to allow him to search further. Proof of that was Richard Mayfair Develin; Sarah Churchill’s first husband. He was pure MI6, the intelligence and espionage agency of the British Government and a major no-go zone. Curious, Munroe keyed in Sarquazi’s full name and was instantly warned off in a similar manner.
Old Snoopy Drawers doesn’t want you going there either, Stan.
‘So, who did you work for Sarquazi?’ Munroe whispered. He tried another name: Omar Mauphet Benghazi, the patriarch of the Benghazi tribe but again his enquiry was deflected. It didn’t matter, Munroe already knew quite a bit about him including the fact that he died in 1960. Chances are that Sarquazi was somehow related because you don’t tack Mauphet Benghazi onto your name unless you’ve got every right to do so.
Children – did Sarquazi have any, especially from her? There would have been time for at least one before he died. Ted said she had four children so …
Here you go Stan: Marcus Yusuf Sarquazi Mauphet Benghazi born June 27th, 1982 and a little girl, Elizabeth Cathleen Sarquazi born May 25th, 1983 – nine months after the death of her father. Munroe stared at the photo of Sarquazi. ‘Sorry, but if it’s any consolation to you, Richard Develin didn’t live long enough to see his second child born either. But of course Develin’s death was from natural causes – heart attack to be precise – so it’s not quite the same thing is it?’
Still, it’s fucking sad.
Munroe went back to the index, looked up Richard Mayfair Develin then set all three albums together side by side. Victor thought there might be a connection – other than Sarah Churchill – between Develin and Capritzo. Adding Sarquazi to the pile, Munroe couldn’t help but agree; there was a strong physical resemblance. At a guess, shared paternity?
He remembered too how Victor stared and stared at the Develin photos and how he smiled almost shyly when he admitted to meeting Develin and how he scared the shit out of him.
Munroe leaned back in his chair. Both Capritzo and Sarquazi died accidental deaths. Sarquazi in a riding accident but what exactly does that mean? Capritzo’s death, it was described as “misadventure” and at the time that was good enough but …
Quickly he punched the numbers and was relieved when the call connected and was answered in seconds. ‘Records, Karen speaking.’
‘Hi Karen, Stan Munroe here, how are you?’
‘Great Stan and how are you and yours?’
‘I’m fine, Sharon’s fine and so are the kids, thanks.’ Stan Munroe had been married to Sharon for ten years. They had two sons. He was nearly thirty-seven years old and, except for Victor’s death had lived a relatively happy and uneventful life.
‘Karen, would you look up two coroner inquests for me please; both in Ireland.’
‘Sure, just give me the relevant information.’
‘I want details surrounding the deaths of Yusuf Nessim Sarquazi, August ’82 and Merhot Capritzo, February ‘81; Tipperary County, Southern Ireland.’
‘Do you want a hard copy or can I tell you the relevant information over the phone?’
‘Give me a one-liner now then send through the hard copies.’ In the background he could hear her typing furiously.
‘Okay, here are the basics. Sarquazi died in a riding accident. His horse reared up and straight over, breaking his back and crushing him, so we’re talking a ruptured spleen at the very least. Apparently he died in his wife’s arms within minutes.
‘Capritzo, that’s not so easy. Apparently he went into a small, lead-lined vault to look at some papers belonging to his father. Somehow he made contact with the vault’s internal mechanism which was faulty – unbeknownst to everyone – shorting the system and causing the door to close. He was trapped inside long enough to asphyxiate. Apparently the door is operated by a small electric motor. And get this, it’s counterweighted which means it opens slowly but closes fast.’ She paused, ‘Stan, are you still there?’
‘Yeah, I’m here. You said papers belonging to his father. Who was Capritzo’s father?’
Karen chuckled, ‘Hey, you’re the births, deaths, marriages guy; don’t you know?’
‘And hey, I deal with legit stuff not … well, you know.’
‘God Stan you are still so proper. It’s called bastard born and, provided you’re sitting down, I’ll tell you who he was.’
‘I’m sitting.’
‘Merhot Capritzo’s father was Charles Develin who, if you check closely just happens to be Richard Mayfair Develin’s old man. How does that mess your mind Stan?’
‘Tell me Karen, how come you’re so on top of this?’
‘Because Boston PD, notably Detective Inspector Neil Perry has already sent me tripping through the files. He’s got hard copies.’
‘I’ll be seeing him tomorrow.’
‘Good, then you can have a look at the files yourself. Interesting reading by the way, especially Capritzo’s death which, quite frankly, I don’t think was an accident but hey, who am I to say.’
2
Cavendish Hall, Southern Ireland
September 16th, 11:17 a.m.
The back seat of the Land Rover had been laid flat to accommodate the children’s paraphernalia, from training potties to bassinets and, it would seem everything in between. Carl Emery stood staring at the clutter while mentally shaking his head. ‘At this rate we’re going to need the other Rover.’
He turned as Jean Murphy arrived carrying her daughter Catherine. Both were dressed for travel. He frowned. ‘Where are you going Jean?’
‘I’ll not let her go to that God forsaken country without a friendly face being with her or wee Elizabeth without a companion.’
‘Does Mike know about this?’
Jean drew herself up to her full height. ‘I’ll not pretend that there’s a marriage between us. Mike would rather embrace a bottle of whiskey than his wife and children and that is his choice. I too have made a choice so it is done and finished. Catherine will stay with me and Christopher will remain here with Gabriel so the nursery will carry on with the laughter of children yet awhile. In a year and a day, we will return.’
‘There’s no guarantee Jean that the Benghazi will allow Sarah or the children to leave the country let alone return to Ireland.’
‘Well, we will just see about that, won’t we,’ she huffed.
‘Excuse me ma’am,’ one of the girls from the nursery whispered, ‘but the photographs have arrived and … here, I’ll take Catherine for a walk while there’s still time.’
‘Thank you Kathy,’ Jean said as she set Catherine down on the stone-chip driveway then took possession of a package wrapped in brown paper. She opened it. ‘Sarah wanted copies made to take with her.’
Carl watched as the first photograph appeared. He knew it well. It was a beautiful picture taken on the day Richard’s first born son William was christened. Sarah was dressed in a pale green woollen suit almost lost behind yards of white lace material that draped down from the child held securely in her left arm. Her right arm rested inside Richard’s. But the most striking feature was the happiness and yes, pride, so evident in