Page 71 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

She spins around and grabs the TV remote to flip the TV on. The screen freezes and pixelates for a moment when the lights flicker.

“Stupid fucking storm,” she mutters as the picture resumes, and she changes it to the news channel.

“Paris is in uproar tonight with the apparent theft of a painting from the Grande Gallerie of the Louvre. The painting itself, named Hercules and Achelous, was painted in the early part of the seventeenth century by Italian artist Guido Reni. Police are baffled as to how the piece of art was removed from the wall of the Gallerie without tripping any alarms or registering on the security cameras…”

I stare at the picture of the painting on the screen and then back at the one behind us.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “That’s the real thing?”

Dusty whistles. “It’s probably worth millions.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Harrison offers. “While I’ll admit I’m curious as to how it ended up here, I doubt the authorities will think to look for a three-hundred-year-old painting in an ex-council flat in Shoreditch.”

“What I want to know is how the fuck did it get here?” Chan snaps. “This isn’t the bloodyThomas Crown Affair.” She glares at Harrison as if this is somehow all his fault. “All of a sudden all this weird crap just keeps appearing in my flat or in my dressing room at the club.”

“Weird crap?” Harrison repeats and there’s this little interested twinkle in his eye I’ve not seen before. “Like what?”

“See for yourself.” She indicates a pile of objects stacked on the armchair next to the painting. Harrison leans down and starts rooting through all the items.

“Oh.”

“Oh, what?” Chan scowls.

“This.” He lifts a nasty, dirty-looking cloth. Made from dark, coarse material, it’s about the size of a beach towel, and it looks as if it’s been used to wipe the floor and then plug a leak.

“That appeared on my bed a couple of nights ago.” She wrinkles her nose. “It smells like my grandmother, all stale and musty.”

“I think it’s a Tibetan death shroud,” he says in fascination as he studies it closely. “It has very distinctive stitching, see?” He lifts it toward her and my suspicions on who is responsible deepens.

“I don’t even like cross-stitch.” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “And what the fuck was it doing on my bed?”

“These date back to roughly the second century, and they were considered incredibly powerful. They were laid over the dead to protect them from evil spirits.” He sets it aside carefully and picks up an Egyptian amulet. “Wow, an Egyptian funerary amulet.” He turns it over in his hands. “Roughly between 186 BC and 90 BC. They were used for a similar purpose, to offer protection on the journey to the Underworld. This craftsmanship is gorgeous,” he whispers as he eyes the inlaid gold and lapis lazuli.

“How do you know so much about history?” Dusty asks.

“I don’t.” Harrison smirks up at her. “But I do know about powerful magic shit.”

“Never mind that,” Chan interrupts. “I want to know where they came from. And I don’t mean the country.”

“Uh…” I glance over to Dusty, who mouths one name to me, and I realise she’s arrived at the same conclusion I have. “Um, I think you have an admirer.”

“I told you I had a stalker.” Chan fists her hands on her hips, looking absolutely mutinous.

“Don’t quote me on it or anything, but I don’t think it’s meant in a kind of stalker-ishI have a shrine of you way and I’m going to chop you up and keep you in my freezerkind of way.”

“What kind of way is it, then?” Chan says dryly.

“I think it’s more of anI like you and I have zero social skillskind of way.”

“Tris, that’s not really much better,” she replies in confusion.

“Um, I think they’re meant to be … like… uh.. I don’t know… love gifts?” I add.

“Love gifts?” she repeats. “A death shroud from a second-century Tibetan corpse is a love gift?”

I shrug and her eyes narrow. “Do you know who it is?”

“You don’t like my gifts?” says a deep voice behind us.