Ch. 16: Chocolate martinis and roast duck

The rich smell of Indian curry hit their noses as the door opened to the restaurant. The cab ride had been pleasant enough, Wyland and Connie mostly exchanging complaints of office life and deeply entrenched bureaucracy. Wyland hadn't mentioned the case to her since they left the office. Connie had warmed considerably towards him, and he found that they got along quite well.

The maitre'd ushered them in and seated them near the windows of the colorful and brightly lit space. It was still early, so there were few other patrons about, and they mostly had the place to themselves. There were colored lamps, and rich burgundy carpet, and the tables were made of some dark and beautiful hardwood. 

Connie asked about what lawyering in the states was like, and Wyland answered, almost rhyming as he said it, that "it was like being surrounded by fools, everyone hates being there, and they're all playing a game where no one knows the rules". She laughed deeply in response to this, a genuine laugh, slightly roguish but still feminine in character. Wyland described how much lawyers were hated, and she agreed that it was the same in England. Wyland, sensing her character, then pulled out the old "two thousand lawyers at the bottom of the sea" joke (a good start), to which she laughed even harder, so much so that she snorted, and had to put her hand over her mouth to avoid spitting tea everywhere.

They ordered, Connie requesting roast duck in a curry sauce and Wyland getting tandoori chicken. They munched on naan and sipped tea, chatting about inane differences in culture and dress between their two countries. She had much to say about the British opinion of Americans and the U.S. in general; a strange mixture of guilt that America is a direct descendant of the U.K. and it's political philosophy, and disgust at the rampant stupidity of U.S. imperial interests. The Brits had already been there and done that, and the fall of an empire is a painful experience. She said that most Brits wonder why on earth the Yanks hadn't learnt from the earlier mistakes of Britain. The only possible answer? Straight up stupidity and brash ignorance to the lessons of history. Wyland had never thought about it before, but he knew she was right.

Wyland was rapt. She was funny, and smart, with a cutting wit. Wyland felt better than he had in quite some time, sitting here enjoying the company of a still lovely and intelligent woman who actually seemed to tolerate him. The food was outstanding, far and away the best Indian food Wyland had ever had. They ordered chocolate martinis for dessert.

Sated now, and slightly buzzed, Wyland decided, against his better judgement, to bring up curses. But Connie was much happier and looser now, and freely gave her opinion. 

She said "It's all foolishness, if you ask me. I'm tempted to believe the claims, but what're we to do about such-a-thing?" She was slurring a little as she said this, with an sudden accent Wyland couldn't place. She went on, "I'd prefer to stay as far away from the whole thing as possible. Quite a few people in the case have died, and the timing, more than anything, says curses are real. If you really want to pursue this, I'd wager you'll be cursed, too, and die in some strange and horrible way." She looked at the floor, a little girlish, like she had said something embarrassing.

Wyland had a deep, concerned look on his face as she looked back up at him. It was humid, even in the restaurant, and the bald spot on his head reflected the multicolored chandelier above them, and he looked to her like he might have a little pastel halo hanging over his head. He said "I have to pursue this. For a variety of reasons I'll not go into, I have to."

She got quiet now, and leaned in so close to him he could smell the curry on her breath. He could also smell something else beneath the curry, sex and pheromones and perfume, that sent his mind reeling. She put her hand on his chest. He could see right down her shirt to the soft curves of her small breasts in a black bra, and he could feel himself getting hard. 

She steadied herself, pressing harder into his chest, looked a bit cross-eyed at him, and closely whispered into his face: "there were two men seen in the vicinity of Petrovik and Steins before their deaths. Scotsmen. We looked them up, didn't bring them in, it just seemed too risky if they really can kill with a word. Cunninghill, I think. Crom and Oliver Cunninghill. Steins never said a word about 'em, and we let it drop there." He could feel her hair on his forehead, it was soft as silk. Her hand slid down his chest, and her fingernails ran gently along his thigh before she leaned back and sat down, still looking a bit cross-eyed at him.

Wyland ordered another round of martinis, silently, by holding up two fingers while making eye contact with the waiter. When it was brought out, Connie slammed it down in one shot, without grimacing at all. Wyland also drank his down quickly, his mind going from disbelief to excitement and back again, trying to drunkenly process multiple bits of information all at once. It resulted in a mostly blank mind and a peace he hadn't felt before.

The check came, and it was for nearly one hundred pounds. Wyland showed Connie the check, and she seemed genuinely impressed when he paid for it without a second thought, and left a massive tip for the waiter, who was kind and had mostly let them be.

As they got up, she smiled at him, a wry smile that held a potential Wyland hadn't seen in far too long. She said to him, "Well, I'm far too drunk to go back to work, so what shall we do now?"

Wyland, smiling ear to ear, took her by the hand and led her out to a taxi, thanking whatever gods there might be for the reprieve.

Ch. 15: Connie

Wyland paid the cabbie using the company credit card, and stepped out into the verdant green of St. James Park, quietly nodding thanks to the dingy man with red eyes as he drove off. 

Tourists milled about in the thick air and green grounds, snapping pictures of the towering, gilded statues of Victoria Memorial and stately Buckingham Palace behind it. The palace guards stood still and silent. Somehow, they managed to look dignified in their ridiculous red uniforms and over-sized fuzzy hats. 

Wyland had decided, on a whim, that he had time to walk through the grounds of The Mall. He hadn't been here in many years, and it was a lovely place, full of pomp and national pride. Here, at least, the British Empire still flourished, although the sun now set daily upon Her Majesties' lands. 

He walked through green fields full of art installations and old statues and columns. He walked over busy roads and round-a-bouts, past police camera towers and lazy Bobbies enjoying cheap coffee. He stolled past several beggars and street performers, all hoping for tourists' money. One man caught Wyland's eye, as he stood noble and erect, posing ridiculously in full costumed regalia, recounting Shakespeare's "The Tempest", as a woman equally costumed, or maybe it was a man dressed as a woman, stood by, listening over-intently: 

"Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop."

Wyland walked on past him as Prospero's flowery words of prophesy faded from his ears, thinking about the bard's callous disregard for the characters in his own plays. Although "The Tempest" has a happy ending, most of the bard's great plays do not. He remembered, as he walked dreamily through the greens, of poor Hamlet, set upon by the greed of his kin, driven half mad, dying of poison and blood loss along with all the people he loves, revenge and cold steel his final gift to his treacherous uncle, Claudius. As a young man in high school, Wyland was insulted by the evil of Claudius and more appalled still when Hamlet was killed for standing up for what was, after all, his rightful throne. Wyland identified with the brooding, sullen prince and raged against his completely unjust fate. 

He had grown up in Maine, and as a child, he daydreamed about being king of his own little cloud covered, rich, verdant green kingdom. The brutal truth of ruling a kingdom was brought home as he read Hamlet in high school. After reading that, he didn't have any more daydreams of being a king. 

This deep childhood reverie brought him all the way through the park, across a couple city blocks, and up to the landing of New Scotland Yard. It is a massively imposing glass and steel building on bustling Broadway, near the heart of London. He could smell the strange, almost fishy smell of the river Thames in the distance, mixed with all the other various city smells; diesel fuel and motor oil, food, urine, vomit, and sweat. 

He had a meeting and was, as usual, a little late. 

Wyland sailed smoothly through the security check, as the security officer just grunted at him and went back to watching some show on his phone. He knew that no one in their right mind would dare try anything funny here at the heart of the state's power, and was sick to death of this futile job. This particular security guard used to have the night shift, and got paid to sleep the night away, but was eventually caught sleeping and thrown on day shift as a reprimand. Two years later, he would be shot and killed sitting in almost the same spot he now sat, and would be hailed as a hero, this lazy, stupid, sullen brick of a man.

Wyland inquired at the front counter, and was pointed to the elevator, and given a name and office number on a little card. 

Arriving at the office with Constance "Connie" Oglevie painted on the door, he knocked hesitantly. The door opened to show the humorless face of Connie, a middle aged detective, now more of an office drone than a real detective. She was robbed of a previously enjoyable "street-beat" job by the age of constant computerized surveillance, robot eyes and high tech forensics. Her whole job could be done from her office console now.

She wore a drab business suit, wore thin rimmed glasses, and had dirty grey blond hair wrapped in a bun. She had a thin frame and a slight paunch. She had beautiful, unblemished skin, save for a small mole on her left brow. She appeared entirely unimpressed by Wyland.

"Mr. Blake, come in. You're late." She said this with consternation in her voice. Her face showed slight anger.

He smiled sheepishly. "I apologize, I hoped I had time to walk through the park. It really is a beautiful place."

She said nothing to this, but smiled slightly. It was a librarian's smile, very slight and soft, somehow quiet, and completely insincere. While standing, She typed smoothly into her computer, bringing the screen around to face them as they both sat down at her little desk. A case file with a mug shot of a normal looking, dark haired Russian man stared back at him. His brow looked angry, but his mouth was smiling a strange smile in the picture, his teeth were showing, but one side of his mouth crooked up, the other crooked down. 

Connie straightened up and began: "As per your e-mail request, I've pulled all our records on Ivan Petrovik. He's clean as a whistle, other than the dropped charges for hate speech and harassment and such. An old public intoxication charge from up in Moscow, but that's it. Our prosecutor thought better of trying him in open court, and let him go. There was absolutely nothing directly tying him to Mr. Jamesson's death. The official stance is that the event at the wedding and the event in the Bahamas are completely unrelated."

Wyland got the feeling she had given a version of this speech before, like this was a press release and no questions would be taken afterwards. Her silence afterwards, along with a patient but piercing gaze from deep, green eyes magnified by a stiff ocular prescription, confirmed this.

Wyland smiled lightly, and looked at his shoes. "I'm aware of the official stance, Mrs. Oglevie. I, as you know, have been tasked with investigating a similar circumstance stateside. I'm here to see if I can uncover any truth to the claim that curses may be real, and if so, how to legally prove such a thing. I am legally bound not to share any information with outside sources such as the media. Any information you might be able to provide may assist our entire nation, no, both our nations, to prevent future occurrences of curses, if this is, in fact, what they are." Wyland had anticipated her response, and this, he decided, was the most careful and diplomatic wording he could use to glean any new information.

She appeared to soften slightly, her shoulders moved back, and she leaned backwards in her chair. She lightly smiled at him, appearing perhaps just a little impressed by his diction and tact. She then shrugged her shoulders and lazily said "well, Mr. Petrovik is dead, killed unceremoniously in a car accident. The Jamesson's are dead, and the original lead investigator is dead. So I don't..." 

Wyland cut her off there. "Wait, the lead investigator wasn't you, originally?"

"No, Mr. Steins originally had the case. He died of a heart attack almost immediately after being given the case. They suspect, superstitious idiots that they are, that Petrovik was cursed, and perhaps Steins as well, although he was not a healthy man and it could have been natural. My superiors decided I should not press my luck, and the prosecutor backed off the case.  I think he feared for his life, and for mine. I don't know what to think, but honestly, I was relieved that I didn't have to worry about it, at least, that is, until I received your e-mail."

She tensed back up, and Wyland felt he was losing her and tried to cut her off again. He failed, and she continued, "if curses are real, Mr. Blake, then this is something orchestrated by someone who knows far more than we do on the subject, so we stand naked against them. There is nothing that can stop them from cursing you, from you dying a strange death at their hands. Or I, for that matter, and I have no intention of dying from such idiocy. Our legal framework has no protections from such things, and if this is anything besides stupendous coincidence, then it's surely quite lethal. I urge you to board a plane immediately, and cease all further investigations."

Wyland glanced at the clock behind her. Almost lunchtime. So he smiled at her, and said "very well, perhaps you're right. I'm no cop, just a lawyer. I do, however, have a company card and unlimited expense account privileges, so perhaps you'd like to go get a bite to eat? Just as a friendly thank you for your time and patience?"

She smiled at him, but it was a tired, grey smile, but then, suddenly, it brightened. "Ok, but only if we can go to the best Indian restaurant in London." A mischievous glint in her eye told Wyland all he needed to know. "Of course", he smiled crookedly back at her, and they gather up their things and left her office.