The Frasco Diary

By Paul Watkins

Emily Burel, a PhD, scientist and adventurer who works out of Sydney University, is head hunted by Security Agent Andreas Doratis, for Michael Westlake of the British Museum, and Marie de Becque from Le Musee du Louvre in Paris. De Becque believes she has evidence proving that a model for the Pieta was a woman from the Orient who lived with Michelangelo as his mistress. Burel, accepting the challenge to find the truth of this claim, begins her investigation at a monastery in the Swiss Alps. She is neither alone nor safe in her search though, as others from Europe, Asia and Africa follow dangerously close behind her, looking for answers, and rewards, of their own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398400788

Paul Watkins

Paul Watkins is the author of many novels, including The Forger, Archangel, and Night over Day over Night, as well as the memoir Stand Before Your God. He attended the Dragon School at Eton and Yale, and currently lives with his family in Princeton, New Jersey, where he teaches at the Peddie School and Lawrenceville Academy.

Book preview

About the Author

Paul Watkins worked for some years as an illustrator and graphic designer in the Blue Mountains, just to the west of Sydney. His first published book was the commissioned A portrait of the City of Blue Mountains. Other as yet unpublished books followed: Jennis, Mascot (an historic and semi-biographical history of Sydney’s airport and nearby suburb), and a series of six novels focusing on the adventures of Sydney University scientist and Emily Burel PhD. The Frasco Diary is the first in that series.

Copyright Information ©

Paul Watkins 2022

The right of Paul Watkins to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398400771 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398400788 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Chapter One

Emily (Amilee-Rose) Burel

‘Freaking-freezing,’ Emily Burel muttered to herself and, shivering, tucked her scarf in more firmly, eventually finding refuge against a thin swirl of snow inside the warm shelter of the coffee shop, not too far from the Hilton where she was staying. It was the coffee shop she had been to once before, the one with the broken views of Cologne Cathedral’s central tower in the background—where one had to peek through jagged stained-glass windows for a view.

‘Bitte?’ asked the waitress with a little notepad—she had two pigtails sticking out the side of her head, held securely in place with rubber bands.

Bitter, yes, Burel thought; then, ‘Café bitte, schwarz, bitte.’

‘Schon…!’

Emily Burel wondered if she dared take her gloves off, or whether she could handle the coffee cup with them on. God, she thought. How am I going to handle the Western Cwm of Everest, or more especially its South Col, if I can’t handle a gentle snow flurry in Cologne?

She reached down for the valise she had placed at her feet, opened it up and took out her phone. She tapped in a message:

Hi Gem. snowing here in Cologne but I don’t think there will be any probs getting out of here and back to London tomorrow. Will ring later from hotel, xxx.

The coffee came and from a menu on the table she pointed at a Danish pastry, showing the waitress. She was hungry. ‘Zwei bitte.’

Surprising her, an answer came back on her phone almost immediately:

Sure mum. CU tomorrow xox!

Burel laughed. Her attention returned to the valise. She dropped her phone into it and took out an A4 folder. She smoothed it open in front of her and looked at a letter.

The page read:

"Dear Dr Burel,

The committee would like to show its appreciation and thank you for your presentation by giving you this card as a memento of your visit. As you will notice, it has been signed by all members of the committee, each accompanied with brief notes of thank you. Some people in the audience to whom you spoke asked if they could also sign. You have come such a long way, halfway around the world, in fact, and words cannot describe how grateful we are for your time and your trouble; and the expertise with which you engaged us. The work you have done in the field of analytical chemistry with regards to dating and assessing hand-made medieval fabrics is surely beyond reproach, and my colleagues and I will have no trouble in future referring you, your team and your excellent techniques and methods to fellow researchers and historians; with your permission, of course.

As a further token of our appreciation, please find a small gift in the envelope attached to this card.

Gute Reise, and God bless.

Yours most sincerely,

Heinz Muller,

Direktor fur Konservierung,

Kolner Institut fur Mittelalterliche Artefakte"

She opened the envelope to find two first class tickets. Qantas. London to Sydney.

A man sat down at her table and in front of her, uninvited. She smiled at him at first, thinking he had made a mistake. He looked towards the waitress and ordered a cappuccino. ‘This snow is a little early,’ he said in a thick accent Burel couldn’t place. ‘It is only October. And yesterday it felt like spring. Ach, who knows with global warming what is happening?’

Emily Burel smiled at the man again. ‘I don’t know you. Were you in the audience this morning? At my presentation?’

‘Almost,’ he grinned. ‘I heard you but I was not inside sitting down in the lecture theatre. It was invitation only, I believe. I was outside in the hall.’

‘Oh,’ said Burel. ‘So you’re not a museum person? I’m sorry, I don’t wish to be impolite, but you sat down here at my table as if we were old friends. Isn’t that a little unusual?’

‘I am so sorry. It is my manner. It not only offends people sometimes, but gets me into a lot of embarrassing trouble, socially. I was once in the police force. Over many years I think I have lost the habit of coming face to face with some people—often not too politely.’ He reached across the table to shake hands, making a token attempt to get to his feet. He was a little taller than Burel, solid, his size exaggerated by his thick overcoat, which was broad across his shoulders. His head was squarish and he showed signs of developing jowls down the cheeks of his broad face. He had a strong brow over bushy black eyebrows—and was at least a full day late with needing a shave. His thick dark hair, with a hint of grey at the temples, was unruly and just a little damp from the outside snow, bunching up in strands at the back over his scarf. In spite of his severe face, he had a gentle demeanour, which had probably developed over many years of conversation that was, Burel guessed, conciliatory as well as firmly persuasive. If he was going to sit at a table uninvited, Burel guessed he would have a good, and possibly interesting, reason to do so.

‘Hello, my name is Andreas Doratis…’ he said as their hands clasped.

Aha, Greek!

‘And I do sincerely apologise for my unruly and impolite way of introducing myself. But I did accidentally overhear part of your talk, and I got interested in what you were saying. Well, interested enough to want to know just a little more. Do you mind?’

He seemed pleasant enough. Harmless enough.

‘I was just having coffee and a quick snack. ’I have to catch a flight to London…’ Burel responded.

‘Oh, I am so sorry. Please, can I just ask you a quick question or two and then I will leave you to your…’ He looked quizzically at the pastries, ‘to your lunch. First, I must explain that I was just outside in the museum looking at the artefacts because I had some spare time. I am in Cologne on business wandering around looking for something to fill a little time before I meet with a friend this afternoon.’ He looked at his watch, then smiled with a slight and knowing nod. ‘In exactly one hour in fact. Yes, I was wandering around and as you probably noticed, the lecture room you were in with those people was quite small and, I would guess, just a little bit stuffy, yes? And the door was open a little bit and that was when I could see through at you talking and giving your presentation.’ He smiled the congenial warm smile perfected over many years. ‘I wonder, can you tell me, you are an expert at restoration of art works, yes?’ He smiled thanks to the waitress as she placed his coffee on the table in front of him.

‘No,’ Burel answered somewhat abruptly. She ventured at last to take off her gloves. She picked up her knife and cut at a pastry, then sipped at her coffee.

‘Oh, then I have it wrong?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, so what do you do? Do you mind me asking you?’

Burel began to feel just a little irritated. It had been a short-term appointment with long flights, and she was tired and wanted to be on her way. She took a deep breath—even managed a patient smile. ‘If you have some art that needs restoring, then the person you need to talk to is an art restorer, or a conservator. Not somebody like me. I’m a chemist.’

‘Oh?’

‘An art restorer is a person with a lot of technical expertise and who has years of experience in the techniques of repairing damaged art works; sculptures, pottery—stuff like that. It’s a specialist job. That’s not me.’

‘Oh?’

‘Sorry,’ she smiled falsely over more cutting of pastry.

‘I thought you were talking about restoring art works. Medieval art works.’

‘No, as I said. I’m a chemist. I just know about chemicals. I know about the chemicals that are used in fabrics to treat and colour them, and I know how to detect, analyse and date chemicals that are already in fabrics—articles that have already been stained.’

‘Oh. That is quite okay. I am sorry to ask you questions while you are eating and in a hurry to catch a flight.’ He moved to sit sideways in his chair. He leant his elbow on the table, gazed out across the restaurant, looking at everything and everybody as if making mental notes, a move Burel could see was also well practised.

What was this man trying to do—just being genuinely friendly, or was he seriously about to try and pick her up? She didn’t have time for this. It had happened to her in the past, often, so she quickly decided to use a well-practised ruse to put him off. She reached down to her valise again, picked out her phone and tapped out a number, saying, ‘Excuse me, I need to ring my husband.’ With her eyes down, she began, ‘Hello, Patrick darling. Just checking. What time did you say you were going to meet me at the airport?’ A pause. ‘So where are you now? Okay. Okay. Catch you soon. Love you. Bye.’

The man glanced back at her, but he wasn’t put off. ‘So, do you think if I went back to the museum, I could find someone to talk to about some things I want to know?’

‘I’m sure you could. That’s what art museums are for.’

The man sat and thought, sipping at his coffee, looking around the restaurant slowly. It appeared that the phony phone call she had made to her non-existent husband hadn’t made him uncomfortable enough to turn away.

After a long silence he stood, faced her and put out his hand to shake, again.

‘Thank you so much for your time—and sorry I disturbed you,’ he said with another intense smile. ‘I will be going now to let you finish your coffee. Oh, and I am so sorry, I did not catch your name?’ he questioned.

‘I didn’t give it,’ she returned, forcing yet another impatient grin.

‘Okay,’ he shrugged, pumping her hand firmly. ‘Thank you, anyway. Goodbye Miss. Have a nice day and enjoy your life.’

And then he was out the door and out into the soft snow that was still falling.

It wasn’t until sometime later that she wondered why he had called her Miss, when he had heard she was phoning her husband. And how did he know the lecture was invitation only?

Chapter Two

Andreas Doratis

Emily Burel parked her car outside her apartment in the Sydney’s suburb of Alexandria and got out, grabbing her bag from the passenger seat before pressing the remote and locking the doors. Peep peep came out from under the bonnet. It was now late autumn and well after dark, with a cold gusting breeze blowing from the west. Early in the season for that unpleasant westerly wind, she thought. Usually it comes in August, when Sydney-siders are well and truly over winter and waiting for the warmer gusts of September and October to drift in gently from the north.

Dry, crisp leaves scuttled and rattled noisily in cluttering waves across the road to her right, falling from the trees in the darkness of the nearby park. She turned up her collar, tugged her coat around her, then plunged her hands deep into her pockets. Take-away shop just two short blocks away, so pizza for dinner. Easy. Daughter Gemma will be home, wrapping herself up comfortably for the evening in her pyjamas and dressing gown and football socks. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, a glass of Milo in front of her on the coffee table and a couple of Weet-Bix on a plate on her lap as a snack, flicking through channels on the TV looking for something to hold her attention the few minutes before dinner.

Call her first.

‘Gem.’

‘Hi Mum.’

‘Just got home from the lab and parked outside. I’ll walk down and get pizza. What do you want on yours?’

‘Whatever. Doesn’t matter.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yep. Thanks. Sure. See ya. Don’t be long mum, I’m hungry.’

‘K! Bye!’

‘Too lazy and too late to cook, and this time of the year—too disinterested to cook,’ she mumbled to herself out loud. ‘I should have driven the short distance to the pizza shop. In the lab all day, most of the time in front of the computer. Need the exercise. Ten-minutes to the shop, ten-minute wait, ten minutes back. Gemma will be starving.’

She heard a car as it stopped a hundred metres or so behind her and outside her apartment. It’s hazard blinkers went on. Burel glanced over her shoulder and kept walking—kept snuggling down into her collar. Five metres from the pizza shop her phone rang. She took it out of her coat and tapped it on.

‘Gem?’ she asked.

‘Mum, where are you now?’

‘Down near the pizza shop. Almost there. Why?’

‘There’s somebody at the door. I thought it was you.’

‘No, it’s not me. Is the door locked from the inside?’

‘Yes of course.’

‘Okay. Ask who it is, Gem.’

The girl called out. ‘Who’s there, please?’ Silence. A long silence, then Gemma again. ‘Who’s there please?’ Higher pitched, louder.

Again silence.

‘Gemma, what did they say?’

‘Mum!’ the girl called. ‘Nobody answered, and now they’re pushing at the door! They’re pushing real hard, Mum! Mum, I’m a bit scared! Could it be someone we know?’

Her daughter left the phone to silence but Burel could hear a thumping noise, muffled but loud and close.

‘Gemma?’ Burel called. ‘Gemma!’

‘Mum, they’re really pushing the door hard and the handle is turning! They’re hitting at it! Hitting at the handle and pushing the lock! I don’t know who it is, Mum! What’ll I do?’

Burel didn’t wait. She turned and ran. The car she had seen over her shoulder, pulling up outside the apartment, not usual, but not suspicious—but maybe it was, now. She recalled seeing two figures get out of the car, silhouetted in headlights, hurrying and heading to the front door of her apartment block. She wasn’t suspicious then, but things have changed. She ran, yelling into the phone as she flew. ‘Gemma, go to the bathroom and lock the door! Do it now Gemma! Do it now! Quickly! I’m almost there, Gem. Do it, now!’ She found herself screaming into the phone.

She wriggled free of her overcoat and dropped it to the ground, then hopped, awkwardly, trying to pull off the shoes that were laced around her ankles. No time, so she just sprinted. She kept her phone to her ear and continued calling. ‘Gemma? Gemma? Are you there?’

Now there were other sounds—indistinct, distant. Men’s voices. Nothing from Gemma. ‘Is that good or bad?’ she questioned. ‘Good or bad? Good Christ Almighty, Gemma, talk to me!’

She reached her apartment block, crashed through the front door, then flew up towards her apartment—top floor of three. Not too far to go, she panted. She headed up the stairs in a fury as two men exited her apartment’s broken door.

‘Gemma!’ she screamed as she dashed upwards three at a time. ‘Gemma!’

The two men were on the railing side of the apartment’s stairs as they came down, skipping down the steps at pace. She swung at both of them as they passed, each in turn. The first flashed past. The second she grabbed by the arm, twisting it up his back until she heard a snap. Bone or fabric? She didn’t know which. She didn’t care. The man spun, stumbled and howled.

Burel ran through the door of her apartment screaming, ‘Gemma! Gemma! Where are you, Gem? It’s me, Gem! I’m here!’

Her daughter sprang from the bathroom, shaking, her face white, tears streaming. They embraced.

Then her daughter looked around her mother and behind her. ‘Mum,’ she screamed. ‘Behind you!’

Burel was full of fury. A man grabbed her, or touched her, from behind. Later she wouldn’t remember which, but without turning, she attacked, raising a leg and hitting the man hard down his shins, once, twice, with the sides of her heeled shoes. He let out a bellow and fell backwards onto a couch.

‘Burel, you stupid woman! It is me! Andreas Doratis! For Christ’s sake, relax. I am on your side. Settle down, settle down. Jesus wept, look what you have done to me.’

Emily Burel rapidly turned around, then stood defiantly while she regained her breath. She moved her feet apart, one half a metre in front of the other, the muscles in her arms and hands tensed at her chest level and ready to defend or attack. She glared at the man who had fallen backwards onto the couch.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked with force.

‘You remember me?’ he gasped.

‘I remember everything and everybody,’ she said, staring. ‘You are the Greek from the coffee shop in Cologne! A few months ago. You sat uninvited at my table. What are you doing, Doratis, breaking into my home like this and terrifying my daughter? Speak, or I’ll kill you, you bastard! I swear to God, I’ll kill you!’

The man put up his arms in defence, his face breaking out into a smile that seemed surreal. ‘Please wait a minute, Dr Burel, for God’s sake. Just wait a minute. Listen,’ he said, putting a finger in the air. ‘Did you hear that? From out in the street?’

‘What? The cars?’

‘Yes, the cars. A few seconds ago. That is my two men, chasing down the ones who broke into your apartment. We were seconds too late getting here, otherwise we could have stopped them and helped you. We were across the road and just behind you when you were running to get here. I was coming here to talk to you, not attack you. Sweet Mother of God, Dr Burel. Relax—please!’

‘Really, Doratis? Really?’

‘Absolutely. What I say is true!’

‘Then why are you here, and why were they here? Why were they after Gemma?’

‘Your daughter is now safe from them and from me. Believe me. Very safe. They wanted nothing to do with her. Nobody was after your daughter to harm her. It was accidental that she was here at the same time they broke in.’ He looked towards the girl. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes, she’s okay, now. I was down in the street when she told me someone was at our door. I yelled at her from my phone to go hide in the bathroom and lock herself in until I got here. What the hell were they here for? A robbery?’

‘Ask your daughter. She must have seen what they were after.’

‘Keep her out of this,’ Burel snapped.

‘Okay, then I will tell you. It was a piece of silk.’

‘A what?’

‘A piece of silk. Did some person ask you to do some work for them; an analysis, on a piece of silk—a short time ago?’

‘Piece of silk? Yes. Why? Are you saying those men broke into my apartment and scared the hell out of my daughter just to steal that?’

‘Exactly. And I can prove it. Where is that piece of silk now?’

Burel turned to look. ‘On my desk—over there.’

‘And now I can see for myself that it is not there. That piece of silk is what they were after. You had it, and now they have it, and if my men are not successful in chasing them down out in the street, they will still have it—and perhaps will get away with it.’

‘This has to be a joke,’ Burel said with dismay. She was beginning to relax, but only a little. Somebody had broken into her apartment and terrorised her daughter. An action like that, if she didn’t calm herself, was an intrusion for which somebody could pay dearly.

‘Can we please talk?’ Doratis asked, now beginning to feel the pain from the damage to his shins.

The woman continued to stand, looking around, assessing. ‘Okay, talk.’

‘There is much to talk about, Dr Burel, but I will give you a brief explanation now in the hope that you will let me up from this couch without sending me to hospital emergency.’ He leant forward and put his elbows on his knees as if the action would ease the pain. ‘I met you on a winter’s day in Germany,’ he began, ‘which you, no doubt, have well remembered. I wanted to know who you were for certain then, because I decided after much time that you would be the best person to find out some things for clients I am working for—things of international importance. It would seem that now one of the items in a puzzle they need to untangle is a piece of silk about the size of a piece of paper from a writing pad. Perhaps a little smaller than A4 size, yes? It was given to you a short time ago by somebody who, it appears, should not have given it to you—and so now has been stolen back. And by whom? That is why I am here, and that is what I was trying to find out. With some quick thinking, I believe the reason it has been stolen back is because that small piece of silk is perhaps a very valuable and important antiquity. I give you my word, Dr Burel, that is the story, as brief as it is, and I will talk to you more if you are happy to do so. Are you happy to do so? Believe what I say, I was on my way up here to your apartment to talk to you about it when I saw you in the street, running to get here.’

‘I was in a hurry to get to my daughter, Mr Doratis. She was on the phone to me screaming and telling me somebody was trying to break into our apartment.’

‘I know, and now I understand. Perfectly, I understand. But have I explained enough to you to convince you to relax just a little and not attack me again?’

‘Maybe. How did you get here? Where’s your car?’

‘My car? And my men? Right at this moment, I do not know. Not exactly. When I saw those other thugs jump into their own car and drive off, I directed my own men to go out after them.’

Burel kept standing and staring, not yet comfortable with sitting, or relaxing. ‘Who are you really, Mr Doratis, and who are your men? Are you police?’

‘No! Well yes—but no! Difficult to explain much right here and now, but enough to say I am the director of my own security company. I do work for clients who need my special services. Sometimes my work is with the police, yes, but not this time. There are some times when I do things alone, but at this moment I have a couple of men to help me while I am setting up an office here in Sydney. At this very minute, as I said, those couple of men are out in my car and doing some chasing—and hopefully, some catching. So why am I here in your living room? Why did I come to talk to you? A couple of clients have asked me to find you and talk to you to see if you would help them with a certain venture. So here I am, trying to talk to you with two bleeding legs and tears in my eyes for my trouble. Now all I ask is that when my men return, you come with us back to my office, which, fortunately is not too far away from here—and just a little untidy at the moment, I must say. If you are agreeable, we can talk more about what all of this is about. Can we do that, please?’

‘Where exactly is your office?’

‘As luck would have it, it is just a few blocks away from here. In Waterloo. Do you know the suburb?’

‘Of course,’ Burel nodded. ‘And if I agree to go with you, Gemma comes with us.’

The man nodded. ‘Your daughter will have to come with us. For safety. She will be more than okay now, I promise.’

‘I want a guarantee.’

The man’s face broke out into a broad grin. ’Dr Burel, we know enough about your background to know you are experienced with the skills of self-defence and very ferocious with such things should you choose to do so. I myself have two damaged legs from your abilities with those techniques, and also, I saw what you did to the man on the stairs in an instant. I think, perhaps, you are your own guarantee.’

Burel thought back to the man on the stairs. When he had flashed pass, he had had his arm out in an awkward position, aiming it out to hit her. In her haste, she had pushed against it, hard. She shrugged. She hadn’t deliberately set out to injure the man. Not severely. It was an accident; perhaps. Anyway, with luck, he had learned a lesson.

’So,’ she continued. ‘That piece of silk is what this is all about, is it? Tell me more about it.’

‘Please, Dr Burel,’ he pleaded. ‘Back at my office where perhaps we can sit in a nice chair and have a relaxed coffee or two. Believe me, it is not even ten minutes from here.’

‘Really? Then I will take my own car, and I will follow you.’

‘As you wish.’

‘I will follow you, and if I get the slightest bit suspicious, of anything at all, I will drive, without stopping, to the nearest police station, horn blaring, with Gemma on the phone calling triple zero. Is that clear?’’

‘Certainly. Of course.’

Burel nodded towards the front door of her apartment—at its bent hinges and its broken lock. ‘My door?’

‘I will speak to my men when they return, and I will see to it that it is fixed, as soon as possible. Tonight, possibly.’

‘Your word?’

‘Tonight, definitely, and my word—of course.’

Burel had by now dropped her hands to her side and had relaxed her stance. Her daughter was behind her, peering around her to the man who seemed apprehensive, cautious and even fearful of her mother’s aggression.

‘I was not coming here to cause you any trouble, Dr Burel. Believe me. I was coming to talk to you. I had no idea this would happen—that somebody else would do a raid on your home at the same time I arrived.’

‘How did you know where I live?’ Burel questioned.

‘You have your own company card, with a phone number.’

‘But no private address.’

‘No, but the man who brought that silk item to you; he had it, and we were following him. But alas, from too great a distance. Please, at my office we can talk about these things some more.’

There was noise and conversation on the stairs. Doratis’s men entered the room. One carried Burel’s coat. He dusted it down carefully before handing it to her. Each in turn looked at Doratis, then to Burel, then back to Doratis. They spoke to him in Greek. He answered and said ‘Okay,’ in English, then turned to Burel.

‘They did not catch them, those men in the car. My men here tempted their luck and ran a red light while trying to catch up to them, but got caught by police. That is not only bad luck, but another fine I shall have to pay—and with no result. Now we do not know where that silk is—unless the gentleman whose arm you damaged has gone to a hospital emergency department to get himself repaired and decides to talk about everything. But somehow I doubt he will do such a thing.’ Doratis flinched as he rose from the couch. ‘I think we should go.’ He stood up and straightened himself, trying to regain some composure. He had been in difficult situations before, with difficult people, but the attack from this woman had not only damaged his legs, but his dignity as well. ‘We should go now, please,’ he insisted, limping.

Burel took her daughter under her arm, smoothed her hair, then kissed her twice on the top of her head. She whispered. ‘Get your coat, darling. It’s chilly out there.’ Then, ‘Are you okay? Are you settled enough to come out for a while?’ She then glanced at Doratis. ‘We aren’t going to be long, are we?’

‘The office isn’t far, just a few blocks. Can you perhaps spare just one hour? I will make sure your door is fixed securely before you return.’

Doratis was true to his word both with time and direction. He and his men drove off, heading towards a warehouse building in a small industrial complex a surprisingly short distance from Burel’s own apartment, just a kilometre or two further south, at the edge of a narrow canal. She was both surprised and a little uncomfortable to find it so close.

Following in her own car, she relaxed enough to rethink the situation and perhaps gain a little confidence in the man—even looking forward to what he might tell her. Perhaps. In spite of everything—the event in Cologne and now this—the whole thing hinted of adventure. She had a passion for adventure.

Doratis stopped his car on a short, sloping driveway that pointed downwards slightly towards the roller-door of a small warehouse. He pushed a remote and waited for it to lift. After his car had moved slowly into the lighted interior, Burel followed, close behind and cautiously. When she eventually stopped her car, the roller-door slid down silently and locked shut.

They had arrived inside a large and well-lit garage. There were three other cars parked towards the rear of the building: one black Mercedes, one white BMW and one other under a tarpaulin. She could see it was long and low, and one edge of the cover was hooked up a little at one corner revealing bright yellow paintwork. Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, Burel wondered.

They all exited their vehicles and Doratis directed everyone towards a door leading further into the building. Gemma walked with her mother, keeping close.

All five walked through the side-door of the car space and into a vacant area a quarter of the floor area of the adjoining garage. There were no