Last Chance, page 2
Mrs Philipson just smiled blankly.
‘I’d like a copy of the Lancet?’ said Friday. ‘Or perhaps the New Physicist?’
‘No, they’re too stimulating,’ snapped the head nurse.
‘Surely it’s important to maintain brain activity?’ said Friday.
‘Not in your case,’ said the head nurse. ‘In your case, your brain is too active. Your body needs a chance to recover from trying to keep up with it.’
‘But I’m needed in Paris,’ pleaded Friday.
‘Paris has endured two world wars, two Napoleons, a Commune, countless revolutions and Nazi occupation,’ said the head nurse. ‘It can survive two more days without you.’
‘I like it here,’ said Melanie.
‘You just like it because you can nap as much as you want and they bring around three meals a day,’ said Friday.
‘I do,’ agreed Melanie. ‘Someone should set up a hotel like this. It’s very relaxing.’
It was such a blessed relief to finally be allowed out of hospital. Friday had developed a great fondness for Norway. It was hard not to, with all the storybook architecture and stunning natural beauty everywhere you looked. She was not, however, so in love with the inside of their finest hospital.
As Friday stepped out through the automatic doors and the crisp autumn air hit her face, she closed her eyes and breathed in a huge lungful of freedom. That was until a large man slammed into her.
‘Don’t go!’ cried Binky. Binky was Melanie’s brother. His fiancée, Princess Ingrid, was with him. They had been standing on the footpath waiting to say goodbye.
Binky wrapped Friday in a big one-armed hug. He could only use one arm because he had been shot the previous week in a raid at the Global Seed Vault. Friday could feel wet on her neck and realised Binky must already be crying.
‘You don’t need me here anymore,’ said Friday, patting his back soothingly.
‘Only for now,’ said Binky. ‘You know it’s only a matter of time before I get myself in a pickle again.’
‘You need to learn to unpickle yourself, Binky,’ said Friday.
‘Last time I tried doing that I got attacked by an imaginary polar bear,’ said Binky.
‘Ingrid will look after you,’ said Melanie, trying to gently detach her brother from her friend.
‘I don’t want you to go either,’ wailed Binky, suddenly letting go of Friday and grabbing Melanie instead. ‘I’m going to be so lonely.’
‘Binky, you are going to live in a palace with dozens of staff,’ said Friday.
‘And you have your job in the army,’ said Melanie. ‘And you’ve got your wedding to plan. You’re going to be too busy to miss us.’
‘We really would like it if you stayed,’ said Ingrid. ‘I’m sure we could find you a job, investigating crime or researching at the university.’
‘Bernie is expecting us in Paris,’ said Friday.
‘She’s very keen to get there because Ian has been holding hands with someone else,’ explained Melanie.
‘Already!’ said Binky. ‘I’m very fond of Wainscott. He’s just the sort of fellow you want on your side when you’ve been shot in a seed vault siege and people are trying to kidnap your girlfriend, but moving on so quickly – that seems a bit caddish.’ A thought occurred to Binky. ‘I say, do you want me to come with you and have a stern word with him for you?’
‘You’re just trying to get out of dinner with Great Aunt Helga tomorrow night, aren’t you?’ said Ingrid.
‘She’s a duchess,’ said Binky. ‘I’m scared of duchesses.’
‘But you’re not scared of princesses,’ said Ingrid. ‘You’re not scared of me.’
‘I was scared when I met you,’ said Binky. ‘But not because you were a princess. I didn’t know that. I was scared of you because you were so beautiful.’
Ingrid stretched up on tiptoes and gave Binky a kiss, because it was a lovely compliment. When Binky had met her, Ingrid had been an awkward teenager, wearing intentionally ugly glasses and hiding her natural hair colour with cheap supermarket hair dye. The fact that Binky had not noticed was one of his many endearing features.
‘Um,’ said Friday. She found it embarrassing enough when she kissed someone. Watching other people kiss was even worse. ‘Perhaps I’d better get in the car. It’s a bit nippy out here.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Ingrid, releasing Binky. ‘It’s a bad look, detaining a hypothermia patient on a cold sidewalk.’
‘Bernie wanted us to give you this,’ said Binky. He handed Friday a cardboard satchel bulging at the seams. The only thing stopping the paperwork from exploding out were two large elastic bands wrapped around the outside and straining to contain whatever information was inside.
‘What is it?’ asked Friday.
‘The case notes, apparently,’ said Binky. ‘The nurse wouldn’t let us give them to you while you were still in hospital. I thought it would be all right to give them to you here on the footpath.’ Binky glanced up at the building. ‘You don’t think she’s watching do you? I’d hate to get in trouble with her.’
‘She may be in charge in her ward,’ said Princess Ingrid. ‘But I’m pretty sure I outrank her down here on the street.’ Sometimes Ingrid had flashes of naked power that reminded Friday she was more than just the nice teenager who moved in next door to them at Highcrest Academy. Ingrid may only be five foot three, but when she glared at someone with full regal hauteur she could be quite scary.
After several more hugs and promising to come back for the wedding, Friday and Melanie finally slid into the back seat of the chauffer-driven car Ingrid had arranged for them.
Holding the satchel of paperwork on her lap gave Friday an unexpected sense of pure joy. It made her heart warm in a way all the heated IV drips and oven-warmed blankets never could. Her mind was like a racehorse standing in the starting gate, ready to take off as soon as the starter’s pistol fired. That file contained all her favourite things – facts, science, mystery and a sense of purpose. She didn’t realise how much she had missed it all.
‘You can open it, you know,’ said Melanie.
‘I’m savouring the moment,’ said Friday.
‘Are you sure you’re not just putting it off?’ said Melanie. ‘Perhaps because you don’t think you’ll be able to solve this one?’
Friday glanced over. She knew from the smile on Melanie’s face her friend was teasing.
‘Oh please,’ said Friday. ‘The harder it is, the more fun it is.’
She tugged off the elastic band and let the contents spill out. There were several folders. These were case notes on the allegations, the individuals involved and the location – all compiled by an Interpol analyst, Agent Okeke, who would be meeting them at the airport. There was also a big, thick textbook about Leonardo da Vinci. Friday sighed with contentment. ‘This is like the best birthday present ever,’ she said. ‘I won’t have to read one of the dreadful novels they sell at the airport.’
‘I like the dreadful novels they sell at airports,’ protested Melanie.
‘So do I,’ said Friday. ‘But this is even better.’
Friday set the case notes in order and started working her way through them methodically. She barely registered the Norwegian countryside zipping by en route to the airport, she was totally absorbed throughout the wait to check in their luggage and she didn’t even notice as Melanie ushered her into the lounge and ordered hot chocolates. She was too busy reading. It wasn’t until they were actually on the plane and it had taken off that Friday finally looked up.
‘It’s entirely possible,’ she announced. Friday seemed to astonish herself with this conclusion.
‘Sorry, what are we talking about?’ said Melanie.
‘That the Mona Lisa is fake,’ said Friday.
‘It is?’ asked Melanie.
‘Well, it’s possible it might not be as well,’ conceded Friday. She was looking at the case notes and distracting herself again. ‘Both possibilities are, well . . . possible. It’s Schrödinger’s Mona Lisa.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Melanie. ‘Are you sure you didn’t get a head injury as well as hypothermia? You’re not making any sense. Although the doctors did say that disordered thinking was a symptom of hypothermia. So perhaps you’re just suffering after-effects of that.’
‘No, Schrödinger was a scientist who came up with a thought experiment,’ explained Friday. ‘If you put a cat in a box and seal the box, you have no way of knowing whether the cat inside is alive or dead. So it is both alive and dead.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s one or the other. Probably dead if the box was airtight.’
‘But you can’t know that,’ said Friday. ‘So, in terms of scientific results, it is both alive and dead.’
‘That makes no sense,’ said Melanie.
‘Yes, it does. It’s like a mathematical equation . . .’ began Friday.
‘Putting a cat in a box is nothing at all like a mathematical equation,’ said Melanie.
‘He didn’t actually put a cat in a box, it’s a thought experiment,’ said Friday.
‘Thinking about putting cats in boxes isn’t much better,’ said Melanie. ‘This Schrödinger should be ashamed of himself.’
‘It’s just a metaphor to explain the idea of two possibilities existing at the same time,’ said Friday. ‘He was trying to ridicule the Copenhagen Interpretation of quantum mechanics.’
‘It would be much better to just say two possibilities existing at the same time,’ said Melanie. ‘That’s not such a hard concept. But once you start thinking about a poor cat dying alone in a box, that’s very upsetting. Who wants to think about science then?’
Now Friday was confused. ‘I just wanted to say that the Mona Lisa being a forgery and not being a forgery are both possible. Therefore, both possibilities exist simultaneously.’
Melanie sighed. ‘I know you think that makes sense in terms of science,’ she said. ‘But sometimes science becomes so far removed from actual reality that it goes beyond not making sense and becomes very silly indeed.’
‘All I’m saying is that the man who stole the Mona Lisa, Vincenzo Peruggia, had it hidden in his apartment for two years,’ explained Friday. ‘That was enough time to copy it. He was a qualified art restorer, so he had the skill and knowledge to forge it. He hated that the original was in Paris, so he had the motive to forge it. Therefore, it is entirely possible that the Mona Lisa is a forgery.’
‘Is that what you believe?’ asked Melanie.
‘When you’re investigating a crime, it’s always a mistake to be distracted by what you believe,’ said Friday. ‘It’s best to believe nothing and focus on what you know.’
‘Surely there is no-one good enough to copy Leonardo da Vinci,’ said Melanie. ‘Isn’t the whole point that he was a genius, unparalleled in history.’
‘But the thing about really good art forgers is,’ said Friday, ‘no-one knows how good their work is because no-one realises that they are looking at a forgery.’
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ said Melanie.
‘This mystery has everything,’ said Friday. ‘There are so many avenues to investigate. Just imagine – if the painting hanging in the Louvre is a fake, then where is the original?’
‘Do you think one of Peruggia’s distant aunts has it hanging up in her bathroom right now?’ asked Melanie.
‘It would have to be his distant niece,’ said Friday. ‘It all happened over a hundred years ago. No-one alive at the time is alive now.’
‘It makes you wonder,’ said Melanie. ‘Does it really matter? If no-one can tell the difference, does it matter whether or not it’s the original?’
‘Ooh,’ said Friday. She was intrigued by this metaphysical idea. ‘That’s very immoral. But entirely true. Ethics aren’t my strong point.’
‘No, I can tell by your attitude to dead cats,’ said Melanie.
‘I need to know more about Leonardo da Vinci,’ said Friday as she pulled out the massive book that was part of the case file.
‘It’s rare to find something you don’t know about,’ said Melanie.
‘That’s not true,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t know about lots of things . . . um . . .’
‘Sport,’ said Melanie.
‘Yes,’ agreed Friday. ‘But that doesn’t matter.’
‘Empathy,’ said Melanie.
‘Well, that’s not really fair,’ said Friday. ‘I know about empathy. I’m just not very good at it.’
‘Celebrity gossip and pop culture,’ added Melanie.
‘No, actually, I do now,’ said Friday. She seemed a little sad to be making the statement. ‘All those magazines you read to me in hospital. I learned things I never wanted to know. I’m pretty sure that quiz to determine the colour of my aura was not a scientifically valid research tool.’
‘It said you were brown,’ said Melanie. ‘Sounds accurate to me.’
Friday opened her book and started reading, but she didn’t get beyond the title page before she was interrupted by yelling.
‘This is an outrage!’ yelled a man. ‘I demand to speak to the captain.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Friday.
‘I don’t know,’ said Melanie.
‘Let’s investigate,’ said Friday, slipping out of her seatbelt.
‘Only a month ago you swore off investigating crime for good,’ Melanie reminded her.
‘There’s nothing like a near-death experience in the Arctic and a week of utter boredom in a hospital to make you reprioritise your life,’ said Friday.
‘This is an outrage, it’s a disgrace, a debacle!’ yelled a middle-aged man two rows in front of them.
‘Mr Lavigne, calm down,’ urged the flight attendant.
‘I will not calm down,’ yelled Mr Lavigne. ‘You have lost my wife!’
‘Can I help?’ asked Friday. ‘I’m an investigator with Interpol.’
The man looked at Friday like she had just claimed to be Santa Claus. ‘You’re a child!’ he exclaimed in disgust.
‘I’m a teenager,’ said Friday. ‘We have better eyesight, concentration and short term memory than middle-aged people.’
‘This isn’t a parlour game for bored teenagers,’ yelled Mr Lavigne. ‘My wife has been abducted. And they do nothing!’
‘Sir, your wife can’t have been abducted,’ said the flight attendant. ‘We’re seven thousand metres in the air.’
‘Someone must have grabbed her and leapt out with a parachute,’ declared Mr Lavigne. ‘And none of you even noticed.’
‘Apparently you didn’t notice either,’ said Melanie.
‘It’s impossible for someone to parachute off an airplane at this height and velocity,’ said Friday. ‘Well . . . it’s impossible if they want to survive.’
‘Friday, stop talking about dead things,’ pleaded Melanie. ‘You’ll upset people.’
‘But that can’t have happened anyway,’ said Friday. ‘You can’t open a door on an airplane at this altitude without everyone noticing. The cabin would depressurize.’
‘In layman’s terms,’ coaxed Melanie.
‘Everything not attached to the interior of the plane would be sucked out the door by the difference in air pressure,’ said Friday.
‘I know I was asleep,’ said Melanie. ‘But even I couldn’t have missed that.’
‘Then where is she?’ demanded Mr Lavigne. ‘What if she’s been murdered and her body is hidden somewhere on the plane?’
‘Are you sure she’s not in the bathroom?’ asked Friday. ‘I know it sounds obvious, but it is amazing how often upset people miss the obvious.’
‘All the bathrooms have been searched,’ said the flight attendant. ‘The below-deck area, the storage areas. Anywhere she could possibly be hiding has been searched.’
‘My wife would not hide from me!’ shouted Mr Lavigne.
‘Sir, please, you’re disturbing the other passengers,’ said the flight attendant.
Friday looked about. Everyone in the cabin was watching them.
‘I don’t think they mind,’ said Melanie. ‘This is much more entertaining that anything on the in-flight TV.’
‘Why don’t you take us through what happened?’ suggested Friday.
‘There is nothing to tell,’ snapped Mr Lavigne. ‘I turn my eyes away for one moment and they lose my wife.’
The flight attendant didn’t even bother responding. She just rolled her eyes.
‘Okay,’ said Friday. ‘Let’s break that down. What were you doing when you turned your eyes away for one moment?’
‘So now it’s my fault, is it?’ demanded Mr Lavigne.
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Friday. ‘That’s why I’m asking questions not making irrational accusations.’
‘Burn,’ said Melanie. ‘You see, she burned you there. Because that’s what you’re doing – making irrational accusations.’
‘Yes, thank you, Melanie,’ said Friday. ‘I think we all know that.’
‘I just think we should acknowledge that, while losing your wife is bad,’ said Melanie, ‘yelling at a flight attendant is also bad, because being a flight attendant is one of the most horrible jobs in the world. You have to pretend to be nice to people while wearing support stockings and handing out revolting food.’
The flight attendant didn’t nod, but they could tell from the deep sadness in her eyes this was the truth.
‘We got on the plane through the back door. My wife booked the flight at the last minute so we got dreadful seats back here,’ said Mr Lavigne, who apparently could still be angry with his wife even while she was missing. ‘I was on the phone in a meeting. I’m selling a commercial holding in Milan. I had to finalise the deal before the plane took off and I lost reception.’
‘You’re meant to put your phone in flight mode before we start taxiing,’ muttered the flight attendant.
‘No-one believes that rubbish,’ said Mr Lavigne.
‘When did you see Mrs Lavigne last?’ asked Friday.
‘She interrupted to tell me she was going to the bathroom,’ said Mr Lavigne. ‘The one down there.’ He pointed to the front of the plane.
