LITMIR.BIZ

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hand, I’m wondering if Lloyd had some kind of premonition.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Last Friday, over breakfast, we were talking about families or at least I was; Lloyd has no living relatives. Anyway quite out of the blue Lloyd secured a promise from me, gladly given, that should anything ever happen to him I was to contact his lawyer. Immediately.’

      ‘To do what?’ Sam asked.

      ‘I’ve no idea,’ Ellington replied, searching his pockets. ‘I was simply to contact the man and inform him of “whatever had happened”.’ Ellington handed a business card to Sam.

      ‘Have you spoken to this James T. Hudson yet?’ Sam asked, noting Hudson & Bolt had offices in Melbourne and Sydney.

      ‘Of course. Lloyd had said ‘immediately’. As soon as I had confirmation that the rumour of his demise was true, I rang Hudson.’

      ‘So, what is your first name,’ Sam asked Rivers as they left Ellington to his mutterings and went in search of Rigby.

      Rivers groaned. ‘You promise you won’t laugh?’

      Sam crossed her heart.

      ‘Hercules.’

      ‘Really?’ Sam raised her eyebrows and tried not to laugh. ‘And how did you come by that?’

      ‘My father. Never read a book in his life but, remember Epic Theatre the old Sunday afternoon TV series of movies about blokes like Ulysses and Jason and the Argonauts?’

      ‘Dubbed into English, as I recall.’

      Rivers nodded. ‘My Dad loved those movies. He was a Championship Wrestling fan too, so I guess I’m lucky I didn’t get named after Titan the Terrible. It’s useful on the Internet though. I can use my own name and people just think I’m a nerd with a hero complex.’

      ‘Dia...mond.’ Rigby’s bellow bounced off several walls as Sam and Rivers rounded a corner. ‘Oh, there you are.’

      ‘Jack, this is not a squad room. It would be courteous to keep your voice down.’

      ‘Good idea,’ Rigby nodded. ‘Now, I’ve spoken to Brownie and the PR lady, but Gould, the curator, is off sick today. Anton has just directed that Vasquez guy to a room down the hall. So what do you say we do him together and compare notes on the others later. Rivers, you can chase up that personnel list.’ Rigby headed off down the hall.

      ‘We found a plane ticket in Marsden’s name,’ Sam said, jogging to keep up with Rigby’s long stride. ‘He was flying to Peru this Saturday.’

      ‘Was he now?’

      ‘And, I think we should check out his home next. He had no family but he may have a cat or something that should be informed.’

      ‘Already organised. I sent some guys there fifteen minutes ago.’

      Enrico Vasquez looked like he expected to be put through a clichéd ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine. He kept flexing his shoulders, as if he was preparing himself for a good whack with a phone book, yet his expression was composed and determined. There was no guessing what was going on behind his dark eyes which, while they seemed to be looking everywhere at once, did so without making him appear nervous.

      His dark hair, thin moustache and pleasant face brought Zorro to Sam’s mind, except that Señor Vasquez was short and stocky. While his expression had registered amused indifference when introduced to her, his reaction to Rigby was typical of a phenomenon that Sam had always found curious. Shaking hands was not something cops do, as a rule, with suspects or witnesses, but Sam had noticed on many occasions that men shorter than about six foot felt they had to bond with Rigby. Vasquez was no different. He offered his hand automatically, although he stepped back as he did so, as if increasing the space between them would make him feel taller. Sam had yet to figure out the psychology of this, whether it was deference, submission or merely an attempt to stake out some territory.

      ‘Would you care to explain why I am here?’ Vasquez demanded of Rigby. ‘The other officer refused to say anything except that someone had died. What could I know?’

      ‘Do you know who has died, Mr Vasquez?’ Sam asked.

      ‘No, I just said,’ he frowned and returned his attention to Rigby. ‘Is it one of my colleagues? Is that why I’m here? What has happened?’

      ‘Professor Marsden’s body was found in the State Library this morning,’ Rigby stated. ‘He was murdered.’

      ‘But I know nothing of this.’ Vasquez was horrified. ‘You think I know something? How can I? I barely know Professor Marsden and I have no idea where your Library is.’

      ‘But you were seen arguing with Professor Marsden yesterday,’ Rigby said. ‘Do we have our facts wrong?’

      ‘Yes. No. Your facts are incomplete,’ Vasquez replied, regaining his composure. ‘I did see Professor Marsden yesterday. But not in your Library. Between 3 pm and 4.30 we were working out some details at the Exhibition Building. And we were not arguing.’

      ‘You did not have an argument of any kind with the Professor?’ Sam asked.

      ‘No! Ah, wait. We did have a discussion, which may have appeared um...heated. Our views on the subject of cultural artefacts and their repatriation could not be more opposite.’

      ‘Can you explain what you mean by that,’ Rigby requested.

      ‘The Professor was a dinosaur, a dedicated collector whose thinking has not changed with the times. He was as much of a relic, in terms of current international museum practices, as the things he collected. He still believed in an institution’s right to hoard the artefacts of other countries, thus denying those countries their own cultural heritage.’

      ‘And that’s what you were arguing about?’ Rigby asked.

      ‘Discussing, yes. The return of such items to their rightful owners is something I am most passionate about. My part of the world has been plundered by outsiders for centuries.’

      ‘Where are you from?’ Rigby asked.

      Strangely, Vasquez looked like he had to think about that question. ‘I have come from Colombia,’ he replied. ‘Things are changing though and maybe, one day, we will get everything back – what little there is left of our histories in South America.’

      ‘This desire of yours to get your stuff back seems pretty strong,’ Rigby suggested bluntly.

      Vasquez laughed. ‘There was nothing personal in our discussion, Detective. Debates like the one we had go on every day in museums the world over. It’s a sign of the times. I did not kill Professor Marsden because we had a difference of opinion. In fact we ended up agreeing – and laughing, I might add – about the rather dubious merits of the Life and Death exhibition.’

      ‘You were laughing about your own exhibition?’ Sam asked.

      Vasquez shrugged. ‘What can I say? It is Dr Bridger’s exhibition. I am simply the working curator, which means I do all the work. For me it is just a job, but career-wise it is a little embarrassing. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good show but ‘show’ is the best word for it.

      ‘Our artefacts may draw in a public curious to see a collection of exotic phallic symbols and mummified cats, but it is a questionable concept for a serious exhibition. Marsden and I agreed it was simply an excuse for Marcus to travel the world – and make money.’

      ‘Andrew Barstoc and Adrienne Douglas,’ Rigby read the names from his list. ‘We understand they went sightseeing together today. Do you have any idea where?’

      ‘Sightseeing?’ Vasquez snorted. ‘I find that... unlikely. And wherever they are, I doubt they’re together. Knowing Adrienne she’s probably visiting your casino.’

      ‘What is her job with the exhibition?’ Sam

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