‘No,’ I said. ‘No. Robin handed over all the maps in existence. The latest was 1850, not 1862...’ I ran out of words.
‘Exactly,’ said Julia. ‘And here we have Natasha Felks talking about a map twelve years later than that.’
‘She must just have made a mistake.’ I was still fighting reality.
‘A very precise one, don’t you think,’ remarked Julia mildly.
‘But it doesn’t really prove anything, does it, I mean, it’s just a letter, you haven’t got the maps, have you?’
I think I had begun to try Julia’s patience by then. She sounded quite exasperated when she replied.
‘No, Rose, I do have the letter but I haven’t got the maps. Neither did Jeremy Cole ever see them, he arranged to meet Natasha but she died two days before they were due to do so.’
She paused for a moment, waiting, I knew, for the implications of that bit to sink in fully, then she continued.
‘I think it is highly unlikely that anyone will ever see those maps again. I think they’ve been destroyed, don’t you?’
I took in great gulps of fresh air, trying to calm myself, seeking for straws to clutch.
‘Julia, if he had possible evidence like this why didn’t Cole come forward at the enquiry, or even at Natasha’s inquest?’
‘Well, he claims not to have considered the significance until I confronted him. I think that was probably true originally when Natasha died. He didn’t know what was going on with Abri, he hadn’t seen the maps, and he had no reason to suspect anything other than a tragic accident. But by the time of the disaster he’d put it together, I’m sure of it. He had his own reasons for not wanting to get involved, not wanting to wash his dirty linen in public, as he put it. But once the disaster had happened it was a lot more than facing a load of publicity over an extramarital affair. Imagine the scandal if Sir Jeremy Blessed Cole had been seen to have had any kind of foreknowledge. He justified it to himself that it was too late after the event, he couldn’t bring back the dead, and simply kept stum.’
‘So why did he suddenly open up to you then?’ I asked.
‘A niggling conscience, perhaps,’ said Julia with a certain edge. ‘Some people still do have them you know. I think he might be secretly ashamed of himself. And I took him by surprise.’
I had nothing further to say. After another short pause Julia started to speak again.
‘Look Rose, we both know how Robin feels about Abri Island. And we know what happened to Natasha Felks. If complete maps of the mining operations had been available to AKEKO they would never have done a deal, and more than likely the whole island would have been evacuated then. Robin would have lost it.’
I interrupted her forcefully. ‘Julia stop,’ I said. ‘I just can’t take it in. You’re just surmising things, terrible things, and I cannot listen to it, I really can’t.’
This time Julia interrupted me, but her voice was very gentle.
‘Darling Rose, I know it’s your husband I’m talking about, but neither of us can ignore this, can we? I’m not sure how much it means or exactly what, but I am quite sure it’s enough for the police to want to reopen their investigation. One of us should go to Todd Mallett. Shall I, or do you want to? He’s your mate.’
‘I wouldn’t say he’s my mate, exactly,’ I said, gratefully grasping the opportunity to go off at a tangent.
‘OK, shall I do it then?’ Julia asked, sounding very patient.
Crazily I still played for time.
‘Can I see the letter first?’ I asked.
Julia sighed. ‘Come up on an early morning train,’ she said. ‘To tell the truth, I’d rather you stayed with me till this is all sorted out anyway.’
I was about to hang up when a final thought occurred to me.
‘Blurting out more than you mean to a journalist is one thing, but I’m surprised Cole gave you the letter,’ I said.
‘He didn’t, I nicked it,’ confessed Julia without a trace of compunction. ‘I handed him back an empty envelope. I am an old tabloid hack you know...’
In any other circumstances I would have had to laugh. As it was, I felt that I would probably never laugh again as long as I lived.
On autopilot I wandered out of the kitchen into the rear lobby area, picked up the bag containing the Macallan and the mineral water, both of which I intended to take to bed with me, and closed and locked the back door. The only way I could get through the night was to do my best to stop myself thinking, I reckoned. The house felt huge, and very cold. I shivered as, still functioning automatically, I walked along the passageway to the front hall to ensure that the main door was locked and secure, as I did every night before I went to bed. Then I headed for oblivion.
I drank the greater part of my bottle, swiftly and quite deliberately, and it did at least have the required anaesthetic effect. I also had a damned good weep into my pillow, which seemed to help a bit. Anyway, eventually I fell into a deep if troubled sleep until the alarm woke me just before 6 a.m.
I brushed my teeth vigorously in a vain attempt to rid my mouth of the fuzziness the whisky had left me with, showered quickly, dressed in the clothes I had taken off the night before, and set off for Temple Meads station to catch the seven o’clock to Paddington. I felt as if I were operating in a kind of daze. I planned to call Julia, not known for being an early riser, from the train at a slightly more respectable hour to tell her I was on my way.
I was just about to turn into the station car park when I heard the news on the car radio.
‘A major fire broke out last night in a luxury London apartment block. The mystery blaze was believed to have started in the flat of well-known journalist Julia Jones, who was critically injured. Several other residents suffered shock and minor injuries...’
I felt quite faint. My dull hangover headache turned into a raging searing pain. I thought my head was going to burst open. I made myself think. I turned the car around and drove home. First I called Julia’s office and managed to raise the news desk night watchman, on duty till the first of the day shift would arrive some time after eight. He told me that Julia was in the Charing Cross Hospital suffering from a fractured skull and a dislocated shoulder, and he had already acquired a pretty full picture of what had happened.
The blaze had broken out suddenly in her home apparently, and was believed to have been caused by some kind of gas leak. Julia’s flat was on the fourth floor of a luxury tower block overlooking the Thames. If she hadn’t been something of an action girl she would have died because it seemed that she was trapped in her bedroom by the blaze. But Julia was surprisingly fit and agile for a hard-drinking hack. At the beginning of the year she had gone on one of those Outward Bound courses for jaded executives which are getting to be all the rage, and she had told me then that she’d taken a liking to rock climbing. Apparently she had calmly opened her bedroom window, clambered out, and attempted to climb down the outside of the building. According to witnesses she had nearly made it too, but just two storeys from safety she had missed a foothold and fallen to the ground.
My hand was shaking when I replaced the receiver and I had difficulty controlling my breathing. But my brain was beginning to function with an almost clinical efficiency. I think my police training may have been clicking in at last.
My next call was to the Charing Cross Hospital. When I had convinced the hospital that not only was I a DCI, but also a close friend, I was reassured that she would almost certainly live. However, she had not recovered consciousness since her fall and was undergoing brain surgery as we spoke.
Brain surgery. The very idea made me cringe.
‘But...’ I stumbled. ‘Can you be sure she’ll be all right?’ I desperately sought the right words. ‘I mean, what condition will she be in after the operation?’