Precious Bones by Irina Shapiro Page A

Middle East, where I worked as a freelance war photographer, going wherever there was conflict, and stories of human suffering to be told.  I spent time in Iraq and Afghanistan, crossing over into Pakistan over the mountains.  I was actually in Kurdistan when my granddad summoned me home. “
    “I had no idea,” I mumbled , feeling ashamed of myself.  I had assumed that Adrian Turner lived a pampered and easy life, and I found it hard to picture him going native in places I’d only seen on television. 
    “Will you remain in London?’
    “For now.  My grandfather built his company from the ground up , and I have to make sure that his life’s work is not wasted, so I’ll stay as long as I’m needed and then I’ll see.  It’s a little strange being back here and sleeping in a nice clean bed, while out there children are stepping on land mines and fanatical young men are blowing themselves up in crowded squares.”
    “Is it a relief to be back at home?”
    “No,” he answered thoughtfully, “it’s not.  After living for years in places torn by war, where innocent civilians are desperately trying to survive and keep their children from getting caught in the crossfire, it’s surreal coming back home and finding people passionately discussing Kate Middleton’s new hat, or David Beckham’s penchant for wearing nail polish.  No one really wants to know what’s going on out there beyond the occasional picture in the paper or a brief report on the BBC.  It interferes too much with their enjoyment of the finer things in life.”
    I was taken aback by his intensity , and despite my previous decision not to like him, was moved by his passion.
    “So what have you been doing since you got back , besides orchestrating a shake-down at the company?”
    Adrian gave me a sheepish smile.  “I ’ve been an absolute terror, I’m afraid.  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to play at corporate politics, and I’ve managed to step on a number of important toes.  Now I’m trying to make amends, starting with our star author.  Aside from that, I’ve tried reconnecting with a few old mates from school.   Those few get-togethers were scarier than anything I saw in the Middle East.  Intense discussions of day schools for their toddlers, and horror stories of waspish mothers-in-law, left me craving some good old Taliban fighters armed with the latest hardware from the Russians.  I have become depressingly anti-social.”
    “ What of your parents or siblings?”
    “ I’m an only child.  My father died a few years ago of a heart attack, and Mum is currently living in Miami with her new husband, who made  a killing selling knock-off iPod accessories.  She has no interest in running the company.  I’m the only candidate,” he said with a sigh.  “Now tell me about you.  Have you been writing?”
    I should have resented the question, but I found myself telling him about my new book.  I didn’t mention the candlelit shapes I saw in the house, but told him about the inspiration for my heroine.  He asked to see the locket, and I went to unfasten it, handing it to him across the table.  He took it carefully and examined the intricate design on the cover for a long time before finally opening the locket.  Something came over his face as he looked intently at the picture within, and then at the initials engraved inside.  Did he recognize the woman?  That’s impossible , I thought to myself.  How could he?
    “Where did you get this?” his gaze was intense as he handed the necklace back to me.
    “I found it at a stall in the Portobello Road flea market.  It was in a box full of rubbish.  I couldn’t believe my luck.”
    “Luck indeed,” he said, looking thoughtful , “what an amazing find.”  He gave the locket back to me and turned his attention to the waiter who materialized silently by our table. 
    “Would you like some dessert, Cassandra?  They have sticky balls,” he added with a wicked