Eden Relics (A Zac Woods novel #1): Author royalties for Cancer Research

by N Williams

  At least the beach was long, wide and flat enough to land a 747 on with room to spare. The tide was out, leaving the wet and hard stuff he needed clearly defined.

  Zac gently adjusted the pitch and yaw to keep the aircraft at the optimum glide path and to maximise the range of the craft as it sank towards the spars of the new river bridge.

  Built to resemble a sail, the single tall suspension spar jutted out at an angle to one side of the bridge. Metal cables at regular intervals along the shallow-arched footway were anchored to the spar at equal intervals along its length.

  Fifty feet from the bridge, Zac rolled the aircraft quickly to the left. The right main wheel of the fixed undercarriage kissed the top supporting strut, flicking the aircraft further over to the left. Zac quickly corrected and flicked the stick to level the aircraft as it cleared the entrance to the marina. He was now too low to see the beach.

  The little Ikarus dropped into the mouth of the river towards the water. A glimpse of beach to his right was all he had. He rolled the plane over, only feet between wing tip and water.

  Just another thirty metres to clear the wet stuff; the sand was now so close.

  Walkers scattered out of the path of the small silent plane as it dropped down the last few feet to land.

  Zac intended to leave the flare out late; he knew it would be close. Ten bright and shiny metres of water remained in his path, and the little aircraft was heading straight for a wet landing. If he pulled back too early he’d lose airspeed and stall. He could tell he wouldn’t clear the last metre of water; he pulled gently back on the control. The nose of the aircraft lifted above the horizon, and the speed dropped below the stall.

  The main wheels of the tricycle undercarriage struck the water and bounced five feet into the air. At least he was now over the sand. He let the nose drop again and the speed stabilise. At a few feet above the ground, he pulled on the stick one final time and held it.

  The rear right-hand wheel of the undercarriage touched down first. The gentle slope of the beach was not an issue, but he kept the nose and left wheel off the ground for as long as possible.

  Slow down! The Ikarus wasn't equipped with the standard rudder-mounted brakes. Instead, a hand-controlled lever system from a BMX bike was all the pilot had to stop the little aircraft. Under normal conditions, it was more than adequate.

  The speed dropped further, and the left main wheel touched down on the slope. Zac pulled hard on the brake, mounted on the control stick, and turned the aircraft into the softer dry sand. The extra resistance of the sand took the remaining momentum out of the undercarriage, and the plane rolled to a stop.

  Zac opened his door and quickly walked away from the aircraft. The handful of children with buckets and spades and their parents with ice creams ran up to take a closer look.

  After several minutes, and satisfied that all was okay, Zac returned to the aircraft and made a quick call to the tower at Swansea airport.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sally drank the dregs of her coffee and wiped the tears from her eyes. This was simply too much to handle. Two of her friends killed in a matter of days. What the hell was going on? The short but good-looking D.I. had brought her, and the cleaners, to the police station separately - obviously wanting to keep them apart for some evidential reasons. Sally had already downed three coffees and a brace of painkillers kindly offered by the woman police constable who had been left in charge of her. ‘So when can I leave?’ pleaded Sally.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the uniform, ‘I’m only here to make sure you’re okay. They don’t tell me anything.’ Her sympathetic smile actually looked genuine.

  ‘Can I make a phone call?’ They hadn’t taken her mobile off her when she came in, so she assumed that was a good sign.

  ‘I’d rather if you left it, just until the D.I. comes back. He’d give me a roasting if I let you make a call when you’re not supposed to. The “top brass” think we’re psychic. They expect us to know what they want.’ There was clearly tension between this officer and her boss.

  Sally had no idea what to expect from the D.I. She’d seen films where innocent people get caught up in murders, and she didn’t want to get involved. Then it struck her that she may already be directly involved. The odd phone call from Bernard, the conversation about the research notes, and Rachel’s death - what the hell was going on? Should she just tell the policeman everything she knew, or should she wait until she had spoken to Zac? If she could just speak to him now, he’d know what to do. Another fifteen minutes passed before the interview room door opened, and the D.I. entered carrying two steaming Styrofoam cups.

  ‘Here.’ He offered one to Sally. ‘Thought you could do with a coffee.’ He saw the policewoman in the corner. ‘Sorry Jade, you’re not in my tea kitty.’

  ‘Don’t bust a gut,’ she mumbled.

  Sally smiled at the woman, who made the universal sign for tosser behind her superior’s back.

  ‘Sorry I’ve kept you waiting,’ he said as he took a sip of his own coffee. ‘Shit, that’s hot.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said the policewoman as she examined her fingernails.

  The Inspector heard the comment but had obviously run out of quick responses. Instead, he leaned on the table and stared into Sally’s eyes as if searching for the answers he knew were concealed inside. ‘I’ve been talking to the cleaners. They said they had no idea why the deceased would be at the museum late at night.’

  ‘It wasn’t unusual,’ replied Sally. ‘It often happens when we have a new show coming up.’

  ‘And do you? - Have a new show, that is?’

  ‘No. Not for a month or so.’

  ‘Sooo?’

  ‘Well, I can’t tell you why she was there. I was off yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve checked the telephone records for the day. It seems that Mr Bernard called you yesterday afternoon. Is that right?’

  ‘I can’t honestly remember. I often get calls from work when I’m off.’

  ‘Look now, Sally...may I call you Sally?’

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘Okay, Sally. I truly don’t know what’s going on here. Three people who worked in the museum have died in the last few days. What have you got in there...the curse of Tutankhamen?’

  ‘Inspector, I really don’t know what to say. Last week I was just an assistant researcher. Today, my world has fallen apart. I don’t even know if I’ll still have a job after all this is sorted. I liked Olive. I liked her a lot. She was a sweet girl. As for Bernard, well he could be a bit of a tosser.’

  ‘So you didn’t like Mr Bernard?’ he pushed.

  ‘Can’t say I had much respect for him.’

  Sally stopped herself, what was she saying? She had seen the movies, people got locked up on suspicion of murder for saying they didn’t like the victim. Where the hell was Jessica Fletcher when you needed her?

  ‘I understand he took over from Ms Powell after her death?’

  ‘That’s correct. He was next in line, and I think he felt a little hard done by that he didn’t get the job last time around. Rachel was better qualified, you see.’

  ‘Do you think Bernard would have felt betrayed by Ms Powell...enough to...kill her in some jealous rage?’ The officer was fishing. But he was surely dangling his rod in the wrong pond with this line of enquiry. Sally blew patterns into her coffee as she waited for it to cool. The increasingly grim expression of the D.I. clearly demanded some sort of answer.

  ‘Look. None of us particularly liked Bernard, but I’m also sure that no one would put him down as a murderer. And who killed him if he killed Rachel for her job? It just doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘That’s for me to work out. Perhaps this Olive found out about it and confronted him and he strangled her for her troubles.’

  ‘Strangled?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. Not a pleasant way to go.’

  Sally could see that the policeman wasn’t sorry. She could tell by his expression that he had wanted to drop
that on her, to see how she’d react. ‘But how did Bernard die?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. We think he had a massive heart attack. He was a fat bloke after all. Perhaps the guilt of being responsible for two murders pushed him over the edge and...wham!’

  The policewoman snorted loudly. ‘Being taped to a chair probably helped him on his way.’

  Sally thought the eyes of the D.I. were going to turn into laser beams as he locked on to the young officer. Shit! Shit! Shit! Sally was now convinced that Bernard and Olive were the latest victims of the killer or killers who had murdered Rachel also. Sally knew she needed to throw the policeman off track. She needed time to think and to speak to Zac.

  ‘So if they killed them both they must have been after something in the museum...are all the exhibits accounted for?’

  The D.I. switched off his Vulcan Death Glance and shook his head. ‘Nothing taken, as far as we can tell. Doesn’t look like anyone from outside was involved. No sign of a break-in. So who do you think might have a grudge against Bernard?’

  This was now getting silly. Sally knew without doubt that a disgruntled member of staff, or a disappointed member of the Friends Committee had not killed Bernard. It was a good thing this policeman didn’t know she was connected to the other murders in Powys. As soon as he found that out she was sure he’d want to speak to her again. She’d just have to ride the questions out for the time being until she could get hold of Zac. She felt so frustrated.

  ‘How long am I going to be here?’

  ‘I’ll get an officer to take your statement. You’ll probably be an hour or so whilst we complete our enquiries,’ said D.I. Boyce.

  A perfectly timed knock on the interview door drew all eyes to a smiling man standing in the doorway. Boyce turned back to Sally. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Mann. He’ll want to take down your particulars, and your statement.’

  I bet he will, she thought. Things were rapidly taking a turn for the worse. ‘Can I make a phone call, please?’

  ‘Why - who do you want to call?’

  ‘A friend…to let him know where I am. He’s a retired policeman, an ex-inspector. I think I need his help.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Zac picked up a Styrofoam cup, paid for an Evian, and poured an espresso before walking over to the two men sitting near the window. The airport cafe was small, clean, and functional, serving the pilots and occasional groups of charity skydivers. A thin hawk-eyed man wearing oily coveralls stood over Rob Davies as he flipped the pages of the inspection report. Zac poured the water into the plastic cup and dropped in a couple of tablets. ‘So what’s the news?’

  Rob handed Zac the clipboard. ‘Looks like the fuel system was compromised.’

  The thin man nodded. ‘Fuel analysis shows a high percentage of heavy oil.’

  ‘Sorry, Zac, this is Pete Handley, the engineer. He’s been doing a complete nuts-and-bolts check of the plane.’ Handley looked puzzled. ‘I have no idea how the oil entered the fuel. The system is sound, no breaks or any way that it could get in unless it was added somehow?’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Zac. ‘I made sure there was fuel in the thing before the flight and had it refuelled before my return.’

  Rob raised his eyebrows. ‘Could be that the fuel in Shobdon was bad.’

  Zac nodded his head. He wasn’t entirely sure that he did agree. This whole business with Rachel was beginning to look as if it was a lot more sinister than he had first imagined. ‘Can you get the authorities to check the supply at Shobdon? Don’t want dirty fuel getting into other fuel tanks.’

  ‘That’ll be done as a matter of course,’ agreed Pete.

  Zac sat and rushed through the accident report before excusing himself. This whole thing was getting out of hand. He needed more help and he knew exactly who to call.

  *

  His biceps were exploding; slow curls with a two hundred pound barbell never failed to stretch them to their limits. The small back-street gym was little more than a converted two-car garage but was always full of sweaty bodybuilders. Bill Gates didn’t classify himself as one of the crowd. He wasn’t training to look good. He trained to give himself an advantage. As a police officer, he wanted to have the edge on those he might have to face off. Now he’d retired he trained to stop his two hundred and sixty pound frame from giving in to gravity. His cell phone vibrated in his sweatpants. The heavy bar crashed onto the thick rubber mat. ‘Yeah? Bill Gates here.’

  ‘Can you supply me with four thousand copies of Microsoft Vista please?’

  Gates smiled. He recognised the voice of his old friend. Gates had suffered more than twenty years of ribbing over his name, ever since his billionaire namesake first came to prominence. He let the joke run.

  ‘Sorry, don’t sell anything to anyone unless it’s worth a billion or more.’ Gates could hear Zac laughing on the other end of the line. ‘Zac Woods. How are you, mate?’

  ‘Well, I wish I could say I was okay but the truth is I think someone is trying to kill me, and I thought you could help me stay alive for a little while longer.’

  CHAPTER 25

  Zac made another call. He knew he could trust Handel to get the information from the discs, but there was something about their meeting which just didn’t seem right - apart from the expensive yacht, the Stag, and top of the range computer equipment. Or perhaps it was the allegations that had plagued Handel during his last year of service; the investigation of alleged corruption. Sally’s disc needed to be checked out too. He had taken it with him to see Handel, but he had kept it back, hadn’t even mentioned it. His old dependable instinct was on fire. Handel was like a brother to him - the family he hadn’t known – but something stopped him from handing over the other disc. He felt guilty for not giving him Sally’s disc. If Handel found out he would be right to feel pissed at him. There was no option - he’d have to take it elsewhere. It wouldn’t hurt to get someone else to look at it. Might speed things up and give them the edge they needed. That was it - his excuse. Mariano MacKenzie answered the phone on the second ring.

  ‘Got a little job for you... worth a few bob, if you fancy it?’

  ‘Mr Woods? Not heard from you for a while. How’s retirement?’

  ‘Oh you know, so-so... got to keep my head above the water and all that. Keep busy, that’s the key.’

  ‘Keep your head above water? I’ve heard you’re doing very well. Got yourself a lovely new flat above the marina with a balcony and a view. All I can see from my house is a bloody whopping big Co-op.’ MacKenzie paused for a moment. ‘Don’t suppose you’re working on that Cold Case Squad now are you?’ His tone suddenly brightened. ‘Not working on my parents’ case?’

  Zac really didn’t want to get into this again. MacKenzie had been a darned good informant, but it was pointless engaging him in any meaningful conversation. He just wouldn’t accept anyone else’s opinion if it didn’t coincide with his own. There was nothing much he didn’t know and this served to make him certain of his own intellectual superiority.

  They had met ten years before when MacKenzie’s parents were killed in a car crash. He was thirteen at the time, and the young lad was convinced they had been murdered by MI6 - something to do with his dad's business abroad and Mac's compulsion with internet conspiracy theories. Zac had been called to the scene because there was no apparent reason for the car to leave the road and traces of nitrocellulose were found on the driver’s door handle, something usually associated with a discharged firearm. There had been nothing else to go on. No reason why two unemployed people from the Rhondda would be the target for assassination.

  Yet, as Zac got to know the young lad later, it became clear that he was pushing his nose into things that could well have drawn the attention of the spooks.

  ‘I need someone to look at information on a disc. It’s a few pages from a diary written in Italian. I know I could translate it using the internet, but it’s the content I’m more concerned with.’

  ‘So why have you t
hought of me? I’m not exactly known for my impartiality, now am I?’

  Zac chuckled. ‘No. That’s true. But, I think the content relates to some...conspiracies that you’d be best to help me fathom.’

  ‘Now you’re talking. There’s nothing I don’t know about conspiracies. The world is full of ‘em. Which one are we talking about?’

  ‘That’s what I’m not quite sure about. The bits I’ve been able to translate talk of a mysterious object or objects being taken from a chamber beneath the Sphinx and brought to Britain...’

  MacKenzie interrupted. ‘The Nightingale Project? Nineteen fourteen. After a few years in Canada, I read somewhere that a cargo of valuable ancient scrolls or papyrus was stolen from the Chamber of Records beneath the Sphinx and hidden somewhere in Britain. I think it came to Wales. The famous opera singer who had that castle near Swansea was supposed to be involved. She financed it by all accounts.’

  Zac was amazed. He knew MacKenzie was an authority on all sorts of weird shit, but he never expected such a quick response. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I’ve got my contacts. Nah, to be honest, if you know where to look, you’ll find it. That’s the problem with top secret stuff; it never stays secret. Someone will always talk, eventually. And, it’ll always find its way onto the internet.’

  ‘So is there anything else you can tell me about this secret?’

  ‘I do recall that it’s something which is central to the existence of a certain secret sect. I think the Alliance was connected to it in some way.’

  ‘The Alliance? What’s the hell is that?’

  MacKenzie laughed. ‘You know shit, man. You’ve heard of the Masons? No wait, you’re probably one of them, right? Makes no difference to me ... so, there’s all these secret societies and stuff, been around for centuries some of them like the Knights Templar and shit like that...’