The Temple Scroll

by D C Macey

  Tomorrow, he planned to stop off in Paris. Spend a few days at his French connection and satisfy himself that the work transfer from Edinburgh had gone smoothly, that everything was as it should be. It would be his main base for a while so things had to be right. And from there, back to Britain. He planned to take the ferry, slip across unnoticed - just one more pedestrian traveller on a busy route.

  CHAPTER 4 - FRIDAY 9th AUGUST

  Francis leant across the table, eager to top up the wine glasses. Gathered around the restaurant table with him were Helen, Sam and Grace. It was a welcome home night for Helen and a chance to get out and enjoy a break in each other’s company, and with the Festival under way there was a real buzz about the city. Elaine was missing, she was not up for late nights at the best of times and certainly not while recuperating from the injuries she had received earlier in the summer. Xavier and Angelo were missing too. They did not intend to visit from Sardinia for another week, by which time the Festival would be in full swing.

  Excuses for more nights out during the Festival weren’t needed and they had all just blanked out another couple of dates in their diaries to accommodate the Sardinian priests’ visit.

  Helen picked up her glass as soon as Francis topped it up. As the bottle continued its journey from glass to glass, she looked at the company. Smiling faces, laughs and jokes, they were all enjoying the moment, seizing it, making it good. Tonight should have been a proper celebration, a reunion, troubles behind them and an exciting mystery to solve ahead. Instead, she knew the happy faces were superficial, smiley masks determined to banish thoughts of the threat that had returned.

  Arms stretched out and glasses clinked - she reached out and joined the toast. Their waiter arrived, a weathered, experienced Italian. He balanced a row of soup bowls along one arm; plates of garlic bread defied the laws of physics to remain attached to the other. As he distributed the food, he smiled and joked. Finally, in an audacious move he gently touched Grace’s cheek with the back of his hand. Declared she was the most beautiful girl in Edinburgh and he must sing a song for her. Then he looked at Helen and gave an apologetic shrug; if she weren’t taken, there would have been a song for her too.

  Helen laughed with him, insisted no songs and joined Grace in shooing him away. She wondered when it had become so publicly obvious that she and Sam were an item. And she noted he had not demurred. Then, smiling to herself, she had joined in the chatter about the stand-up comedian they had just watched. He was rude, raucous and funny - one to recommend.

  Francis was in charge of the tickets and the schedule. He was consulting a note he had made and trying to keep everyone up to the moment. ‘After dinner, there’s a play starting at nine-thirty, should be fun, it’s only two minutes’ walk from here, though the venue might be a little cramped. Then it’s up the mound into the Old Town and just time for a quick drink before moving on to a satirical revue.’ He shuffled through the sheaf of tickets. ‘I’ve heard it’s really funny. A bit naughty though,’ he looked a little sheepish.

  This was Helen’s first festival. She understood now why her parents had always tried to visit. The city was full, alive with the hustle and bustle of good-natured crowds out for fun and entertainment. And everywhere were enthusiastic performers mixing with the crowds, promoting their shows; all decked out in a selection of mad, weird and occasionally outrageous garb.

  It was well into the early hours by the time the night out ended. Back at Sam’s Marchmont flat, Helen opened a bottle of wine and they settled down to relive the laughs of the evening. Finally, as the sky was just starting to lighten, they crawled off to bed.

  CHAPTER 5 - SATURDAY 10th AUGUST

  Peter Johnson was woken by the ringing phone at the side of his bed. He groaned and peered at the digital alarm clock on the bedside cabinet, made out a blurry green glow and his hand scrabbled out for the glasses he kept there. Pulling them on brought the green light into focus, 04.13. He groaned again, calls at this time were always bad news, he wondered which member of the church needed him.

  ‘Hello, Peter Johnson speaking. How can I help you?’

  He listened to a man’s voice as it delivered a crisp message; this was not what he had expected. It was the security company and the church’s silent alarm was sounding. As key holder, could he respond? The mobile patrolman would meet him there, but he was in the next town up the coast, it would be around thirty minutes before he arrived.

  The church was literally across the road and the alarm had not triggered in years. Peter got out of bed and peered through his bedroom window. He could see the church and everything seemed quiet.

  ‘It’s probably a false alarm,’ said Peter, into the phone handset. ‘I’ll get dressed and go have a look. See if it needs reset or something. Should be fine.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to just wait at the premises and link up with our patrol when it arrives, sir?’ asked the security controller.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. It’ll just be a fault.’

  ‘Okay sir, if you are happy with that. I should say from our records you are in a low crime zone, so it may just be a fault. I also see your system is overdue an upgrade. It’s very old now.’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s about done. We’ve certainly had it a long time, I can’t remember exactly when it was installed,’ said Peter Johnson.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to call me once you’ve scouted around, sir. Then I can sign off the incident. Shall we say call back in twenty minutes?’

  Peter Johnson agreed, hung up and got dressed as quietly as he could.

  Joan Johnson stirred. ‘Who was on the phone?’ she said, sleepily.

  ‘It’s nothing, just the alarm sounding in the church. I’m going over now to reset it.’

  Joan sat up quickly. ‘Are you sure it’s okay?’

  ‘Don’t worry. The system should have been upgraded years ago. Probably just worn out, I’ll be back in a few minutes, you get back to sleep.’ Grabbing his walking stick, Peter Johnson headed out of the bedroom.

  His wife’s voice followed him down the stair. ‘You be careful, Peter. Any sign of trouble, come right back and we’ll call the police. I don’t know what that alarm company is thinking of, letting you go over there.’

  Peter Johnson paused at the front door and called back up the stairs. ‘Stop fussing, Joan. I know everyone in this town; nobody is going to break into my church. You get back to sleep.’

  He pulled the front door shut and headed down the path for the front gate. Directly across the road he could see the church, dark and still. Pausing at the kerb, he half turned and waved his stick up at the darkened bedroom window. He couldn’t see her but he knew Joan would be watching, wouldn’t turn in again until he returned.

  Crossing the road, he could see the church’s front doors were firmly shut. He gave the handle a little push to be sure - locked solid. Peter walked round the side of the church, lost sight of his home but was quite comfortable. These were shadows he had walked in a thousand times over the years. He checked for broken windows as he went. Nothing.

  Reaching the end, he turned the corner of the building and continued his quiet inspection. At any given point on his walk round, he could picture exactly what lay on the other side of the wooden walls. This had been his place for too long to think about.

  Turning the next corner, he was heading back towards the street: would soon be out of the shadows. As he approached the church’s small side entrance door, he paused for a moment. Had that been a flash of torchlight inside? He shook himself, don’t be an old fool. He passed the suspect window and tried the door handle. To his surprise it gave. The door opened without a sound and he stepped inside.

  The little room was still and silent. Peter scolded himself for forgetting to lock the door - perhaps Joan was right, maybe he was getting a little forgetful after all. Well he’d come to check things out, might as well take a look round. He flicked a switch and the room was flooded with light. He squinted, the sudden brightne
ss hurting his eyes.

  Everything seemed in order and he crossed the floor towards an open door that led into the big meeting room where many of the church’s group activities took place. His rubber-soled shoes silent on the wooden floor, the only sound the tap, tap, of his walking stick - but the door ahead of him should certainly not be open. Never mind security, he knew he closed every internal door, drummed the importance of doing so into the congregation at every opportunity. A closed door held back fire, every moment mattered in an emergency. Peter started to wonder; perhaps things weren’t as they should be.

  Stopping at the doorway, he looked in, peering round the meeting room. Lit by the light from behind him, he could see it was empty - as still and silent as the smaller room that he had just passed through. Chiding himself again for being so silly, he felt down the doorframe for the light switch and lit the space properly. Again, nothing lurking in the corners, the moment of worry passed. He crossed the room, made straight for his office. It was one of several doors letting off from the opposite wall. His journey was again heralded by the tap of his stick.

  Half way across the room he paused, finally convinced things weren’t right. His office door was ajar; forget all the other signs, this would never happen. That’s where all the church’s confidential papers were kept, locked safely away. For just a moment he wondered if he should retreat, call it in. But there was no sound - if there had been an intruder, he was long gone. The sooner he found out what had been going on the better.

  He pushed open his office door and saw the contents of the room were scattered every which way. The shaft of light from the meeting room crossed the office and settled on the security cabinet set against the far wall, it was open. His heart sank. ‘Oh no,’ he said and hurried across to the cabinet. Helen’s communion set was stored inside.

  He scanned the nearly empty shelves of the cabinet, checked the things strewn on the floor beside it. Odd, the cashbox was still there. So was the old wooden box that contained the communion set Helen had entrusted to his care, but it lay open, silver glinting up at him. For a moment, he thought it was all right, the set had not been stolen. But as he checked more carefully, he realised only the plate and cup remained, the cross was gone. He felt sick. He had let his daughter down - her secret was lost.

  How the crooks knew about the cross and its secret, he didn’t know. He and Joan had told nobody. But right now, he needed the police to close the road out of town. There might still be time if he acted quickly.

  He stepped over to his desk and picked up the phone, dialled 911. Before the call could be answered, there was a ripping sound and a great shape of a man rose from behind the desk. In one hand, it held a telephone cable, a loose end ripped from the wall socket. In the other hand, a cross, Helen’s cross.

  There was no time for fear and he wasn’t giving ground to any hood. That was his daughter’s cross; he was taking it back.

  ‘Put that cross down,’ he shouted. Leaning one hand on the desk edge to take the weight off his bad leg, he raised the stick to swing at the intruder.

  The man ducked as the stick whizzed above his head.

  Peter gasped at the exertion and raised the stick again. ‘You won’t get away with it. The police are coming.’

  ‘No they’re not, old man. That was the call I just killed. Now, maybe I’ll do that to you too.’ The shape was fully upright now and moving round the desk. ‘You’re on your own here. Best lie down and I might just let you be.’

  The stick swung back towards the intruder’s head. A strong arm rose in an attempt to block the blow and there was a gasp of pain. Peter smiled to himself - contact.

  He tried to pull back for another stroke but couldn’t, his arm was grabbed by the intruder who had thrown himself across the desk towards him. Dodgy legs didn’t equal weak arms, and an active life meant Peter’s were as strong as any. He reached with his free hand to grab the cross, they grappled for a few moments but finally the intruder’s upper body strength began to prevail. He pressed his body over on to Peter’s and their combined weights bore down on to his bad leg. It collapsed and both men fell to the floor.

  Peter’s arms were trapped under the weight of the intruder’s body, giving the man free hands to work with. He raised one, formed a fist and brought it down into the side of Peter’s head. The blow stunned Peter and he was still for a moment. Satisfied the intruder made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cry of victory. He raised his hand again and Peter could only watch as the fist came down hard on his head.

  Struggle over, the man stood, brushed himself and looked down. ‘You done now?’

  Peter’s mind was coming back into focus but not his eyes, his glasses were lost somewhere on the office floor. He looked up at the figure standing over him and knew, for his daughter’s sake, he must not quit. A boot thumped into Peter’s shoulder; instinctively he grabbed it and twisted, unbalancing the man.

  The man threw out a hand as he started to topple, grasping on to the desktop to break his fall and Peter held on tight to the boot. The man loomed over him, balanced on one leg, a hand on the desk’s edge, the other still holding the cross.

  ‘You’ve done it now old man, I could have let you live. But you’ just gotta go.’

  Peter saw the man’s hand swing under arm towards him. Saw the cross coming towards his head, a bludgeon to break him. He managed to get a hand out to ward off the blow. It grazed his forehead, opening the skin, producing a flood of blood but the main force of the blow was deflected and a great clang rang out as the cross smashed on to the metal leg of his desk.

  Amidst a torrent of curses from above, Peter realised he had lost the grip on the man’s leg. As his assailant started to raise the cross to deliver a second swipe, Peter made a grab for it, got a hand on the base and held on tight. The man jerked up hard against the strong grip of Peter’s hand, half lifting him from the ground. Then, as they struggled for possession, the cross separated into two parts. Free from Peter’s weight the man’s hand soared up as Peter, clutching the base, fell back, crashing his head against the metal table leg.

  Through blood-filled eyes, Peter saw the blurriest vision of the man; he seemed to be looking at his own hand in surprise. Peter saw the man’s expression change to pleasure as he realised his mission was accomplished - he had the dagger. Then, finally, defenceless, Peter felt a boot crack into his face. Again, his head banged against the table leg, and finally, beaten, he slid away into nothingness.

  • • •

  Helen sat at the breakfast table nursing a sore head and sipping coffee. Enviously, she looked across at Sam. He seemed quite impervious to the after-effects of alcohol. His assertion that she felt three times as bad because she drank three times as much was probably true, but of little consolation right now.

  Tomorrow he was flying down to Bristol to attend a three-day archaeology workshop at the city’s university. In the meantime, she was annoyed that this day was not being spent as she had planned. The wine had spoilt it. She decided to go for a shower and headed for the bathroom. He seemed happy enough, busy studying the pattern on the Norwegian dagger; intently cross-referring between photographs of the various blades, twisting and manoeuvring them around into different combinations, the perpetual puzzle that could always be counted on to fill any spare moments he might have.

  Perhaps she would feel better once she was cleaned up. Then they could do something together in what was left of the day. Maybe even check out the secret tunnel beneath the manse that they had first encountered earlier in the summer.

  Standing under the stream of warm water, Helen promised herself she would ease up on the wine. It had been creeping up on her over the summer. Something she would need to cut back, especially with the troubles coming back. Stepping out from the shower, she grabbed a towel, dried herself down and wrapped it around her. She lifted a hand towel and wrapped it round her head - now she needed orange juice.

  Sam was on the phone as she entered the kitchen. He looked at h
er, and at once, she could tell there was trouble. He held the handset towards her.

  ‘It’s your brother Steve,’ he said, with the slightest of grimaces.

  Serious faced, she took the phone. ‘Steve, what’s up?’ She was quiet for a minute taking in what her brother had to say. Then she cut in on him. ‘Hold on a moment.’

  She looked across at Sam. ‘Can you turn the computer on please? I need to book a flight right away. Pop’s in the hospital, he’s in a bad way. Attacked at the church, the cross has been stolen.’ She turned her attention back to Steve while Sam hurried towards the computer.

  CHAPTER 6 - SUNDAY 11th AUGUST

  Helen slumped into the sofa. ‘Well, it looks like he’s going to get through this okay, Mom.’

  Joan Johnson nodded and Helen slid across the sofa to reach a comforting arm round her mother’s shoulder.

  Steve and Chris, Helen’s older brothers, crossed from the kitchen into the open plan living area. They brought cold drinks with them, handed them out to strained smiles of thanks and then sat in armchairs. Her two sisters had decided to stay on at the hospital a bit longer, familiar faces on hand should he wake, allowing Joan the chance to get home for some rest. She had been at the hospital for the best part of 24 hours.

  ‘Okay, Chris and I’ve talked it through,’ said Steve, glancing towards Chris, who nodded acknowledgement. ‘Helen, we don’t understand why our parents were hiding this stuff for you. We don’t understand why it was being kept here if it’s so valuable. But we’re not stupid. We’ve seen the news reports; know what’s been going on over there in Scotland. If it’s anything to do with what happened at your church, you should never have brought the trouble back here.’

  ‘We all love you, but this is too much,’ said Chris.

  ‘It’s got to stop right now. What were you thinking of?’ said Steve.

  Tired as she was, Joan sought to exert her influence; the home was her territory. ‘Okay boys, just cool it. Your father and I knew exactly what we were taking on. It’s not Helen’s fault, it was your father’s idea to bring her things back here to store. And we’d do the same again to help her. We’d do the same for any of you.’