‘Did you see a box on the wall?’
‘No, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.’
‘Hear anything?’
Charlie shook her head. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Look,’ said Helen, ‘do you think you could give me a hand here? Otherwise I’ll cut myself when I pull my leg out.’
Charlie pulled her sleeve over her hand to protect it against the glass, and removed the more vicious fragments. Then she lifted Helen’s leg out of the hole. ‘Okay, I’m impressed,’ she said, ‘but next time, check it isn’t double-glazed, all right? You were lucky today.’
Helen grinned. ‘You’re just jealous.’
‘Wha’ever.’ Charlie put her hand through the hole and turned the latch on the inside of the door, and it swung open. They were met by a curious smell, a mixture of oil and wood chippings, spices mingled with the mustiness of clothes kept in a cupboard for too long.
They found themselves on a small landing, with a loo on one side and an office on the other, and a narrow set of steps leading down to the main part of the warehouse.
A large torch sat in a recharger by the door. Helen grabbed it and flicked it on. The cone of light illuminated a path among the boxes stacked high, and she was reminded of one of those cramped grocery shops in India which sold just about everything.
Everywhere a jumble of vastly different items spilled from cardboard boxes and wooden crates: clothes, cushion covers, rugs, exotic spices, kitchenware, juice cartons, tinned food, a variety of statuettes and a whole box full of tacky plastic flowers. There were even several suites of wicker chairs and tables stacked high on top of each other against one wall. It was an Aladdin’s cave for shoppers who liked cheap and tasteless imports.
And then there were the two crates standing upright in the centre of the warehouse.
Charlie pointed to the crates. ‘There’s the delivery. Wonder what it is. You can hardly smuggle something as big as that, so maybe that’s not it.’
‘Did the e-mail say anything about smuggling?’
‘No, but I still want to see what it is.’ Charlie found a screwdriver in a cardboard box full of brittle-looking tools and used it to lever the lid off the front of the crate. The sound of the nails grinding against the wood as the lid reluctantly gave way set Helen’s teeth on edge.
‘Could you hurry up, please? I really don’t like this.’
‘Keep your hair on. Didn’t you say your aunt was in Amsterdam?’
‘And the warehouse owner?’ said Helen.
‘We’ll be fine.’
It was cold in the warehouse, and Helen wrapped her arms around herself. ‘We won’t find anything, you know. If it’s another one of Letitia’s “copies”, we can’t prove it. Not unless an army of antiques experts are let loose on it.’
‘Don’t be so negative.’ Charlie loosened a last difficult nail, then tossed the bent screwdriver aside with a frown. Together they lifted the lid away, and Helen dug out the packaging material. The finely shredded wood almost crumpled in her hands, and her throat went dry from dust and something else, anticipation perhaps.
Inside was an Indian sandstone pillar a little under five feet high and two feet wide, shaped like the Hindu god Shiva. She ran a hand over the weathered surface and experienced a sudden longing for India, for Joe and her job at The Sundowner. Stepping back, she clutched her mother’s elephant pendant and the silver medallion Mamaji had given her. Everything had seemed so much simpler back then.
‘Here’s a different one.’ Charlie had opened the next crate with another screwdriver, revealing a second statue, this one the Hindu elephant god sitting in the lotus position on his throne. As Charlie removed the lid, the statue rocked ominously on its plinth.
‘Careful,’ said Helen, ‘it might topple.’ She found a piece of wood and wedged it underneath the crate.
‘What are they?’
‘Statues from a Hindu temple. Probably part of a pillar. That one there.’ Helen pointed to the first crate, ‘is the god Shiva, the destroyer. This one’s Ganesh, god of intellect and wisdom, and my favourite. Some also call him the Remover of Obstacles.’
‘That should keep him busy. You seem to know a lot about it.’
‘I lived in India for two years. It’s hard not to become fascinated.’
‘Really? You never told me.’
Helen shrugged. It seemed so long ago now.
‘So, are they real?’ asked Charlie.
‘Well, they’re not Scotch mist, are they?’
‘No, I meant, are they genuine?’
Helen chewed her lip. ‘I think they are. A while back, maybe a year ago, some ancient pillars were stolen from a temple. There was a big hoo-hah about it, but they never found them. Probably because they’d been smuggled out of the country immediately, perhaps by a company like the one that owns this warehouse. There may even have been some bribery involved. It was on TV.’