A missing signature, p.5
A Missing Signature, page 5
“Not easy to make it seem casual. But he met some friends and one called out to him.”
“You heard his name?”
“Or nickname. Guess.”
“I’m beyond guessing tonight, Rupert.”
“Sal.”
“As in Salamander.”
“Or Salvatore. He could be Spanish. And sorry that photo isn’t worth much.”
“Hazard of a clandestine operation.”
“You sound like Baxter.”
I give him a weak smile. “I’ll forward it to DC Moore.”
That done, I show him the napkin and my page of translations. “I can’t get another phone tonight.”
“Perhaps I can,” he says. “But I’ll need to dive into your wardrobe. I’m sure Nick kept a few burner-phones for clients.”
He’s referring to our injured friend and IT nerd who’s the real tenant of this flat. He couldn’t manage the stairs, and while he stayed with Rupert for a few weeks, I moved in here. Now he’s moved back with his parents to get some care and home-cooked meals, and as much as Rupert and I want to support him, he’s asked us to give him privacy.
“You can pay him later,” Rupert says.
He returns from the bedroom with a shoebox, and takes out several new pre-paid phones. I choose the smallest to fit in a pocket. He opens the packaging and inserts the SIM card.
“Are you going to ring Nessa?”
“It’s late,” I say. “A text first.”
“Considerate of you after tonight’s run-around.”
I enter Nessa’s number and type: This pup is charred.
Just as we reach for our wine glasses, a reply comes through.
Identity check. First question: Who was Sixie?
She’s sticking to the dog theme. My great aunt’s dog was with her when she died.
Aunt Daphne’s last pooch.
When the phone starts to ring, I signal to Rupert with a finger to my lips. “She mustn’t know you’re here. Sorry.”
He nods as I put the call on speaker.
“We need codenames,” Nessa says. “Call me Sphinx-Moth.”
Really? Baxter would approve. Rupert pulls a face.
“Where did you get that from?”
“It’s a real moth and you know what the Sphinx is. It also means ‘a force of nature that must be overcome’. That’s me.”
It reminds me why I love Nessa. What a force of nature she is. “OK. What will I be? Mystery Sister. Miss Sis.”
“Good. Second identity question: What’s my tool of choice in an emergency?”
“A killer heel,” I say.
Rupert raises his eyebrows.
She’s talking about how we met – when I got trapped by a heavy sash window and Nessa rescued me – with the heel of her brand-new shoe.
“That story never gets old,” she croons.
“No, but I will if I don’t find out what the hell is going on.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Yes, over the phone! I thought I was going to meet you tonight and I went to a whole lot of trouble to follow your instructions. Talk!”
“Where are you? Why is your phone on speaker? The boathouse is a wreck so you’re not living there.”
“I’m living alone in a flat nearby. I’ve got the phone on speaker because I’m eating cheese and drinking wine after waiting at the pub for several hours without any food.”
“Sorry about that. But you know what they say about walls and ears.”
With an apologetic glance at Rupert, I turn off the speaker and put the phone to my ear. “Better?”
“Thank you. I’m in danger, Sis. From an old boyfriend.” She misses a beat. “He tried to kill me five years ago and he’s after me again.”
“Tried to kill you?” Through all our heart-to-hearts about dud lovers, she’s never told me this. “What’s his problem?”
“He’s a control freak. We used to work together and he was Mr Charming until we moved in together. The night he tried to strangle me, I’d done something he didn’t like and he flew into a rage. I managed to get away and stay with a friend for a few nights. Then I bought a ticket to Australia.”
“How does he know you’re back?” Why is she back?
“He saw me at the auction rooms in London. That’s why I took off.”
“Then I called out your name and made things worse.”
“Not your fault,” she says. “I got away and changed my appearance.”
“In case he’s followed you? Why were you there? I couldn’t believe it when I saw you.”
“It’s a long story. I’m on my way to a new position in Paris and I need to sell some valuables to … pay a debt. From my share trading.” She hears my intake of breath. “I know, you warned me and I didn’t listen. Just my luck that my ex is now an art dealer and happened to be at the auction rooms.”
“You really think he’ll try to track you down?” If she’s disguising herself, this guy must be as nasty as she says.
“Unfinished business,” she says. “I’ve since read about men like him. They win you over, then undermine and abuse you. And they won’t be crossed. When we recognised each other, the look he gave me was enough to finish me off.”
“Would he look for you down here in Devon?”
“No. Unless … he followed you.”
The shadow-man with the cigarette flashes past.
“Because I recognised you?” I can’t keep the quaver from my voice.
“I don’t want to frighten you, Sis, but it’s possible. He’s that ruthless.”
“Name? Appearance?”
She hesitates. “I’ll call you back. Keep the calls separate.”
When she hangs up, Rupert says, “Even with the pale makeup, Tiggy, you’ve gone as white as a sheet.”
“Her old boyfriend tried to kill her and now she thinks he’s after her again. He might have followed me from the auction house down here, after I called out to her and showed I knew her.”
The phone rings again.
“Felix Silverwood,” she says. “Thirty-eight. Light brown hair, short on the sides, long on top. Longish nose with a bend where he broke it as a kid.”
“How tall?” You always notice that first.
“About six foot. Good muscles. And an overload of charisma.”
The next question has to be asked. “Does he smoke or wear an ear-cuff?”
Rupert raises his eyebrow again.
“No, why?” Nessa asks.
“Just someone I saw. It’s not him. And I was mugged on the night of the auction, but that guy was part of a gang. If Felix followed me to get to you, I would have heard from him by now.” But Nessa could have warned me in her first note. “Did you see Felix at the pub tonight?”
“I’m not sure. So many masks and headdresses. I forgot that if I was dressed up, he would be too. Dumb idea to meet you there. Sorry. I freaked out and bribed the waitress.”
It wasn’t melodramatic to pull a hood over my headdress and change cabs.
“If you think he might be down here, why did you come?”
She takes a deep breath. “I need your help.”
I knew this was coming, but my body shudders with the sense of threat. Nessa’s my best friend and her life is in danger. And now mine could be too.
“He tried to kill you,” I say. “Can’t you go to the police?”
“It was five years ago. In our living room. No witnesses. I should have reported it and got photos of my injuries, but I didn’t. Not even a selfie. I just took off.”
Rupert is sipping wine and watching my face, as my next words stick in my throat. “What kind of help do you need?”
Chapter 11
“Help me sell my stuff,” she says. “This debt from the share trading is crippling me. Felix is a problem, but I have to get the money.”
“Will he be watching other auction rooms?”
“Of course. All he has to do is tell my contact at Chandler & Co that we’re old colleagues and we’ve lost touch, then ask him why I was there. Felix can be very convincing. He’ll use that information to ring around the other auctions and track me down.”
“If he knows what you’re selling,” I say, “he could watch all the sales catalogues.”
“Luckily I saw Felix before I showed his colleague what I’m selling.”
“Go straight to Paris and auction the stuff there.”
“It’s bulky. And I remember you know an antique dealer.”
That stops me. “I couldn’t involve him … Sphinx-Moth.”
“You sound like you don’t want to help me … Miss Sis.”
My pause is short but tense. “Of course I do. I’m your friend. But Henry isn’t. We can’t involve him if there’s any chance Felix might threaten him.”
“Surely that’s for Henry to decide,” she says. “At least you can ask him.”
I think about this. “On one condition: I tell him the risks. And before he decides if it’s worth his time, he’ll need to know what you have to sell.”
She’s silent for a long minute. “A painting.”
“Any other information? He’ll ask for more than that.”
“Old. In a frame with numbers and stamps on the back. I picked it up at a car boot sale. He might be able to tell me how valuable it is. And suggest the best place to sell it. Even sell it for me, for a cut. Then I could stay anonymous.”
“If Henry agrees,” I say, “you’ll have to meet him. I’m sure he won’t use me as a go-between.”
“I’m staying locally. And you have my number. Thanks … Sis.”
As she hangs up, I realise my codename mimics a family connection between us. The sister I never had. It makes her predicament feel personal.
Rupert has refilled my glass. “I picked up most of it from your side of the conversation. She's a person who gets her own way.”
“After the way we met, I’ve always admired her strength of character.”
“In Sydney?”
“About four years ago. She’d just arrived from the UK and was working in a café. I got myself into an emergency situation and she rescued me – with her killer heels.”
“Care to tell me about it?”
I sigh. It’s a story I’ve told many times, but Rupert hasn’t heard it.
“I was researching whether my main character Piper Halliday could escape through a window in a café toilet. One of those heritage buildings where they’ve tucked two or three toilets into a tight space and the window is inside the end cubicle. I had a journo with me for a story in the local paper about how authors keep their fiction authentic. I wanted to make it quirky for the publicity.”
“A bit too quirky?”
“Story of my life. We waited until the lunch crowd had gone. Then the journo refused to come into the cubicle with me – ‘How would it look if someone comes in?’ – so to keep it authentic, I locked myself in the end toilet, as Piper would do, and the journo stood on the toilet seat in the next cubicle with her camera while I kept up a running commentary about what I was doing. Are you with me so far?”
“Riveted. What could possibly go wrong?”
“I climbed up onto the sanitary bin to reach the catch on the sash window. A window with multiple panes and wooden cross pieces. Unfortunately, when I unlocked the catch, the upper window dropped and the wooden cross piece crushed my left hand against the lower frame. The pain in my knuckles was excruciating but I couldn’t lift the window with my other hand. I was stuck.”
“What about the journalist?”
“She was very young. A cadet. And completely useless in an emergency. I screamed out to her to crawl under the toilet door and help me, but she didn’t respond even when I asked her to go for help. I thought I could hear her taking deep breaths.”
“A panic attack.”
“It must have been. My phone was in my shoulder bag, hanging on the back of the door. With the café closed till later, I could have been trapped there for hours, doing serious damage to my hand, with the journo possibly needing medical attention too. Just as I was starting to feel wobbly, someone came in.”
“Nessa.”
“She was amazing, Rupert. She could see the journo taking deep breaths in one cubicle and my arm stretched up above the partition. She took in the situation and called out to me. She told the journo that she was taking over. Then she crawled under my door and tried to climb up to the upper window, even getting the sanitary bin from next door. But I was blocking her full access to the window and she couldn’t budge it.”
“It couldn’t be pushed up from the outside?”
“It opened onto a lane and she would have needed a ladder. Nessa called the emergency services, sat on my toilet seat and started telling me funny stories to distract me from the pain until the rescuers arrived.”
“And the killer heels?”
“Read about it. The journo finally came good and wrote up the story.” I google it and pass it to him. “Here’s the paragraph about Nessa. She asked to remain anonymous.”
Rupert reads: “Damsel’s Dunny Disaster. Good Aussie headline. Our hero of the day had just bought a pair of spiked heels in her lunch hour. They were gorgeous but she didn’t miss a beat. She jammed the heel of one into the tiny gap that Tiggy Jones’ fingers had made between the two windows, then levered the top window up just enough to relieve the pressure on Tiggy’s hand. With that shoe ruined, she jammed the toe of the other shoe into the extra gap to hold the space.” He looks up. “You still couldn’t pull your hand out?”
“Not without ripping the flesh off my knuckles. But now there was much less pain and finger damage.” I flex my hand to show it’s completely recovered. “When Nessa was in charge and I’d stopped whimpering, the journo snapped out of it and landed her first scoop.”
“And a lasting friendship was launched.”
“With champagne like a good ship. After my hand was treated and strapped, Nessa led me to the nearest bar for drinks. Lots of them.”
I fill him in on anything he missed from the phone call. He sits for a while, ruminating over Nessa’s story.
“I have to ask this, Tiggy. I know the basis for your friendship is strong but how well have you got to know her since the rescue?”
“We did a series of drawing workshops together at Brett Whiteley’s old studio in Sydney, followed by dinner. Then after I left a bad relationship, she let me sleep on her sofa until I found a new home. If I could choose a sister, I’d choose her without a second thought.”
But I’m about to find out just how strong our friendship is.
“Something is niggling at you, though,” Rupert says.
“She’s never told me about Felix. He tried to strangle her! It’s what friends tell each other. I feel hurt.”
“Perhaps she was ashamed,” he says. “Falling for him makes her sound weak. And that wouldn’t suit her image.”
We leave it at that and he finds the website of Felix Silverwood, Art Dealer. We both look at his face, handsome even with the bend in his nose.
“If I’d seen him around, I’d remember him. He’s easy to look at.”
“Unless he was wearing a solstice mask,” Rupert warns.
“But how would he know we’d be at the Droop tonight? Nessa was spooked because she couldn’t see everyone’s face, but if the guy works in London, he’s not going to come down here in the hope of bumping into her.”
I’ve been buying into her fear and I feel better already.
“His bio says he trained as a conservator and worked at several regional galleries. Didn’t Nessa say they worked together a few years back?”
“Yeah. But she works in a bank.”
“People start in one field and move to another. I used to demolish houses, now I sell them.”
“Or she took a museum job while she was studying finance.”
“You don’t earn much working in a museum,” he says. “More money in banking. It sounds like Nessa is motivated by money.”
“Not really. She only dipped her toe into share trading to save a deposit to buy her own place. The Sydney property market is nuts. You’d love it. But unless you’ve got the bank-of-mum-and-dad behind you, you’ve got no chance of saving enough. She was a novice trader and I told her to be careful.”
“Perhaps she was borrowing to invest and got one of those margin calls when the stock’s value dropped.” He thinks for a minute. “I noticed that she reminded you of how you met, just before she asked for your help.”
“Because I owe her? No. We’re always telling that story. It’s so bizarre it never gets old.”
“Well, I just want to say there’s a fine line between being supportive and feeling indebted to another person. She’s your bestie, but you’re not responsible for fixing her mistakes.”
“Thanks for the pep talk and for watching over me tonight. What’s the word for ‘pal’ over here?”
“I’ll answer to: me ‘andsome.” He grins. “When will you visit Henry about Nessa’s painting?”
“I’m not sure. He’s been busy in the lead-up to Christmas, even on the weekends.”
It’s very late. I walk him to the door.
“Give me your fancy dress,” he says. “I’ll have to return my own costume. I can wash and return yours at the same time.”
“Would you? Luna and I can dress a mannequin for social media next week.” I give him the bag of clothes and smile. “Goodnight, me ‘andsome.”
When I lock the door behind him, I lean back against it, wishing Raider was here to sleep on my bed and make me feel safe. Sal the Salamander could turn up any time. He’s let me stress over his calling card long enough.
As I climb into bed and try to get warm under multiple coverings, I remember that Henry opens at eleven on Sundays but arrives at the shop early to potter. He might be up for a cup of tea and a chat before the Christmas shoppers invade. It feels urgent to talk to him about Nessa’s situation, and it would stop me worrying about it all day tomorrow. Then Nessa can meet him on Monday.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say to the missing pooch.
Chapter 12
Henry replies to my early morning text. Good morning, Tiggy. The kettle is ON.
