Tom Harper: The Book of Secrets

Nick vaguely remembered he’d been to an amusement park in Rye when he was a kid. ‘Not that they admitted.’

She bounced on her seat like a toddler. ‘You know what else you commute?’

‘A death sentence?’

She beamed. ‘Exactly. I’m Gillian, by the way.’ She stuck out a hand with exaggerated formality. Everything with Gillian was overdone, he found out later, a casual way of telegraphing her ironic detachment. Later still he realised it was a way of protecting herself. ‘You must be…?’

‘Nick.’ He reached awkwardly around the laptop lid and shook her hand. She wasn’t beautiful in a Maybelline kind of way: her chin was too dimpled, her arms too long, her auburn hair unglossy. She looked like the sort of person who scorned make-up. But there was something in her that defied you to look away – an energy or an aura, a sense of possiblities.

‘I’m not a commuter,’ he added. Feeling the need to justify himself.

She pivoted around and slid onto the seat next to him. ‘What are you working on?’

Nick slammed the laptop shut, then laughed awkwardly. Casting around, not knowing where to look, his eyes met hers. Green and brimming with mischief, staring into him without apology.

‘Would you believe me if I told you it was classified?’

She rolled her eyes, a give-me-a-break look that dissolved into a squeal of delight as she saw he was serious. ‘No way. Are you a spy?’

‘Not really.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Actually, I, um, piece things together…’

The subway’s wheels screamed as it braked into Fourteenth Street station.

Nick followed the crush of commuters up to the street. The rain had started again, streaming down the steps so that he felt like a salmon battling up a leap. By the time he reached the auction showroom, two blocks away, he was drenched. At least he’d worn his good coat. Nobody else in the building seemed touched by the rain. All he saw were crisp shirts and sharply pressed pleats, as if these people inhabited a world where it was always seventy degrees and the sun always shone. A polished world of glass and steel and marble, if the lobby was anything to go by. A hard world. It seemed so unlike Gillian.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ The receptionist was a young man with floppy hair and rimless glasses, a trace of a European accent behind his English. His smile seemed to say that he was taking pains to put Nick at ease.

‘I’m trying to track down a friend of mine – Gillian Lockhart. I was told she might be working here?’

‘Let me just check for you.’

He tapped at the computer terminal on his desk. ‘Miss Gillian Lockhart. In our Late Medieval Manuscripts and Printed Materials department.’ Another tap. ‘She works out of our Paris branch.’

‘Does she have a phone number there?’

‘I can give you the showroom number.’ He took a fountain pen and printed a number across the back of a card. His cufflinks clacked on the desk as he wrote. ‘Of course you know you need to dial 011 for international calls.’

Nick glanced at the row of clocks mounted like trophies on the wall behind the receptionist. Four p.m. in New York, ten in Paris. ‘I guess they’ll be shut now.’

Another tap at the computer. ‘You might be in luck. They have an evening sale tonight. A manuscript of the Duc de Berry – it will be very popular. I would think Miss Lockhart should certainly be there.’

Nick went to a coffee shop across the street. His cellphone was switched off – had been since the museum. He turned it on and dialled the number on the card.

‘Stevens Mathison, bonsoir.’ A woman – not Gillian.

‘Bonjour.’ That was wrong. ‘Um, is Gillian Lockhart there, please?’

‘Moment, s’il vous plaît.’

A Vivaldi concerto took her place. Nick tried not to think how much each note was costing him. What would he say to Gillian? Where to begin?

A beep from his phone alerted him to an incoming call. He pulled it away from his ear and looked at the screen. He recognised the flashing number, though it took him a second to realise why. It was his apartment. Bret?

The Vivaldi cut out; he diverted the other call to voicemail and whipped the phone back to his ear, just in time to catch a man’s voice asking, ‘Who is this?’

He tried to keep his disappointment in check. ‘My name’s Nick Ash. I’m trying to reach Gillian Lockhart. Your New York office said she might be working there tonight.’

‘Have you heard from her?’ The accent was British, refined. In the background Nick could hear the murmur of conversation and clinking glasses.

‘An email. She didn’t say where she was.’ He paused. ‘I’m actually a bit worried about her.’

‘So are we. We haven’t seen Gillian for almost a month.’

‘Do you mean she’s quit?’

‘I mean she’s disappeared.’

Again Nick saw the face lunging for the camera. Help me theyre coming. But that was only yesterday. ‘You said she’s been gone a month?’

For a moment all he heard was hiss, Atlantic waves echoing through the cable.

‘I’m sorry – who did you say you were?’

‘Nick Ash. I’m a friend of Gillian’s. From New York.’

‘You said you had an email from her yesterday?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Well at least she’s alive.’ The British accent made it impossible to tell if he meant it as a joke. ‘Did she say where she is?’

Nick wondered how much to say. ‘It was very short. She sounded like she may be in trouble.’

‘Oh God.’ Again, the accent bleached all depth from the words. It could have been profound distress or simply boredom. ‘Have you called the police?’

‘I don’t really have anything to tell them.’

‘Well I did. Utterly useless. They told me young women wander off all the time. Said it was probably an affair of the heart – particularly when I showed them the photograph. You know how the French can be. Though speaking of our Gallic friends, the Duc de Berry is about to go under the hammer and I’m afraid I ought to be-’

‘Just one more thing.’ Nick rushed the words out. ‘Have you heard of the Master of the Playing Cards?’

The man sounded surprised. ‘Of course. Fifteenth-century German engraver. Those curious cards.’

‘Gillian mentioned him in her message.’

‘Did she?’

Nick hung on, waiting for another question. None came.

‘Was she working on anything to do with the playing cards?’ he prompted. ‘Anything for sale or auction?’

‘I’m not aware of any new works by the Meister der Spielkarten to have appeared in the last hundred years. They certainly haven’t come through our door.’

Another pause. The waves crashed and rolled down the line.

‘I really must go and look after our customers. But thank you very much for your call. Do get in touch if you find out anything else. We’re all very worried for Gillian.’

It was only when he hung up that Nick realised he hadn’t got the man’s name. He swore and thought about calling back, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t get an answer. Outside, darkness had already brought a premature end to the short January day. He’d finish his coffee and go home.

Lying on the table, his cellphone suddenly glowed blue and let off a series of outraged beeps. ‘Seven missed calls, one new voicemail,’ the screen announced. He checked the numbers. All the calls had come from his apartment.

He ignored the voicemail and rang Bret. He picked up on the first ring.

‘Nick? Is that you?’ He sounded breathless, close to tears. ‘You need to get back here. It’s Gillian.’

Nick forced himself to be calm. ‘Did she call? Is she OK?’

‘Um, Gillian called, yeah. Listen, you need to get back here pronto.’