The Final Crumpet (36 page)

“In other words, you want me to use Photoshop like the plods use their identikits.”

“Can you do it?”

“I’ll have a go. The age part is easy—I’ll use the ‘healing brush’ to soften his wrinkles and firm up his skin. But the gent’s hair may turn out rather scrappy, because I’m not much of an illustrator.”

Flick and Gwen watched Hannah manipulate Perry’s face on the monitor. His wrinkles faded, areas of sagging skin disappeared. “Gracious,” Gwen said, “I wish I had a ‘healing brush’ in my cosmetic bag.”

“That’s about a fifty-year-old face, isn’t it, Dr. Adams?” Hannah looked up at Flick and smiled.

“Watch it, kid,” Flick replied. “I’m not sure, either.”

“Regrettably, I am,” Gwen said. “The face is perfect. Now all we need is his hair.”

“What sort of
do
would you like him to have?” Hannah asked.

“Well, my glimmer is rather hazy on that point. I’d say he had hair, but not a lot of it.”

“Okay. I’ll start with a short haircut. What color hair would you like?”

“Goodness, I have no idea.”

Flick jumped in. “He’s fifty, after all. Give him steel gray hair.”

Hannah went to work. After five minutes, she said, “That’s as good as it gets, ladies.”

Flick studied the screen. Perry’s new head of hair looked more like a gray cap than a collection of real tresses, but at least he was no longer completely bald.

“The glimmer is getting stronger,” Gwen said. “I know I’ve seen that face before. But I can’t think where. Can you tell me anything more about him? Even a trivial fact might jumpstart my memory.”

“All I know is what he told me, which is probably not true. He claims that his mother was Russian and his father was British.”

Gwen gazed at the photograph and began to smile. “You’re right; that isn’t true. His family circumstances are the other way around. His mother is British, and his father is Russian. I’ve never met him in person, but I remember seeing two TV shows about him in the late eighties. And, of course, several news broadcasts on the telly. He was a high-ranking defector from the Soviet Union, an officer in the KGB, I believe. The sort of person you read about in a John Le Carre novel.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“I think it ends with a ‘kov.’ ”

Flick laughed. “That narrows it down to about one hundred million Russians.”

Gwen shut her eyes and began to rock back and forth. “Nick… Nicky…Nicolas…
Nikolai,
that’s it. Nikolai
Something-
kov.”.

Flick wanted to shake Gwen’s hand, pat her back, give her an attaboy—do
something
to encourage her. But Flick knew that anything she did would merely interrupt Gwen’s concentration. Hannah, too, clearly understood the need to be silent. She seemed amazed at Gwen’s single-minded focus on a tiny fragment of the past.

Gwen’s eyes popped open. “His name is Nikolai Melnikov. His nickname, of course, is ‘Kolya.’ ”

“Brilliant,” Hannah said, with great sincerity.

“You’re amazing.” Flick gave Gwen a hug. “How can we ever repay the intensity of the thinking you’ve done for us?”

“Nathanial mentioned that a posh lunch is on offer.”

“We dine at one. Alain Rousseau, our chef, is worth a special trip, as the guidebooks say, but even one of his spectacular lunches seems too little a reward for doing the near impossible. I fear we’ve taken advantage of your kindness.”

“To the contrary. I enjoy delving into the past, although I rarely get as juicy an opportunity to do so at the Hawker Foundation.”

Flick couldn’t help staring at Gwen.
Will I ever enjoy delving into the past?
she wondered. The rummaging that she and Nigel had done in their own pasts had led to heartache and near disaster. They had stirred up old mistakes, moldering sins, and failed relationships. If anything, she now feared looking backwards.

Polly Reid had urged Nigel to have “Jesus, the Dustman” remove the old and dangerous rubble. Flick smiled at the metaphor. It had struck her as faintly irreverent at the time, but now she realized that she needed “muck” carted away. She was also a new creation. Nigel gained the power not to sin, she would get the power not to doubt. She found that an exceptionally comforting thought.

“Let’s find Nathanial and Nigel,” Flick said. “I’ll bet they’re in our ad hoc Incident Room with Conan, swapping manly teamuseum war stories.”

Flick offered her arm; Gwen took it. They descended one flight of stairs to the second floor; they walked past four visitors browsing in the Tea and Health Gallery and another three perusing the Tea in the Americas Room.

“Isn’t this the Hawker family suite?” Gwen asked.

“Not anymore.” Flick used her key to unlock the door. She stood in the doorway and announced, “Gwen performed a second bit of magic. She remembered who Rupert Perry really is.”

Three male voices simultaneously shouted, “Who?”

Flick gestured toward Gwen like a jackpot presenter on a telly game show. Gwen acknowledged the salute with a regal wave of her hand. She stepped into the room and said, “He’s Nikolai Melnikov, nickname Kolya, a Russian defector who came to England in the mid-1980s.” She added, “Oh, yes, he’s a former KGB officer.”

Flick moved aside as Conan stormed out of the suite, an exceedingly determined look on his face. She, Nigel, Gwen, and Nathanial followed him downstairs—albeit at a slower pace—and made their way to the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom.

Flick had just finished an extraordinary lobster salad when she saw Conan maneuver around other diners to reach their table in the corner. The big man crouched down next to Nigel.

“Well, sir,” he said, “we needed mere minutes to ascertain that Kolya Melnikov owns a farm down the road in Frant, scarcely three kilometers away from Broadwater Down. I immediately sent one of my lads over to have a look-see. Well, imagine his surprise when he discovered there were two vehicles parked in the driveway. One is an elderly Mercedes sedan. He copied down the number plate and telephoned me. I quickly confirmed, through one of my law-enforcement acquaintances who shall remain nameless, that it belongs to a Mr. Bertrand Bartholomew, current residence in Brighton.”

“We found Bertie,” Nigel said.

“What about the second vehicle?” Flick asked.

“That’s the most interesting part, ma’am.” Conan smiled. “It seems that Mr. Nikolai Melnikov of Frant, East Sussex, is the proud owner of a dark green Ford Transit minivan.”

“We found the van,” Nigel said.

“This is unbelievable!” Flick added.

“Indeed, ma’am. It’s unusual, to say the least, to see two former enemies—an MI6 operative and a KGB officer working so closely together.”

“That’s not what I have in mind. What’s really incredible is that Nigel and I have had the wind blown up three or four times by a pair of retired geezers.”

Flick heard Nate and Gwen begin to laugh, but she didn’t join in. She’d just realized who killed Etienne Makepeace.

Thirteen

N
igel leaned back in his chair and put the question to Conan, “Do you agree with Felicity? Do we have to sort things out ourselves?”

“Aye, sir,” the big Scot said, with a nod. “I don’t see as we have a choice—not if the museum is going to provide the bank with a satisfactory explanation on Monday. It seems like the police are perfectly content with their prime suspect and their theory of the crime. It would take time to convince them to look elsewhere, far more time than we have available.” Conan slammed his right hand into his left palm. “I vote to visit the two scoundrels as quickly as possible.”

Nigel looked at Flick. “Except there’s a downside to acting alone. If we go charging ahead without the police, who knows what damage we might do—by accident?”

“I never suggested that we ‘charge ahead’ without DI Pennyman,” she said. “We’ll involve him when the time is right.”

“Which will be…”

“When Bertie and Kolya give us the information we need. We can’t make any real progress until we understand what really went on at the museum in 1965 and 1966.”

“Of course, this whole strategy—I use the word loosely—presumes that your deductions are correct.”

“Can you think of another explanation for the various facts we’ve collected?”

“No.” Nigel sighed. “I wish the police were right; I wish the bloody jealous husband, whomever he might be, had had the gumption to shoot Etienne Makepeace. But I can’t argue with your conclusions.”

“Nor can I,” Conan said, “although I am concerned about the critical facts that are still missing. For example, we need the true history of the Russian pistol. The police will certainly want to know where it came from. And it would be nice if we could tell the coppers which of the pair actually shot Makepeace.”

Flick nodded. “We need answers to several key questions—that’s the number one challenge we face. But once we get them from Bertie and Kolya, the other pieces will fall into place.”

“And if we don’t get them, your entire plan crumbles.” Nigel tried not to sound as pessimistic as he felt. “What happens if Bertie and Kolya decide to keep mum? What if they deny everything and tell us to get lost? When you get right down to it, they gain no benefit by working together with us. And our threats don’t have especially sharp teeth. We can’t prove anything. All we really can pin on them is a lame practical joke.”

“And your point is? You began this discussion by asking if we have to sort things out by ourselves. What’s your answer to that question?”

He sighed again. “Both you and Conan are right. We have no other choice. It’s clear who shot Makepeace. We have to visit the farm, confront Bertie and Kolya, and try to push them over the edge. It may not work, but there are no other alternatives.”

He wished for a moment that Nathanial and Gwen had stayed. They had offered to help, but it had seemed better at the time to let them go off for their weekend in Tunbridge Wells while he, Flick, and Conan decided what to do next.

At least we won’t have anyone else to blame. The ball is squarely in our court.

He turned to Conan. “You’ve sent men to watch the odd couple?”

“Two of my largest lads, sir. They’ll have no trouble keeping Bertie and Kolya at home should they decide to depart.”

“Both of them are former spies; do you suppose there’s a chance that they might be armed?”

“I doubt it, sir. Bertie and Kolya were chiefly bureaucrats in their respective agencies. They controlled agents in the field—they aren’t the sort of intelligence persons who do the messy work themselves.”

“I hope you’re right,” Nigel said. “Give me the directions once more.”

“Take the A267 toward Frant, then swing left on to Wadhurst Road. A few hundred yards along, make another left turn on a narrow lane that has a thick hedgerow growing on either side. You’ll see a little sign that says Briar Wood Farm.”

“And you’ll be…”

“A few minutes behind you, sir, in the museum’s van.”

Nigel nodded. It had been Flick who suggested that the later arrival of Conan might help convince Nikolai Melnikov and Bertrand Bartholomew to cooperate. Well, it was worth a try. He hadn’t come up with a better idea.

Neither he nor Flick was especially talkative on the walk from his office to the staff car park. “I sincerely hope this works,” he said as he clicked open the doors to his BMW. “Our careers are toast if it doesn’t.”

“Look at the bright side,” Flick said, a mischievous smile on her lips. “The very worst that happens is that you and I get to move to London. Perhaps we can apply to MI6 for jobs? In all likelihood, they’ve forgotten their past unfortunate experiences with tea people.”

“Very droll.”

Nigel put the car in gear. They drove in silence, not even commenting when they passed the spot on Frant Road where Melnikov’s green van had forced them into the bushes.

“Ah. Frant Road is the A267,” Flick finally said. “Watch for Wadhurst Road.”

“That must be it on the left.”

“Got it.”

“And there’s the sign at the entrance to the lane.”

“The so-called lane is not much wider than my car.”

“Briar Wood Farm seems the only residence served by the lane, so the odds of meeting someone coming the other way are pretty slim.”

“Granted, but the odds of these bloody hedgerows scratching my paint are quite fat.”

Nigel drove at a leisurely pace down the lane, striving to keep the BMW in the center. At last, the hedgerows came to an abrupt end.

“Good heavens,” Flick said. “I expected an ugly farmhouse. Kolya lives in a fairy-tale cottage.”

Nigel let out a soft whistle. Ahead, a long gravel driveway led to a wooden bridge that crossed a small stream, then continued on to a collection of buildings that included several sheds, a barn, and a farmhouse that did look like something out of a fairy tale—or more likely one of the ceramic village collections sold in Tunbridge Wells’s gift shops. It had a thatched roof, a mixture of whitewashed wood and stone walls, and small windows tucked in unusual places. Nigel guessed the main part of the house had been built at least four hundred years ago, and that all manner of additional rooms and extensions had been tacked on over the years.