The Conspiracy Club (16 page)

On the back of the card was fore-slanted writing in black fountain pen ink:

Dear Dr. C —
Traveling and learning.
A.C.

The old guy picks up and leaves just like that. And why not? Arthur was retired, lived alone, had no work obligations.

Had downsized.

Jeremy was certain the Victorian had been abandoned for some reason other than Arthur’s sudden insight that the house was too large.

Ramona Purveyance knew the reason, she’d almost let it slip —
he’d knocked around there too long after . . .

But when Jeremy had pressed, she’d finessed.

Had there been some tragedy in Arthur’s life? Some life-changing event? Perhaps the old man had simply confronted one of life’s routine tragedies: widowerhood.

Loss of the doting wife Jeremy had imagined. That would’ve been more than enough to insult Arthur’s gregariousness. Leading him to seek his pleasures elsewhere.

Late suppers with like-minded eccentrics.

Jeremy placed the postcard in a desk drawer. The next time he saw Anna, the faculty office secretary, he thanked her for providing Arthur’s address, told her Arthur loved the gift, was now traveling.

“Yes, he does that,” she said. “Sends me the prettiest postcards. So considerate.”

“A good way to occupy oneself,” said Jeremy.

“What is?”

“Travel. What with his living alone and all that.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“How long has he been single?”

Anna said, “Ever since I’ve known him — I believe he’s always been single, Dr. Carrier. Confirmed bachelor and all that. A pity, wouldn’t you say? Such a nice man?”

Living single meant you could hop to the airport, charm the ticket agent, board, loosen your shoelaces, nibble salted nuts, down a martini with two pearl onions, and settle back for the long flight.

If Arthur was behind the interoffice envelopes, he’d sent Jeremy two articles on laser surgery and left the country shortly after posting an old clipping about a missing English girl and her murdered chum.

At least, Jeremy had assumed the story was old because of the dry, brown paper. What was the point? A crime-history lesson? Wanting Jeremy to ponder yet another example of very bad behavior?

Wanting to lead Jeremy somewhere . . .

If so, the old man was being maddeningly oblique.

Where was the clipping . . . Jeremy searched his desk, remembered he’d thrown it out. What was the murdered girl’s name . . . Suzie something, a surname beginning with C . . . he struggled to retrieve the memory, felt it evade him maddeningly, a sour aftertaste, lodged in the soft, spongy tissue behind his tongue . . .

But the other name came to him, unbidden.

The girl who had vanished — an unusual name —
Sapsted — Bridget Sapsted.

He turned on his antiquated computer, endured the squawks of his temperamental modem (the hospital had converted to word processing years after every other health facility, still refused to install an integrated system), sat back, and counted the dots in his acoustical tile ceiling until he finally connected to the Internet.

He entered the missing girl’s name into a search engine, heard the computer hum and snore and flatulate — indatagestion.

Three hits, all from British tabloids.

The case wasn’t ancient at all; the acid-laced pulp paper had deteriorated quickly.

Six years ago: As the clipping had stated, Bridget Sapsted had gone missing.

Two years later, Bridget Sapsted had been found, dead.

The young woman’s skeletonized remains had been buried shallowly, in a densely wooded area, less than a quarter mile from those of her “chum” Suzie
Clevington
. Found three weeks after Suzie. Nothing left but bones; the coroner estimated that Bridget Sapsted had been interred for the full two years before being sniffed out by dogs.

“Finding Suzie helped narrow the search,” said Det Insp Nigel Langdon. “We are now considering both young ladies the victims of the same killer. For evidentiary reasons we are unable to divulge an explanation for that assumption at the present time.”

Jeremy plugged the policeman into several data banks. Only one hit for any
Nigel Langdon
, and it had nothing to do with police work: Last year, a man by that name had delivered a lecture on the cultivation of peonies to the Millicent Haverford Memorial Garden Club. Kent.

Same district, had to be the same guy. Perhaps the Det Insp had also retired, chosen quieter pursuits.

Jeremy phoned overseas information, was stalled by several false starts, finally connected to the right English operator and obtained a listed number for a Nigel Langdon in Broadstairs.

Where the murdered girls had gone to school.

The time difference made it evening in England, but still early enough for a polite call.

He punched in the number, listened to the overseas squawk, was momentarily stunned when a cheerful woman’s voice chirped, “Hallo, who is it then?”

“Is Mr. Langdon there, please?”

“Watching the telly. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Dr. Carrier, from the United States.”

“The States — you’re joking.”

“Not at all. Is this Mrs. Langdon?”

“Last I checked. No joke? What, then? What kind of an American doctor are you?”

“A psychologist,” said Jeremy. “I’m a friend of Dr. Arthur Chess.”

“Are you now?” said the woman. “I’m sure that’s good for
him
, whoever
he
is. So you think Nige needs a head-shrink?”

“Nothing like that, Mrs. Langdon. Dr. Arthur Chess — Professor Chess is a renowned pathologist, with an interest in one of Mr. Langdon’s cases — we are talking about Detective Inspector Nigel Langdon?”

“Re
tired
inspector . . . Nigey’s well past all that ugly business — it’s the murdered girls, right? Has to be that.”

“As a matter of fact, yes—”

“Aha! So who’s the detective in this family!” The woman laughed.

“How did you know?” said Jeremy.

“Because it’s the only case Nige’s been involved with any psychologist would be interested in. Had to be a crazy man, it did — but I shouldn’t say more. Indiscreet, and all that. What do
you
and your professor friend want with Nigey?”

“I’d just like to ask him a few questions.”

“You and everyone else.”

“There’s been recent curiosity about the case?”

“Not recent. But after it happened — when they found the second one, Bridget — you couldn’t keep this phone cold.” Silence on the line. The woman said, “Thank goodness, all that’s passed. So you want to talk to him, eh?”

“I would appreciate it. Just for a—”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Lately he’s been complaining about boredom.
Nige!
”

The man’s voice was clogged — as if he’d stuffed his mouth full of eggs.

“What’s this?” he demanded. “Something about Suzie and Bridget? Who
are
you? What’s this
about
?”

Jeremy spun a web about Arthur’s forensic skills, erudite discussions between the two of them concerning important cases, the old man asking Jeremy to do psychosocial follow-up on cases he believed were yet unresolved.

“Well, this is certainly bugger-all unresolved,” grumbled Nigel Langdon. “Never closed it. Surprised me at every turn. What with two bodies, I thought there’d be more. One of those serial things, you know? But that was it, two. Bastard ravaged those poor girls and just stopped. One of them had a boyfriend, a bad lot, served some time in Broadmoor for assault, I was certain he’d be the one. But he had an alibi. Locked up in Broadmoor — that’s about as good as it gets, wouldn’t you say? Other than him, nothing. Now, good night—”

“Ravaged,” said Jeremy. “Was there sexual assault?”

“I was speaking . . . dramatically, sir. Why should I tell
you
? It’s a bit impertinent—”

“One more question, Inspector Langdon. Please. Was there evidence of surgical precision to the murders?”

Silence.

“What,” said Langdon, “are you really asking?”

“Just that. Were the bodies dissected with . . . notable skill? Something that implied medical expertise?”

“Where’d you say you were from, lad?”

“City Central Hospital.” Jeremy rattled off the address, told Langdon he’d be happy to give his number and Langdon could call to verify.

Langdon broke in: “Why all this curiosity from City Central Hospital, sir?”

“Just what I said, Inspector. Intellectual curiosity. And a deep concern on Professor Chess’s part — and mine — about psychosocial issues. The origins of violence.”

“Have a case like it over there, do you?”

Jeremy hesitated.

Langdon said, “I give all the answers, and you go dumb?”

“It’s possible, Inspector. Nothing decisive. Professor Chess is a pathologist, worked at the Coroner’s Office, here. He and I review cases — you’ve never heard of Professor Chess?”

“Chess . . . as in the game?”

“Exactly.”

“No, can’t say as I have.”

“He’s world-renowned,” said Jeremy. “Currently, he’s traveling in Oslo.”

“Too bad for him,” said Langdon. “As an overgrown fishing village it’s not half-bad. But
those
blokes. Sardines and oil is all
they’re
about. Which makes sense, har. Used to eating their fishies oily and got themselves bloody rich on oil, the Norsers. Worse than the Arabs. All that money, and they can’t bring themselves to install indoor plumbing in their summer homes, still walk around with rucksacks. Does that make sense to you — rich men eschewing indoor plumbing?”

A long speech. Langdon’s voice had risen — anxiety — and Jeremy wondered if he’d prattled to hide something.

“You’ve been to Oslo, Inspector.”

“Been all kinds of places,” said Langdon. “Anyway, I am going to cut you off, now, because you’re bringing nasty stuff back into my life. Give me flowers, I like flowers. Flowers don’t rip each other apart for no good reason, then disappear and never show their ugly, psychopath faces again.”

Snorting once, he cut the connection.

Langdon had been to Oslo and didn’t want to talk about it.

Jeremy thought about that, decided there was nowhere else to take it. That was that.

But it wasn’t. Two days later, he received an e-mail from
[email protected]
.

Ever the detective, Langdon had remembered Jeremy’s name and that of the hospital, traced his faculty account, obtained his address.

Dear Dr. Jeremy Carrier,
I fear I may have been unnecessarily curt with you during our recent phone chat. Perhaps I can be forgiven that curtness due to the unannounced nature of your call and the unpleasant subject matter foisted upon me by you during an otherwise restful evening.
However, I do feel it incumbent upon me to pass along the following truths:
With regard to your inquiry about various aspects of cases we discussed that have passed from under my responsibility, I’m afraid I’m not able to divulge details. Especially as said cases remain open. The new man in charge of the Clevington/Sapsted file is Det Insp Michael B. Shreve, however to my knowledge he is not actively investigating these cases as they have been deemed inactive, pending new evidence, none of which, to my knowledge has surfaced. Therefore, they are likely to remain closed. However, I have now passed along Det Insp Shreve’s name to you and feel that with that action I have acquitted my responsibilities in this matter.
Furthermore, I doubt that Det Insp Shreve would fancy discussing said case with non-police personnel. However, here is his phone number, should you decide to persist.
Best wishes,
Nigel A. Langdon (very definitely Ret.)

Jeremy phoned Michael B. Shreve’s office and was informed by an officious male officer that the detective inspector was on holiday.

“Until when?”

“Until he returns, sir.”

“When might that be?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge personal details, sir.”

Jeremy left his name and number and the fact that he was inquiring about Suzie Clevington and Bridget Sapsted.

If that rang a bell with Mr. Officious, he gave no indication.

“Is he in Norway?”

“Thank you, sir. Good day, sir.”

S
omething that had never happened before:

Jeremy forgot to turn off his pager, and it went off during a therapy session.

The patient was a thirty-year-old man named Josh Hammett, an electrician, undergoing a final set of skin grafts for deep-tissue burns suffered last year when a storm-snapped power line had scythed across his chest and severed his left arm.

Months after the amputation, phantom pain had set in, and when nothing else seemed to work, the plastic surgeon put in a psych consult.

This was the sixth time Jeremy had seen the young man. Josh had proved an excellent hypnotic subject, responding readily, even eagerly, to Jeremy’s suggestion that his arm had found a peaceful resting place.

Now, he reclined on a couch in the treatment room with Jeremy hovering near his head. Breathing slowly, regularly, the innocent smile of a dreaming toddler spread across his lips.

The bleating at Jeremy’s belt failed to rouse him. Deeply under. Jeremy switched off the beeper, let him stay wherever he was for a longer while than usual, finally brought him out gradually. When the young man thanked him and told him he felt great, really great, fantastic, actually, Jeremy turned it back on him: “You did all the work, Josh. You’re excellent at this.”

“Think so, Doc?”

“Definitely. You’re as good as it gets.”

Josh beamed. “I never thought it was something I could do, Doc. Tell the truth, when you first mentioned it I thought it was bogus-pocus. But that power-board idea ended being a great idea. The minute I visualize it, all the circuits in place, see all those lights blinking, everything working real smooth, I just go right under. Like that.”