Some of Stuart’s filing-cabinet drawers were locked, but the locks were easy to pick. At the age of nine, Cadel had become briefly infatuated with locks; he had studied the locksmith’s art with his usual avid concentration, even beginning (though not completing) a rather suspicious long-distance locksmith’s course that operated out of a post-office box address. While he had never finished his apprenticeship, he had certainly learned enough to open the drawers of Stuart’s filing cabinet. What he found, however, was disappointing. In a file marked ‘Cadel’, he discovered his own school reports, immunisation certificates, concerned letters from teachers, IQ test results and so forth. There was also a set of documents relating to Cadel’s adoption and a couple of lung x-rays taken during Cadel’s most recent bouts of bronchitis.
Finally, there was his birth certificate. Cadel hadn’t examined it for years – not since Thaddeus’s entry into his life – and he saw now what he hadn’t seen before. The document was an obvious fake. In his Forgery class, Cadel had learned many things about the detection of forgeries. He had learned about carbon 14 dating techniques. He had learned about the way a scanning auger microscope could be used to measure the migration of ions from ink to paper. In this case, however, he didn’t need any fancy equipment to tell him that the birth certificate was a forgery. The ink didn’t even have a proper shine to it. Cadel himself had done a better job forging a birth certificate for a fictitious young woman called Ariel Schaap. (It was now hidden in the lining of his winter jacket.)
A very clumsy attempt, he thought. Couldn’t they have done better than this? And then he wondered who ‘they’ might possibly be. His father’s agents? The government’s? Interpol’s? Impossible to say – yet. He had to find more evidence. Apart from the ‘Cadel’ file, Stuart’s locked drawers contained only Microsoft handbooks, old tax returns, passports and super-annuation brochures. It was incredibly frustrating. There was nothing suspicious about it at all – except the very absence of anything personal. Possibly Stuart kept all his degree certificates at work, but what about letters of reference? College pennants? Postcards? Snapshots? School records? What about a marriage certificate? Cadel couldn’t find a marriage certificate anywhere. Nor could he find any birth certificates for either of the Piggotts.
After a while he gave up and tried Lanna’s studio. This room was as messy as Stuart’s was neat. There were fabric samples everywhere, piled up on the drafting table, hanging out of drawers, dangling from hooks, spilling from in-trays. Pages torn from magazines were pinned all over the walls, and stacks of brochures about bathroom fittings, floor coverings, window treatments and kitchen appliances almost covered the floor. It was the sort of room that repels entry. Cadel had never advanced more than a few steps into it because he would have had to climb over half a dozen things to do so.
This time, however, he was determined. Very, very carefully, so as not to dislodge anything, he picked his way into the centre of the room and stood contemplating it. Apart from the drafting table, it contained a desk, a couple of filing cabinets and another steel-grey cabinet with long, narrow drawers designed for blueprints, or something similar. All of these furnishings were bulging with stuff: not one of the drawers would close properly. Cadel checked his watch (eight-fifteen!) and wondered, with despair, where he was going to start. He wouldn’t have to worry about leaving a mess. The room was so messy, more disarray wouldn’t be noticed. But how was he going to sift through all this rubbish? How was he going to find anything of interest in all these piles of stupid decorating tips?
And then he noticed something.
The dust.
Everything was covered in a layer of dust. He couldn’t touch a manila folder or a paint leaflet without leaving an obvious mark – something that wouldn’t have been so peculiar if it wasn’t for the fact that Lanna’s appointment diary, on the desk, was also covered in dust. As was the blotter. And the telephone. And the button on her desk lamp.
It was as if no one had been in this room for weeks – even months. Yet Lanna had worked in it for some time only the day before. Or so she’d said.
Cadel sneezed. The dust was like a trap; he couldn’t touch anything for fear of disturbing it. Clearly, Mrs Ang hadn’t even attempted to clean this room. (How could she, when it was barely possible to reach the desk?) Equally clearly, Lanna hadn’t done anything with these fabric swatches and toilet brochures for a long, long time – if ever. Had Cadel not studiously avoided everything to do with the Piggotts and their tedious work, he would have noticed that something didn’t add up.
He realised suddenly that he was gasping for breath, and turned on his heel. The Piggotts’ bedroom was next door. It was enormous, and had the impersonal, colour-coordinated atmosphere of an expensive hotel room. There were about five hundred pillows piled on the bed, each a different shade of maroon or charcoal; the bed itself was elevated on its very own platform; there were recessed lights and a carved screen and a cashmere throw tossed carefully over a Louis IV chair upholstered in suede. The bedside cabinets supported nothing at all – not even a book or a glass of water.
Cadel knew, however, that the dressing room was as messy as Lanna’s office. While she liked to have a clean, ‘uncluttered’ bedroom, she couldn’t achieve the effect without stuffing a lot of junk into her dressing room and bathroom. The bedside cabinets were also full up. Cadel went through them carefully with shaking hands. He had a funny feeling that he was getting closer to whatever it was he’d been searching for. He found tissues, empty lipsticks, medicines, a wheat pillow, an essential oil burner, an eye-mask, a suede brush, an English-French dictionary, an extension cord, a broken watch and a camera battery. In the dressing-room he looked through every bag, shoe and pocket, but uncovered only a dirty handkerchief, a sticky tube of lip-salve and half a packet of mints. The scraps of paper scattered about were for the most part unrevealing: one was a screwed-up cinema ticket, one a brief shopping list, one a Grace Bros label.
And then he spotted something on the floor of the wardrobe, tucked away in a corner: another slip of paper, squashed and soiled. Smoothing it out, Cadel saw that it was half a ripped credit card receipt. He was about to throw it away when his gaze was caught by the card number.
Cadel knew all of the Piggotts’ seven credit card numbers. And this, he realised, wasn’t one of them.
THIRTY-THREE
‘Cadel!’
Cadel jumped. Mrs Piggott! It was only twenty past nine and she was home already!
He stuffed the receipt into his pocket, and threw himself out of her room just in time. She caught him in the hallway.
‘What have you done to the alarm system?’ she demanded, hands on hips.
‘Uh –’
‘I’ve told you before, Cadel, that system is out of bounds!’
‘Maybe it’s broken.’ Cadel tried his trademark innocent look, but Lanna wasn’t fooled.
‘Get in there,’ she ordered, ‘and put it back on!’
‘But –’
‘Now!’
He did as he was told. There was no reason not to. He had found what he was looking for – a genuine clue.
Of course, it might be a red herring. As Cadel rerouted electronic signals in the stuffy little circuitry room, he considered the possibility that this discarded receipt belonged to someone else. But if that were the case, why did the Piggotts’ even have it? He couldn’t help being suspicious.
So he would check that number. He would pursue it through the usual electronic routes, but not with his usual computer. He would have to employ another one, without arousing the suspicions of whoever was watching him.
Bit of a tall order, really.
In bed that night, Cadel racked his brain for a solution to the problem. It kept him too busy to think about anything else, and he fell asleep before he could resolve his dilemma. Then, at five-thirty, he woke up shivering. His head ached and his stomach heaved. Something was wrong: he was sick, really sick. After staggering to the bathroom for an aspirin,
he fell back into bed and didn’t move again until Lanna checked on him at eight-thirty.
‘Cadel?’ she said. ‘I’m going now.’
He grunted.
‘Cadel? Haven’t you got any classes today?’ Then she took a step nearer, and caught her breath. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you sick? Cadel? Oh my God.’
She put her hand on his forehead.
‘Doesn’t feel like a temperature,’ she fussed. ‘What’s wrong, exactly?’
‘My head hurts.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘My stomach, too. I feel sick.’
‘Oh Lord. I’ve got a meeting . . .’ She was beginning to sound shrill. ‘Are you sure you can’t get up? Do you want to see a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Well . . . well . . .’ Clearly, she didn’t know what to do. ‘Well how about I call Mrs Ang, and she can come in early? I’ll be back by lunchtime. Oh, trust Stuart to be away! He always is, in a crisis!’
Cadel buried his head in his pillow. He didn’t want to listen to Mrs Piggott complaining about her husband. (If he really was her husband.) After a while she left the room, returning a few minutes later with various sick-room accessories: a bucket, a box of tissues, a glass, a jug, a packet of pain and fever tablets. ‘Mrs Ang’s on her way,’ she informed Cadel. ‘When she arrives, I’ll go. But I’ll be back soon. It sounds like a migraine, Cadel.’
Cadel said nothing. He retreated into a drowsy, muddled world that prevented him from thinking about anything except the pain in his head. After a while, his nausea drove him to the bathroom, where he threw up all over the floor. But by that time Mrs Ang was around, so she cleaned up the mess without complaint.
Cadel only vomited once. He spent the rest of the day dozing and staring at the wall, with the occasional trip to the toilet or short period propped up against a pile of pillows with a thermometer under his tongue. He didn’t do much thinking. He didn’t feel up to it. His mind lay dormant until half-past six, when the sound of a voice suddenly made every nerve in his body stand to attention.
‘Cadel?’ said the voice. ‘How are you feeling?’
It was Thaddeus Roth.
Cadel rolled over. He saw that Thaddeus was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, looking about ten feet tall. The psychologist carried a tin of travel sweets and was dressed in a dark suit under a generous overcoat that swished and swirled around his ankles.
‘Since you couldn’t make it to your appointment, I thought I’d drop in on my way home,’ he remarked, entering the room. He sat down on Cadel’s typist’s chair, which creaked like a tree in the wind. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Okay. I mean, sick. But better. Than I was.’
‘Good,’ said Thaddeus, placing the travel sweets on Cadel’s desk. ‘These are for you. I always like to have them by, when I’m ill. Is it your chest again?’
‘No, I – I don’t think so.’ For perhaps the first time in his life, Cadel wasn’t happy to see Thaddeus. A hot flush of guilt invaded his entire body, turning his face red. He didn’t want to talk to Thaddeus. He was too confused. Too . . . frightened?
‘Lanna says you don’t have a temperature,’ Thaddeus went on. ‘Just a headache, nausea, fatigue.’
Cadel nodded, clutching the covers around him. His eyes actually felt huge as he stared at Thaddeus, who regarded him with a pensive expression, his own eyes dark and unreadable.
‘What a shame,’ said Thaddeus. ‘You didn’t eat something yesterday, perhaps? Something that might have disagreed with you?’ His tone was tranquil, but Cadel knew exactly what he was getting at.
‘No.’
‘It wouldn’t be a hangover, Cadel? You didn’t slip away to experiment with anything?’
Cadel blushed again.
‘No,’ he repeated, and took a deep breath. ‘So the surveillance team lost me, did they?’
A brief pause. Thaddeus lifted an eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ he drawled. ‘They did.’
‘I wanted to see if I could do it. Now that I’ve been studying disguise.’
Cadel wondered if this explanation sounded as lame to Thaddeus as it did to him. Perhaps not. The psychologist was nodding sympathetically.
‘Yes, of course,’ he murmured. ‘I wouldn’t make a habit of it, though. In the circumstances.’
‘I won’t,’ Cadel promised, perfectly aware that this was the closest Thaddeus would get to a warning. ‘But you don’t have to worry about Mrs Brezeck. She won’t do anything to me.’
‘She will if you don’t do something to her first,’ Thaddeus replied. ‘Have you, Cadel? Done anything, I mean?’
Cadel shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he faltered.
‘Ah.’
‘But I will.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve got an idea. I would have done it today, only –’
‘You were sick. Of course. I understand.’ Thaddeus rose. ‘Well, I won’t tire you out. You get a good night’s sleep and perhaps you’ll be up and about tomorrow.’
Once again, Cadel nodded. He was just beginning to relax when Thaddeus stopped at the door and turned back.
‘Nothing’s troubling you, Cadel?’ he asked gently. ‘There’s nothing on your mind?’
Cadel forced himself not to swallow.
‘No,’ he squeaked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I just thought. Stress can sometimes manifest itself in physical symptoms: fatigue, headaches, that kind of thing.’ The dark gaze bored into Cadel. ‘No one’s bothering you at the institute, for example?’
‘No.’ That wasn’t a lie, in any event. Cadel could speak calmly and firmly. ‘Not at all.’
‘You wouldn’t be frightened of going there? After the incident last week? Because if you are, Cadel –’
‘I’m not. Really. I’ll be going tomorrow.’
Cadel summoned up every bit of energy left within him and offered Thaddeus an earnest, wide-eyed expression that must have convinced the psychologist to some degree. After directing a long, searching look at Cadel, Thaddeus shrugged, and glanced away.
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said. ‘I’d hate to think you were unhappy there, since I was the one who recommended the place. I’ll tell a certain person that you’re ill, of course. He’ll be sorry to hear it.’
‘Yeah.’ Cadel spoke awkwardly. ‘Tell him – tell him I’ll see him on Wednesday.’
‘I shall,’ Thaddeus replied. Then he smiled, lifted a hand, and withdrew.
At which point Cadel discovered that he was sweating.
He fell back onto his pillows, pulling his blankets over his head.
What if Thaddeus was right? What if he wasn’t really sick? What if he was simply stressed, and the headache was his brain’s way of trying to wriggle out of a nasty situation? He felt the tears rising, and pressed his hands against his eyelids to hold them back. He was so tired. So confused. And Kay-Lee – Sonja, rather – what was he going to do about her? How could he go on, if they weren’t able to email each other?
I don’t want this to be happening, he thought desperately.
But it was.
THIRTY-FOUR
Cadel had only one class on Tuesday – his Forgery class – which was scheduled for ten o’clock. Despite feeling rather sluggish when he woke up, he was well enough to go. He wanted to go. He had things to do, information to track down. So he tucked a packet of aspirins into his backpack (along with his old school hat, blazer and tie), and caught his usual train to the institute.
He didn’t know if he was being followed. He didn’t really care. As he sat in the swaying carriage, he occupied himself with the question of how he was going to make contact with Sonja the next day. The question of finding a computer no longer troubled him. He had solved that problem in the early hours of the morning.
‘Cadel! Where have you been?’ exclaimed Gazo, when they met in front of Seminar Room Four. ‘You had me worried!’
‘I was sick,’ said Cadel. He looked around
. There was no one else in sight.
‘Good job you came,’ Gazo went on, jigging from padded foot to padded foot as if he needed to empty his bladder. ‘Abraham wants to see you. He’s in hospital. Royal Prince Alfred.’
‘Huh?’
‘He rang me at the dorm. From hospital. He’s real sick. He didn’t know your number.’
‘He wants to see me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Dunno.’
Cadel found it hard to concentrate on this particular piece of news. He had to force himself to stop thinking about Sonja and the Piggotts.
‘That’s not all,’ Gazo continued, with an air of importance. ‘Did you hear about Kunio?’
‘Kunio?’
‘He killed himself.’
Cadel stared.
‘Committed harakiri. Or whatever it’s called,’ Gazo explained. ‘Happened on the weekend.’
‘Why?’ asked Cadel, dully. So much had been thrown at him recently that he found it difficult to absorb this latest shock. ‘I mean, why did he do it?’
‘Dunno.’ Gazo didn’t seem to know anything much. Cadel surveyed the corridor again. It was empty.
‘So we’re the last ones in the class,’ he said. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ Gazo paused, studying Cadel with obvious concern. ‘You’re feeling all right, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not really sick.’
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘You always look so pale, it’s hard to tell.’
Then Art arrived and the lesson began. It was an interesting one, about forging seventeenth- and eighteenth-century documents. Art showed them how to burn a piece of eighteenth century leather to extract its tannic acid for ink that would date correctly. He lectured them on the characteristics of antique paper, explaining that blank sheets could be torn from the ends of old books. He demonstrated how a certain fungus could be chemically applied to this paper to create the yellow stains found on aged documents. Finally, he placed a forged document in a glass chamber and charged the air inside it with an electric spark. This spark generated ozone, which bleached and oxidised the new ink, making it appear old.