Lucid Intervals (2010)

relationship.”
    “Interesting that Whitehall is still interested in Whitestone,” Hackett said. “I’m sure that’s where the inquiry originated, not with Dame Felicity. Whitestone was before her time. I mean, they may have overlapped, but she would have been in the field when he was in Cambridge Circus.”
    “Cambridge Circus?”
    “That’s where their offices are, or were at the time of Whitestone’s departure.”
    “What did you hear about the reasons for his departure?” Stone asked.
    “Some sort of row occurred in the higher reaches of the firm, I think, and Whitestone lost. His position became untenable as a result, and he left.”
    “Why would Whitehall want to find him now?” Stone asked.
    “Interesting question,” Hackett said. “I’m curious enough to want to know the answer. Would you like to find out for me?”
    “I don’t think so,” Stone said.
    “Oh, right: conflict of interest.”
    Stone didn’t address that.
    “Shall I drop you at home?” Hackett asked.
    “Eighty-eighth and Second Avenue, if it’s not inconvenient,” he replied.
    The car deposited him at his corner, and he walked the few feet to Elaine’s. Dino was there, and so was Felicity.

30
    S tone sat down, and a Knob Creek on the rocks was placed before him. “Evening, all,” he said, placing the envelope on the table. He turned to Felicity. “Where have you been?”
    “Away,” she replied.
    “I tried your cell phone and got a message that it was not in service.”
    “It’s back in service,” she said. “Where have you been?” She took a sip of her Rob Roy.
    “Meeting Stanley Whitestone,” he replied.
    Felicity choked on her drink, and Stone had to pat her firmly on the back. “Start at the beginning,” she said, dabbing at her watering eyes with a napkin.
    Stone started at the beginning and gave her a blow-by-blow account of his afternoon.
    Dino spoke up. “Hackett let you fly his jet?”
    Stone ignored him. He handed Felicity the envelope and watched as she opened it and peered at the photos.
    “It could be Whitestone,” she said. “And he could have died as a result of a motorcar accident.” She looked at the death certificate and the fingerprint card.
    “Run the prints,” Stone said. “That should settle it.”
    “Was he cremated?” Felicity asked.
    “Hackett didn’t mention cremation. I shouldn’t think he’d have bothered with buying a cemetery plot if the body had ended up in an urn. And it’s unlikely that there’s a crematorium anywhere near the island.”
    Felicity put the photos and documents back into the envelope and stuffed it into her briefcase.
    “That will be a hundred thousand pounds,” Stone said.
    “You haven’t earned your fee yet,” she replied.
    “Well, I’m not performing an autopsy. Hackett didn’t say if the body was embalmed, but if it wasn’t, it’s either mush or dust by now.”
    “I want everyone involved in Maine to be talked to: the hospital doctors and nurses, the police, the undertaker, the lot.”
    “My assignment was to locate Stanley Whitestone and report his whereabouts to you. I have done so. You said that after you knew where he was, others would deal with him.”
    “I think Hackett is Whitestone,” Felicity said.
    “I considered that. In fact, he brought it up himself. He invited me—or you—to investigate his background thoroughly.”
    “I will certainly have that done,” she said. “I’d like you to handle the task on this side of the water.”
    “I will be happy to accept a new assignment,” Stone said, “just as soon as I’ve been paid for the previous one.”
    “Your fee was predicated on success,” she pointed out, “and we have not confirmed who, if anyone, is buried in that churchyard on Mount Desert Island.”
    “I’ve given you photographs of the body, a death certificate and his fingerprints. What more could anyone ask? If the prints aren’t Whitestone’s, then we can talk,” Stone said. “You can open the grave and examine the corpse if you like, after having obtained the proper permissions, of course. But . . .” He leaned forward for effect. “. . . if the fingerprints fit, you must remit. Agreed?”
    “Spare me the Johnny Cochranisms, please,” she said.
    “Spare me a hundred thousand quid,” he replied.
    “Give me your bill,” she said, “made out to the Foreign Office. If the prints are Whitestone’s, I’ll countersign it and submit it. You should have your check in a few