place actually represents.
Mr. Harlan Presad is the careful note taker and broker between Mona Hume's acquisitions and the outside world, though the kind of money changing hands precludes it from a good 99% of the population. That they are trading in stolen goods is an open secret between buyer, seller and broker and it is through Mr. Presad that these meetings and exchanges occur.
Mona Hume pays Mr. Presad very well for the discretion of his service, which has proved to be stellar.
He was once an actual museum curator in a life not so different from this one, though he never specified as to actually where (there are rumours it was an Argentinean private gallery, where art pilfered by Nazis in WWII were on display, and he is rumoured to have dined with then
Presidente Juan Peron, though this cannot be confirmed) and was also employed by the Zurich Vault in Switzerland and still maintains a friendly business relationship with that supremely high security storage facility. Now in his seventies, this work is both relaxing and challenging enough to stave off boredom and with his pleasant condominium in the trendy part of Soho bought and paid for he is set for the rest of his natural life. Vacations in South America twice a year and routine trips to Panama were a couple of the many perks he enjoyed working for Mona Hume. Retirement was never so inviting.
But even so, such loyalty that is purchased rather than earned can create cracks in even those most stoic of men like Mr. Presad, and he can't entirely be blamed for taking on some side business that did not, it must be said, have any association with the lovely Miss Hume, nor did she share in any of those sideline accounts which were strictly held in confidence for himself alone.
The unexpected resale of the blue diamond ring had been highly profitable and was now adorning the chubby pinkie of a Saudi prince who brought it out for special foreign dignitaries who fawned over the prince's oil reserves. The extra cash was a bonus for Miss Hume and it also created a buffer against guilt for Mr. Presad, for he did adore the woman and was very appreciative her lucrative business sense. Built like a thin, hollow reed, his bald head shining beneath the small pot lights that gave off very little illumination in the grey gloom of the sparse gallery, Mr. Presad was both cool and formally congenial.
He had a visitor and not one he was keen to have a long conversation with.
"I did as requested, and there is no way the roses can be traced back to you. I used a proxy intermediary to order them online and had a young man who is a vague acquaintance of Mr. Perrin Hume to pay for them in full, in cash. Though this may create a bit of a brow raise when
investigated, I assure you that without a paper trail they cannot discover the true purchaser."
The cold silence that met him filled in the angry gaps of conversation and Mr. Presad felt the nervous need to explain himself further. "I am not in the habit of being easy to detect, I did assure you of this and I do not appreciate my abilities being questioned. Rumours may abound, but nothing can stick. If I somehow made it possible for Goebbels to purchase a fifteen foot yacht which he enjoyed until the end of his days, who is to say?
It won't be myself, I can't claim to know these details. You do understand."
He smiled at the change in atmosphere between them, the anger giving way to curiosity. Mr. Presad is an expert in what he does because he knows the human heart very well, and he knows that it is a greedy, needy thing that will gobble up all hope in its path in its pursuit for its own happiness. Hearts are selfish things, at their core.
Even the well being of another is often at the cost of a heart, one broken or one mended and always at odds with itself.
"I catalogued everything as per your proffered method, though I do wish you would use a less obvious system. A series of numbers is my preference, with every primary number indicating the type of jewel, the initial cost in millions and dates of purchase. Even numbers indicate points of resale, months of storage and regular purchasers, a detailed system that informs me far more than is necessary at times, but more is better, I always say." He looked down his nose at his side client who was not amused by his supercilious judgment. "In any case, there has been no breach of contract here. Your anonymity, as always, is assured."
A leathered paper envelope was slid across the counter to Mr. Presad, who found such exchanges gauche even if they were necessary. He knew better than to count
the cash within it, for the trust between the two men was implicit and to do so would be considered exceptionally rude. He placed his hand over the envelope and discreetly slid it out of sight beneath the counter and blatantly ignored it now that it was in its hiding place in a locked metal drawer he kept for this exact purpose. He wondered if a trip to Argentina for Christmas could be arranged, the enjoyment of an inherited fifteen foot yacht and the company of a lithe young man from the local village who had a swath of freckles across his heavily muscled back wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility. Rodrigo's emails were always moaning about how he didn't visit often enough. It would be a pleasant Christmas gift for them both.
"I must say, however, that I do appreciate the simplicity of our arrangement." Mr. Presad allowed his gaze to drift towards the softly felted beige envelope with its well worn use a testament to how often they exchanged it back and forth. The same envelope was used, over and over, a form of currency in and of itself. The next job request would have Mr. Presad silently handing the empty envelope over and then eagerly awaiting its full return when the task was completed.
In the bottom left hand corner was the usual curious insignia that Mr. Presad had found so troubling.
'GHOST-MH3'.
It wasn't his habit to ask questions, and certainly he had spent his entire life making himself an expert in that avoidance, projecting upon his clientele the sensation that all he had witnessed in life, no matter how depraved, had ultimately resulted in little more to him than tired boredom. And while this was a persona that worked well in fooling those men of narcissistic, evil desires and their ensuing material wealth, he found it rather disingenuous to use on this man, who while flawed was not in the same physical nor mental twisted calibration as those navel
gazing villains against humanity he had worked with in the past.
"I do hope you forgive this question, for I don't ask such things lightly, and am known instead for my utter lack of curiosity and blatant apathy. So, you understand, my need to know has an unexpected complexity to it. I have worked with the most vile and abominable men imaginable and managed their affairs with a smile and a complete lack of judgment. At least, superficially, and that was enough for them. If I abhorred them, that was my own business and kept intensely private. But I must say, sir, to you, I do not feel such animosity and instead I wish to be open in my admiration for much of what you do. You paint yourself in the most garish ugly colours possible and yet it is this that is the ruse, this that is the cover for your more humanitarian crimes. I have to ask you--Why are you so locked on Miss Hume and to her brother so firmly?
The former I can possibly see, but she is not of any benefit to you romantically if you have some mild delusion in that regard, for she is wholly smitten with her Detective Inspector and I daresay you don't stand a chance for she has those bits of self that you just...Well...Don't have. She is of the Patricia Highsmith set, haughty and dramatic and all about female company, as well you know. The latter, her brother, never have I met such a wastrel, his mind, though brilliant, is lazy and unformed, lost beneath a clouded glaze of Jamaican A Strain that has left him unmotivated and, sadly, pointless. But he does care deeply for his sister and perhaps it is a full time job being a human buffer against the flighty misery that is their mother, Victoria Hume. But how is it that you fit in to this picture? You dared to risk your own exposure by sending that large display of flowers to her hospital room, so care is clearly there. But why? And to what end?"
As expected, the curator, Mr. Presad, only received a protracted, blank silence as his answer. He sighed and
shrugged his shoulders, giving up before the uncomfortable, one-sided conversation became adversarial. "In the end, a man's secrets are all he has left to give comfort to his heart." Mr. Presad gave his client a warm smile, eager to change the subject. "Such a beautiful specimen. Have you had her long?"
The borzoi nuzzled his open palm like an obedient deer and he playfully slid his fingers along her soft, long snout. He toyed with her collar, resting on the small silver medallion that proudly proclaimed her name. "Catherine the Great. A fitting royal title for such a royal girl. I had never thought I'd see another one in my lifetime, the last borzoi I had ever met was on the Russian border with the Ukraine and an arms dealer bred them as a hobby.
Watching them glide across the open expanse of rough countryside was one of the most astonishing examples of physiology and physics I had ever experienced. Such gentle souls they are, you can even see it as they run, there is a kindness within them that can't be extinguished. It is part of their regal bearing. An unspoken empathy one doesn't find in people very often. She certainly likes you, look at how she leans against your leg, seeking your support."
Their business finished, John Peake left the curator and Mona Hume's shell business behind, the borzoi trotting happily beside him in bouncing tandem. It was a long walk back to Belgravia where Perrin was waiting for him, a good hour at least at a fast pace, but the evening was still young. Though she was still in hospital, Mona had promised all of them their usual breakfast come the morning.
He quickened his steps, the borzoi following in a horse-like trot. He was looking forward to it.