“It is my recollection — I had completely forgotten this — that his records and his references came back to us in a single packet that was delivered about a week after my letters went out.”
“Do you remember where the packet came from?”
“No, it was delivered by messenger, I think, in a plain file folder.”
“Didn’t you think that odd at the time?”
“I did, but I was overwhelmed with work at the time, and I never thought to tell anyone or investigate further. His academic record was excellent and his references glowing.”
Quentin looked through the references. “Are these fictitious?”
“Not the names — they were all established educators at various institutions. With hindsight, though, their recommendations were fictitious.”
“May I have the original of this file and leave the copy with you?” Quentin asked.
“I suppose so, if it’s all right with Dr. Schmidt.”
“Perfectly all right,” he responded.
“Dr. Schmidt, did you have any sort of personal relationship with Dr. Riis?”
“Not really. I had lunch with him two or three times in our cafeteria, but that’s it.”
“Did he ever reveal anything of himself during those lunches?”
Dr. Schmidt closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate. “He liked cars,” he said finally. “Fast cars. He always had an auto magazine with him, and he talked about Ferraris and Aston Martins. He also seemed to like wristwatches. He never seemed to wear the same one two days in a row, and they were all expensive — Cartiers, Rolexes, that sort of thing. That’s about it.”
“You said he wore expensive clothes. Did you ever chance to see a label in a jacket, or anything like that?”
“No, but with hindsight, I would say that they were tailor-made, not off the rack, as they say. They fit him perfectly, and the fabrics didn’t look like those that anyone I knew wore. I didn’t think much of it — lots of people have family money or independent means. Still, he had awfully good taste.”
“You said he liked cars: Did you ever see what he drove?”
Schmidt thought about it. “No, I don’t think I ever saw him drive or get into or out of a car.”
“Any references to his background? Family?”
“I believe he said he was from Los Angeles. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.”
Margaret Shames left the room, came back with the original file, and exchanged it for the copy she had given Quentin.
On the way back in the car, Quentin looked through the file again, then handed it to Annie. “Send this to the lab and have it checked out — paper types, ink, watermarks — anything they can come up with.”
“Sure thing,” Annie said.
29
Over breakfast the following morning, Stone tried to make sense of Kevin Keyes’s actions. “There are too many coincidences,” Stone said.
“I’ll grant you, there are coincidences, but they seem to be easily explained,” Pat said.
“Then how come every time we land, Paul Reeves’s airplane is just ahead of us?”
“That’s because we flew the same route. Lots of owner-pilots want to do a transatlantic, and his Mustang wouldn’t be equipped to do it any way but the Blue Spruce route.”
“And why would Reeves choose Keyes to fly with him?”
“Paul knew Kevin through me. I think Kevin did a delivery of his previous airplane — a King Air 190. So Kevin would be a logical choice as a backup pilot. Would you have done the flight alone without me or someone like me along?”
“Good point. Then they end up in the same restaurant with us.”
“It seemed to be a very popular restaurant,” she said. “And I don’t think Reeves or Kevin saw us. We wouldn’t have seen them if Reeves hadn’t been so drunk.”
“Would you mind if we left London early?” Stone asked.
“It’s not my first trip to London. When would you like to leave?”
“After breakfast?”
“Hang on, Dino’s coming this morning and you promised him a room. Let’s give it a couple of days. We can make a point of going to places Kevin wouldn’t know about.”
“You’re right.”
“Where are we going when we go?”
“To the country. Let me have a chat with the concierge about some reservations.”
“Okay, I’m in your hands. I’d like to do some shopping today, if you don’t need the car.”
“That’s all right, I thought I’d visit my tailor and shirtmaker, but I can take cabs for that.”
Pat left with Tony and the car, and Stone shaved, showered, and dressed, just in time for Dino and Viv to walk in.
“Hey, buddy,” Dino said, slapping him on the shoulder.
“How was the flight?”
“Not bad. I actually got some sleep, but I think I need some more.” He looked around. “This is some place,” he said.
“A client of Pat’s arranged for Jaguar to put us up. They own the hotel.”
Viv gave him a hug. “You don’t look jet-lagged. How do you do that?”
“I guess our overnight in Iceland helped.” Stone showed them to their room and directed the bellman there when he arrived.
They disappeared into their room, and Stone didn’t want to disturb them, so he left a note. He took a taxi to Mount Street, in Mayfair, to Hayward, his old tailor. Doug Hayward had passed on some years ago, and the shop had been bought by another, larger tailor. When he walked in, he didn’t recognize the place. Doug’s cozy shop had been gutted and replaced with a shopfitter’s dream — lots of chrome and white walls. Les, Doug’s old cutter, was still there, and Audie, who had run the front desk. She didn’t seem to have a desk anymore.
He met the new head cutter and looked at some fabrics. He chose a couple of lightweight cashmeres for jackets and was measured, explaining that he’d have his next fitting when they made their regular visit to New York in the spring.
He went to his shirtmaker, Turnbull & Asser, in Jermyn Street and had a look around. They had a shop in New York now, but he liked to visit the old place. He was looking at ties when Paul Reeves, the Mustang owner, walked in, looking hungover.
Stone picked out some ties and pocket squares, and when he had finished, Reeves was gone, to his relief. He went next door to the bespoke department to order some shirts. As he walked in he heard an American accent.
“Barrington? Isn’t your name Barrington?”
He turned to find Paul Reeves sitting at a table, poring over shirtings. “Yes. Have we met?”
“Not exactly. I was at Flight Safety at the same time as you, but I was in the Mustang class, and you were in the MC2 group.” He offered his hand, and Stone shook it. “I’m Paul Reeves.”
“I’m Stone. What brings you to London?”
“Business, ostensibly,” Reeves replied. “But I really just wanted to fly my airplane over here.”
“Same with me,” Stone said. He thought it better not to mention Pat.
“You’re in the MC2?”
“Right.”
A salesman walked up to the table. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington. May I help you?”
“Yes, thanks.” He turned to Reeves. “Have a good flight home.” He joined the salesman on the other side of the room, and Reeves left after a few minutes, giving him a wave.
“You know Mr. Reeves?” the salesman asked.
“Not until just now.”
“He was asking about you earlier.”
“Really? What did he want to know?”
“He said he thought he saw you in the shop next door, and that the two of you had been in flight school at the same time.”
“Yes, he mentioned that. We were in different classes, and I didn’t meet him at the time.”
“Ah.”
Stone picked some fabrics and ordered his shirts, for delivery at their New York shop. He went back to the shop next door to retrieve his purchases, and as he arrived there it began to rain, so he added an umbrella to his purchases. He managed to get a taxi in Jermyn Street and went back to the hotel.