The Samurai Inheritance by James Douglas

their order while the sommelier opened the bottle with almost religious reverence. Jamie waited until he’d poured two glasses. ‘You were saying?’
    ‘Basically, I grew up a nomad.’ She sipped her wine and nodded appreciatively. ‘Very nice. I suppose the most interesting thing about me is that I was once held hostage in what the British Special Air Service call the Killing House at their base in Hereford.’ She saw his look of surprise. ‘Impressed, huh?’
    ‘Very,’ he admitted. ‘Not many people get the privilege. If sitting in a room with live bullets flying around can be called a privilege.’
    ‘It certainly gets the adrenalin flowing,’ she grinned. ‘I was about seventeen and dad was being sent to Yemen, so he had to go on a hostage recovery course. He took me along for the ride. A very handsome sergeant showed me a neat trick. “Just hold your hand like this, love”,’ she produced a very passable Geordie accent and held up her fist with the second knuckle protruding, ‘“and punch him as hard as you’re able on his Adam’s apple. He’ll die spitting blood in five minutes.” He said the trick is to punch through something not at it. So be very careful, Mr Saintclair. You are dining with a killing machine.’
    ‘Then I’m in safe hands.’ He raised his glass in a mock toast, warming to Magda Ross even more. ‘How did you end up doing what you do?’
    ‘When it came to choosing a university degree I closed my eyes and stuck a pin in a list and ended up an anthropologist. What about you?’
    He shrugged. ‘Not half as interesting, I’m afraid. What you see is a product of my mother’s ambition. No, it’s true,’ he countered the brief look of disbelief, ‘she even changed our name from Sinclair to Saintclair because she thought it would help me get on at university.’
    ‘And did it?’
    ‘The other grammar school students laughed and the posh ones sneered. My mother wanted me to do languages, but I was interested in the arts; in the end I did both.’
    ‘What about your dad?’
    ‘I never had one.’
    He was glad the food came before she had a chance to ask him to elaborate. It was so perfect that neither had much to say beyond expressions of pleasure for the next forty minutes. Afterwards the waiter approached to clear the table and ask if they wanted to order a dessert. Jamie looked to Magda and she shook her head, but said she’d have a coffee. ‘Make that two.’
    He smiled. ‘The company’s been so fascinating I’d almost forgotten why we’re here.’
    Magda raised her glass with the last of the wine. ‘To the Bougainville head.’
    ‘The Bougainville head.’ He mirrored her toast. ‘You said you might be able to help me?’
    Her expression turned thoughtful. ‘When you left I thought that was the last we’d ever see of each other. Then again, the disappearance of the shrunken head from our collection is a puzzle and I like puzzles. You talked about a client?’
    Jamie nodded. ‘I should have been more honest with you,’ he apologized. ‘My reasons for helping return the head to Bougainville are not entirely altruistic. The tribal chief who wants his ancestor back is also in possession of certain documents that are important to my client. It means the head has a commercial value to him, and therefore to me. If you can help and we’re successful, it would mean a donation – a substantial one, I suspect – to the museum. And there would also be a more personal award.’
    ‘I’m not interested in your money, Jamie,’ she laughed. ‘But I am interested in what happened to the head. Remember that three-month window we talked about?’
    ‘Of course, but we’ve no idea what happened in it.’
    ‘What if we could find out?’ She had his attention now. ‘Last night I talked to a few people who have a better understanding of what was happening in Berlin at that time. One of them is in his nineties but still does some research work for us.’
    ‘So he would