by Peter James
Reversing into one, he waited for the beepers to go off, then drove a couple of feet forward – enough, he estimated, to be able to reach the boot. He switched off, climbed out, walked to the rear of the car and lifted his heavy, folded Brompton bicycle out. He slammed the lid shut and locked the car, lugged the bike out into an open space then swung it open, locking the frame, the front wheels and the saddle into place, and flipped down the left pedal. He pulled on his yellow cycling jacket, wrap-around sports glasses and helmet, jammed his phone into the cradle in front of the handlebars and whizzed down the circular ramp, free.
Free from anyone following him!
He pedalled out into the street, mindful of the traffic. It had been a few months since he had last ridden in London, but with the growing network of bicycle lanes and general awareness of drivers – apart from a few idiots – he always found it enjoyable. Particularly today with a clear blue sky above him.
And with a sense, of glee, at what he might have left behind him.
He rode along the Albert Embankment, with the Thames and the glorious Houses of Parliament on the far side. Then, after several modern buildings blocked his view, he started to see the imposing, twin-towered edifice of Lambeth Palace rising up.
Glancing at his watch, he saw he had less than an hour to go till his meeting. He pedalled on, then spotted a cafe on the far side of the road. Dismounting, he waited for a gap in the traffic, then hurriedly pushed his bike across, folded it back up and carried it inside. He chose a seat that gave him a view of the front door and the street.
The printed menu on the wall offered an all-day breakfast, followed by a range of healthy options. Had he been here with Imogen he would have gone for the vegan, or the vegetarian, at least. But on his own, and figuring he needed an intake of carbs, he ordered ham, egg and chips.
As he waited for his order, keeping an eye on the street and passing traffic, he checked his phone but there was nothing new. His hands were shaking, he realized. He was feeling the pressure of the past few days and wondering what was going to happen next. What would be the end game? Could things get worse? Perhaps Imogen had a point. But he could not quit now.
He was intensely curious to find out why the Archbishop was so interested to meet him, personally, and he knew that, whatever the purpose, it would add gravitas to his eventual story. Equally importantly, with the Head of the Church of England on board it must surely give him a little more protection. Could he trust the Church of England more than, perhaps, the Vatican?
Then just as his food arrived, his phone rang, the display showing the number withheld.
‘Hello?’ he answered, cagily.
A smooth, overtly friendly voice, with a faint Italian accent asked, ‘Am I speaking to Mr Ross Hunter?’
‘Who is calling?’
‘My name is Giuseppe Silvestri. Your wife gave me your number. Is this a convenient time to speak?’
The man from the Vatican. He recognized the name instantly.
‘Actually, I’m busy at the moment.’
‘It is a matter of extreme importance, Mr Hunter. May I contact you a little later, perhaps?’
‘Sometime this evening.’
‘I cannot stress how important it is.’
He found the man’s voice irritating. Jamming the phone to his ear with his shoulder, he picked up a tube of mustard and squeezed some out onto his plate. ‘Then, Mr Silverstone, I’m sure if it is so important you will call me back.’
He ended the call.
86
Wednesday, 15 March
Three-quarters of an hour later a polite, neatly dressed man ushered Ross in to a beautiful book-lined office with a fine antique carpet. Oil paintings hung on the walls and a window gave a view across the Thames to the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.
A fit, energetic-looking man of sixty, whose face was very familiar from many appearances in the media, stood up from behind a grand desk. His grey hair was thinning and he wore round, wireframed spectacles, a purple shirt with a white dog collar beneath a grey suit jacket, and a large gold cross on a heavy chain.
He came round his desk, outstretched hand sporting a gold episcopal ring with a purple stone and a welcoming smile on his face. His voice was strong, English public school. ‘Mr Hunter! This is extremely good of you to see me!’
‘On the contrary, sir, I feel very honoured to be invited here.’
And he genuinely did. It was a strange, almost overwhelming sensation to be here in this office, meeting the Most Reverend, Right Honourable Tristram Tenby, the most powerful church leader in the United Kingdom, and he was feeling instantly charmed by the man’s whole demeanour.
But mindful of maintaining his guard.
The Archbishop ushered him to a comfortable chair facing the window, at a small, low meeting table, and Ross wondered if he had deliberately been placed so he could see the magnificent view.
Moments later a male assistant came in with a silver tray on which was a pot of tea, china cups and a plate of biscuits.
‘Tea all right for you or would you prefer coffee?’ the Archbishop asked.
‘Tea is perfect.’
A couple of minutes later when they were settled and the assistant had left and closed the door, Tenby gave him a warm smile. ‘I imagine you know the reason I wanted to have a chat with you, Mr Hunter? Or may I call you Ross?’
‘Ross is fine, sir – Archbishop.’
‘Tristram is good, too,’ he replied, giving him an almost conspiratorial wink.
‘Thank you. Well – I do have an inkling as to why I might be here.’
‘I believe you and the Bishop of Monmouth are friends?’
‘Very old friends, sir – Tristram – yes. Benedict and I go back quite a while, to when he was a vicar in Brighton. I’m very fond of him.’
‘Well, I am too – I have a strong belief in his abilities. So, he told me about your recent meeting, because he was left both intrigued and deeply concerned by what you told him.’
‘In what way concerned?’
‘Well, I suppose firstly because of how this information came to you, from a gentleman, Dr Harry Cook, who had obtained some of it through consulting a spiritualist medium.’ The Archbishop picked up his cup and saucer and placed them on his lap. ‘I’m sure you know what the Bible says about mediums, and how we in the clergy view them?’
Testing him, Ross replied, ‘Is that, possibly, because they challenge your lines through to the Other Side? Could it be that the Church feels it has a monopoly on communicating with the spiritual world, and uses all the dire warnings in the Bible to try to dismiss them?’
Tenby smiled. ‘I won’t argue on that or we would be here for days. Let’s park it for now and get into the deeper questions regarding proof of God. I’m sure you are familiar with the old saying that science asks how, religion why?’
Ross nodded.
‘Scientific tests are all about trying to prove, faith tests are about trying to find meaning. In our modern world, I see the duty of the Church to try to bring the two together. They are very different discourses. Meaning and Values. The recent controversies we’ve seen in the US and Europe show that a sea change is wanted by people, a change from the previous model we have lived by, to the values they feel we should be embracing. Relationships, freedom, equality. Human community. The world order that we have known for a long time is breaking down, and a new order is coming to the fore. Will it be better or worse?’
Ross stared at him. ‘Does anyone know at this moment?’
‘I would say the jury is out. If I’m correct, Dr Cook claimed to have three sets of compass coordinates that would provide proof of God. But Benedict told you that for such proof, he’d be looking for evidential quality beyond that.’
‘He did, yes. But we didn’t get into what those sets of compass coordinates might lead to.’
‘Of course.’ The Archbishop paused to sip his tea, and then fell silent for a brief while. ‘You know, throughout time, ma
ny of the monotheistic religions have believed in a saviour coming to the world. Muslims believe that Jesus Christ will return, but as a prophet, not the Prophet – that prophet will always be Mohammed for them. The Jewish faith believes in the Messiah coming. We Christians believe in the Second Coming of Christ, but we have always been wary of imposters masquerading as Him. And when the message that God is concerned about the state of the world comes through a spiritualist medium, that does ring alarm bells I’m afraid, Ross.’
Tenby put his cup and saucer back on the table. ‘That’s not to dismiss out-of-hand what Dr Cook has told you. It could be genuine, a salutary reminder of the importance of God during a time when the world is changing so much. Perhaps a changing order to make this world more respectful of human beings and of communities. Tell me what you feel, in your heart, Ross? I’ve read many of your articles. You are an extremely intelligent and perceptive man, tell me what you really feel.’
‘I think Dr Cook was a decent man, perhaps a little too obsessive to be taken seriously, and the death of his wife might have unhinged him slightly. But since taking up the baton he passed on to me, frankly, I’m scared.’
‘Scared for what reason?’
‘To be honest, I was sceptical at first – and ready to dismiss him as a bit of a loony. But subsequent events have changed my mind. Two people I’ve met, one being Dr Cook and the other his solicitor, have died. I’ve been attacked in Glastonbury, chased and shot at in Egypt by people in a helicopter. My house has been trashed and religious slogans written all over the walls, and my wife has been threatened.’
Tenby looked genuinely shocked. ‘Do you want to tell me the details?’
Ross felt comfortable enough with the man to tell him the entire story, from his first call from Cook to his visits to Egypt and to Chalice Well. And even why he’d travelled the last leg of his journey here by bicycle.
When he had finished, the Archbishop, apologetically, stood up, went over to his desk, lifted his phone and asked his secretary to warn the next scheduled meeting that he might be delayed. Then he sat back down.
‘Ross, what has always struck me in articles of yours that I’ve read is your apparent humanity. All religions, ultimately, are about faith in the same God. At their very core, what they are about is living well. Equality. Freedom. The Common Good. It takes some longer than others to get to that point, and I’d be the first to admit that Christianity has a very dark past. Wind the clock back a thousand years to the atrocities committed during the Crusades; the torturing or burning at the stake of heretics for centuries after. We’ve evolved since then into something very different – for the most part – into a tolerant and positive social structure. A kingdom of justice and truth. We give hope to the world. It’s a glorious and positive image. At the end of the day, what we try to offer to people is meaning. Religion is about meaning. As I said earlier, science may ask how, but what we search for is the answer to why.’
‘Have you found that answer yourself, Tristram?’
‘No, I haven’t. I have my faith and I keep looking.’
‘So, does it bother you if I keep looking, too?’
The Archbishop looked deeply serious. ‘I would be untruthful if I said I was not worried for your safety, Ross. Many people before you have searched for our Lord’s DNA. Maybe you truly have found it. But I am concerned that some of the source has been through a medium – regardless of your feelings on that subject. There are many people, with immense power and resources, who would want to get their hands on it. And equally these people would have vested interests in not wanting you to go public.’
‘I’m not a stranger to danger. I’ve had many threats during my career.’
‘This is on a different scale to anything you’ve delved into before. You are tackling the most fundamental question for humankind. And there are a lot of people in the world who would use religious belief to legitimize violence – people who are not only prepared to die for their beliefs, but to kill to protect them.’ He paused and his expression softened into warmth.
‘I sense in you, Ross, a decent man in a dark, troubled world, searching for the elusive light. Tell me if you find it. Until then, I’ll be praying for you. Please know I’m here anytime you need me – or any of us. May God be with you. Shall we say a prayer together now?’ He placed his hands together and closed his eyes.
Ross, despite feeling awkward, did the same, not wishing to offend him.
87
Wednesday, 15 March
As he drove back home in the stop-go-stop rush-hour traffic, Ross spent the entire journey thinking about his meeting with the Archbishop. Tenby had given him a lot of time and wisdom, but how seriously, he wondered, had the Archbishop actually taken him?
Had he been, very subtly and very intellectually, swept aside? Was Tenby’s caveat about the information having come through a medium just a smart bit of pro-Church of England PR, to make him doubt his sources?
His phone rang. He glanced at the hands-free display on the dash. It was an 0121 number. The Birmingham prefix.
‘Ross Hunter,’ he answered.
He heard a female voice, with a faint Brummy accent, that he recognized. It was Anholt-Sperry’s elderly receptionist, who had become considerably more friendly in the immediate aftermath of the solicitor’s death. He’d given her his personal number, and they’d exchanged a couple of texts.
‘Mr Hunter, it’s Irene Smither.’
‘Hello, Irene,’ he said, gently. ‘How are you?’
‘Well, I’m bearing up. We are all in shock here, as you can imagine.’
‘I can indeed.’
‘I thought you would appreciate an update.’
‘Yes, thank you, what have you heard?’
‘I’ve just had a visit from Detective Chief Inspector Starr. He’s had the provisional result from Mr Anholt-Sperry’s postmortem – it appears his pacemaker stopped working.’
‘Pacemaker? I didn’t realize he had a pacemaker.’
Then he recalled Anholt-Sperry mentioning his ‘ticker’ problem.
‘Yes, he has had one for several years; in fact this is his second, it was fitted eighteen months ago. It’s being sent off for examination to see if –’ Her voice broke, and he heard her sniffing, as if regaining her composure. Then she continued. ‘To see if it was faulty in some way.’
Ross felt strangely cold as he remembered something. The motorcyclist who had barged past him in the front doorway of the solicitor’s. The strange, pulling sensation he had felt at that moment. His St Christopher medallion feeling as if it was tugging against the front of his shirt.
He remembered a recent article he had read on the internet, about methods of killing that could be undetected. Some modern types of pacemakers could be hacked and their electrical pulses altered or halted.
Powerful magnets would affect them also.
Had the motorcyclist, possibly Robert Anholt-Sperry’s previous mystery client, been carrying such a magnet?
He heard the woman’s voice distantly, faintly, like an echo. ‘Hello? Hello? Mr Hunter, are you still there?’
‘Yes – yes, sorry, bad reception – I’m driving.’
‘Oh, perhaps I should call you later.’
‘It’s OK, I’m on hands-free. Did the detective say anything else?’
‘Yes, he said they have still not been able to trace the client who came in before you, Mr Dunn – Terence Dunn.’
‘Does he think there might be a connection with Mr Anholt-Sperry’s death?’
‘He said they are not ruling anything out at this stage. I – it – it’s just terrible.’
‘Robert was a nice man,’ he said, lamely.
‘I’ll let you know if I hear any more.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
As he ended the call his phone rang again. It was Imogen.
‘Where are you, Ross?’
He glanced at the car clock. 6 p.m. ‘Just at the junction of the M25 and the M23. The traffic�
�s horrible.’
‘How long will you be?’
‘Forty minutes to an hour.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘I’ve got Gordon, the electrician, coming tomorrow morning to sort out the CCTV cameras.’
‘That’s my Ross,’ she said bitterly. ‘Always do everything after the horse has bolted.’
‘Hey, Imo – that’s not—’
She had hung up.
88
Wednesday, 15 March
Seated at the table in the main boardroom of Gethsemane Park, alone with Lancelot Pope, Pastor Wesley Wenceslas stared out into the falling darkness. He was not happy.
His wife, Marina, buzzed him on the intercom. ‘Are you coming to say goodnight to the children and read to them, darling?’
‘No, my sweetheart, I have a little problem I need to deal with. Say goodnight for me.’
‘What time would you like supper?’
‘I don’t know, I’ll call you, OK, my sweet?’
‘Try not to be too late.’
As Wenceslas ended the call, Pope grinned at him. ‘Domestic bliss, eh?’
Ignoring the comment, Wenceslas launched into him. ‘Smilealot, Ross Hunter did not spend two and a half hours this afternoon sitting in his car in a multistorey car park in the Elephant and Castle with his thumb up his jacksie. So where did he go?’
‘I don’t know. He gave us the slip. But we’re on him again now.’ Pope nodded at the computer screen. The blue dot was moving steadily south along the M23 towards Brighton, currently passing the turn-off for Gatwick Airport.
‘I can see that.’ Wenceslas pointed two fingers at his own eyes. ‘I’ve got these things in my head that the Lord gave me – at the same time as he was filling your head with sawdust. What I can’t see is what Hunter did during those two and a half hours.’
