Jane Austen Death Squad ~ 1 (revised)

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Chapter One

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“Sal, do you remember that neighbour of mine you promised that I'd be delighted to water her plants?” Detective Inspector Sergio Montini asked.

“Huh.” Detective Sergeant Sally Fredericks had been too focused on her task to know instantly what this strange sentence meant. “Your neighbour?”

“Across the hall. She gave you her key.” He hadn't been too happy with that, because he didn't even know what his neighbour looked like. To be given the responsibility for her key and her plants was something he didn't like, not unless he had been personally involved in setting up this arrangement. But Sally had simply told his neighbour he would be delighted.

“Oh.” Sally now grinned, remembering he'd been less than pleased. But how was she to know? She had thought she was doing him a favour, busy as he'd been catering to his birthday guests. All she had done was take the key and pass on the message. “You forgot to water the plants?”

“That too,” he said with a roll of his eyes. He had put the key on the shelf in the hall and promptly forgotten all about it until the evening before. “But her flat got burgled.”

“Burgled?”

“Yes. That's why I was late. The locksmith came this morning.”

Yesterday evening he had come home to find the neighbour's door had been forced open. Peeking in, he had seen a mess. The police had been, but the locksmith hadn't been able to come until first thing in the morning. He could, it not being his own house and not having any way of reaching the occupant, have left the door like it was, but he hadn't. He had felt some responsibility, having her key and all.

“Does she know?” Sally wondered.

“Didn't you ask her for an emergency number when you accepted the key?”

“No, sorry, didn't think of it. Don't you have it?” she asked with a shrewd look.

“No,” he said curtly. He had told her he did not know his neighbour, yet for some reason she seemed to think he was lying.

“When did it happen?”

“No idea. I got home late last night. We're the only ones on the top floor, so it was any time between my leaving for work and my getting home. No other flat had been tried, even though they all have the same kind of door and lock.” Sergio shook his head. “There wasn't so much as a scratch on my door. Also, I had a look in her flat and the larger valuable things still seemed to be there, as well as boxes with foreign currency.”

“Strange,” Sally commented, but she hadn't really been drawn in yet. “What did they do in there? And why didn't they come over to your flat? Oh hey, we were there, we know why,” she laughed, winking at a third colleague.

“They searched the place. Watts made a report at my insistence, but only about the door, of course. They will not actively start an inquiry. It's just a burglary and nothing seemed to be taken.”

“You couldn't even get them to look for prints?” Sally tutted.

“No.”

“Suckers.” Sally returned to her work.

Sergio sighed and tried to find out as much as he could about Julia Smith. She was at a conference, Sally had told him when she had given him the key, and googling a bit yielded several conferences in combination with her name. One had the right dates, this week. The subjects meant very little to him and he could hardly imagine it was a cut-throat field in which break-ins occurred to steal competitors' research findings.

He scanned the conference's website for a phone number or email address. Someone there would pass on the information. He sent an email, explaining there had been a burglary, that her lock had been fixed and that he could not see what had been taken. It was not worth flying back for, but maybe she had a family member or close friend who'd like to take a look.

That done, he picked up the files on his desk.

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His neighbour phoned him during his lunch break. She asked him a surprising question. “How did you find me?”

“Google,” Sergio replied.

“But then so could anyone.”

The fear in her voice puzzled him. “Er, yes?”

“Were they looking for something specific or for valuable things?”

“They went through all your possessions, but they left your money, your camera, your television...” When she didn't immediately react or ask him about anything valuable she might have had, he went on. “Is there any reason why people might be after something specific? They don't usually break into houses without taking anything.”

“You never know. They might be back.”

He sensed she didn't want to tell him about it. “Okay, but I doubt it. They waited till you were gone, didn't they?”

“But they must have kept an eye on me.”

“I suppose. But you know a simple burglar hasn't got the need to follow you abroad, so there's no need to worry.”

“We're not talking simple burglars,” she retorted. Then her voice changed. “But thanks anyway. I really appreciate it. I'm probably paranoid. You didn't find my itinerary online, did you?”

Her itinerary? He didn't understand. “I didn't look.”

“I'll try not to worry. I'll phone you about the key when I get back and obviously I'll refund your expenses. You're usually out, aren't you? Because I never see anyone on our floor.”

“I'm home sometimes, but yes, phone. I'll come over. I work nearby.”

---

Sergio thought about it once or twice in the next two days, but he was still surprised when she called.

“This is Julia Smith. I'm at the airport. I could be home in an hour. Is that convenient?”

“Sure.”

Google hadn't been as helpful when it came to a photo. Sergio had realised before that he had no idea what Julia Smith looked like, except for Sally's vague description that might not even be right – something snide about her not being a bikini model. He was a little embarrassed to admit he had never seen who lived next door and he had been living there for two years or so. They had apparently always come and gone at different hours. He might have seen her downstairs in the entrance hall – there were nine flats and he knew about ten people by sight, but any of the women could be her.

An hour later he was leaning against the railing of the stairs on the ground floor of his building. She was late and didn't show up until fifteen minutes later. Well, someone did, but considering that it was a woman with a suitcase it could hardly be anyone else. She appeared to be youngish, but the last time he had guessed someone's age she had hit him.

“Miss Smith?” he inquired nevertheless, betting on the fact that she was Miss. She didn't live with anyone and she hadn't asked him to contact a boyfriend either.

“Yes?” She looked nervous.

“I have your key.” He pointed behind himself. “I'm Sergio. I live up there.”

“Oh. Sorry. I thought I recognised you as someone living here, but I couldn't be sure.” She hurried up the stairs, but she kept glancing back apologetically at him and fearfully at the door.

“Can I give you a hand?” he offered gallantly and he took her suitcase. For some reason she had been afraid before coming in, but she was relaxing more the higher she climbed. Upstairs he gave her her key. “I'll leave you to it.”

“No!” She almost cried.

“Nobody's been in there since the lock was changed,” he reassured her, but because she seemed genuinely terrified he relented. She let him go first. The flat was as he had left it when he had – belatedly – watered the plants. It was a mess.

“Why...”

“You tell me. You seemed to have an idea.”

“No. I couldn't.” Her eyes took in the chaos. There were papers everywhere, hand-written and printed. “All my research notes!”

Sergio took out his warrant card and waved it under her nose. “You sure you can't tell me?” To his surprise she nearly cried.

He glanced into the kitchen. Oddly enough there was nothing on the floor there. Drawers were open, but nothing had been taken out. “Strange. As if you can't hide anything in a kitchen. Could you make us some tea, or I could, and we'll sit down and you could tell me all about it.”

She shook her head. “I can't.”

“I can't help you if you don't.” He moved towards the tea when she didn't.

“I have no proof.”

But she had suspicions, he suspected. “Yet they ransack your flat – and you think it's connected to this something you refuse to talk about.”

“Well, okay.” She slumped down in a chair. “I have a letter. It was written by Jane Austen.”

“Who – oh, wait. You were at a conference about it.” He remembered thinking that the burglary couldn't possibly have any link to her research.

“About things to do with Austen, not my letter.”

“All right. What about the letter?”

“I found it in my aunt's attic after she died. She had a whole pile of old papers. This one caught my attention because I thought I saw the name Darcy in it. You know how you really can't read those old handwritings? But I thought I could make out Darcy. You know Darcy.”

Sergio had no clue who Darcy was, but he didn't want her to get started on irrelevant details. If Darcy was important he would find that out later.

“Anyway, then I tried to read the rest of it and thought it was signed by Jane Austen, so I let someone transcribe it for me. When I read the transcription I knew she had really written it, but that it was unusual enough to cause a fuss.”

“Because...” Sergio said with little interest in all the details.

“Because it dealt with what happened after Pride and Prejudice, except that it really wasn't what had been hinted at before. Something very different.”

“Something scandalous,” he guessed. He hoped she would not take his answer to mean he knew anything at all about Austen, because he didn't. But logically thinking, things that caused a fuss were usually scandalous.

She looked relieved he understood. “You could say so. Most people I told wouldn't believe me. They either thought I was making it up or that the letter was a fake.”

“All right. But the important thing is, would someone steal it? You seem to think so.” If it was old – when had Jane Austen lived? – it might be worth some money. Still, it could never be worth more than all the things they hadn’t stolen from her flat and much more difficult to sell on.

“I haven't got anything else worth stealing. And some people have given me odd reactions about it lately.” Miss Smith frowned, as if those odd reactions were a more peculiar brand of odd than the ordinary odd reactions one would have to hearing about an old letter.

“And who might have done this? Have you got any idea?”

“Not really. I know these people online.”

“Online.” Then they were freaks, all of them. People who knew people online were freaks.

“I don't know them in the sense of knowing them. There are websites for Jane Austen fans.”

“I suppose so.” There were websites for everything.

Her eyes briefly travelled to the window. “Is that red car still in the street? A red car followed me home from the airport.”

Sergio looked out, mentally chiding himself for doing so unobtrusively. There was no need to be cautious when there was nothing going on. “There's a red car.” Through the open window of the car he saw someone, man or woman, playing with a cell phone. If it had been there when she arrived, it had been there a bit long, but it didn't have to be long enough yet to be suspicious.

However, its simply being there was not yet a problem. It would not be for him, but she wasn't a pro. “This is not some performance test, is it?” Sergio asked, his scepticism clear.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Am I being tested on this non-problem to see how I handle it? I'd think I proved myself long ago.”

“Well, that's your answer then. But you think I might be a policewoman?” She was just as unbelieving now.

He studied her. “You do a good job of not looking like one, so you might be.”

“So if it looks like a dog and barks like a dog, why do you think it might be a cat?”

“Because it is too ridiculous for words.” He glanced at the window, although he could not see the car from where he was standing. She might have seen a random car when she arrived and mentioned it for some reason he could not fathom.

“I quite agree. However, I'm not lying. There really must be a rabid Jane Austen fan after my letter.”

Real fans did some crazy things now and then, Sergio conceded, but he had never heard of rabid Jane Austen fans. The woman had been dead for too long. He went back to the facts. “But you say they operate online and they broke into your home. How would they know your name and address?”

“Someone must have told them.”

“There you go,” he said instantly. “Never, ever give anyone on the internet your name and address. We are always warning people, but nobody ever listens to us.”

“Poor you. You don't seem to allow for the possibility that you might befriend someone and that you might exchange Christmas cards.”

“What the hell are Christmas cards? It's 2015.”

Julia Smith shot him an annoyed look.

“But there's your answer. It was someone on your Christmas card list.”

“No, I can vouch for them. I only befriend intelligent people.”

He looked baffled. “What does that have to do with their not wanting to steal anything? Do you let them take IQ tests first, by the way?”

“You can tell by the way they write,” Julia explained, her tone as dignified as possible. He was a barbarian, truly, but it was clear she was doing her best not to be provoked. “But the car – it has been following me.”

Sergio bit his lip. He wanted to know for sure how serious this was and so far he only had her word. He didn't know if that car was going to follow her at all unless he watched. It might simply be an innocent person waiting for someone. In fact, he was certain nobody would follow her at all if she went out, but she would never believe it unless he proved it to her. If he did nothing she would stay paranoid. “All right. Go for a walk. I'll follow to see if anyone else follows. Let's see. Need food?”

“That's across the street. That's hardly –”

“Take the supermarket.” It was around the corner and a longer walk.

“All right,” she said, nervous again. “Would they know you had my key?”

“How? They probably didn't even wonder.”

“What about your job? Do you have to go back today?”

“Yep. But I can miss half an hour.” He glanced at his watch. “I've missed fifteen minutes so far. I'll go out first. Wait five minutes and walk to the supermarket.”