by Peter James
The waiter obeyed.
Wenceslas stood and placed his hands on the man’s head. ‘My child, are you ready to receive the Lord here? Are you ready for Jesus?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Do you not feel His spirit? Do you feel His power and warmth entering your body? Your heart and your innermost soul?’
‘I do, I do, I do.’
‘Praise the Lord!’
Wenceslas gave his head a firm, but gentle push. The waiter crumpled to the floor and lay still.
The pastor knelt beside him. ‘Oh Lord, bless this man! Forgive him his sins! Fill him with your spirit! With your boundless generosity help him to be a great waiter. A man who will one day wait on your right hand at your table in Heaven!’
Slowly the waiter came out of his trance and looked around, dazed.
‘Melvin, be thankful you are now not only one of God’s children, you are also one of my sons!’ Wenceslas said.
The young man climbed, dizzily, to his feet and looked at the pastor.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Pastor.’ He made his way, unsteadily, towards the door. ‘Please – please telephone – the room-service number – when you would like your trolley removed.’
‘The Lord will let you know, my son. Just remember to donate on the Wesley Wenceslas Ministries website, so you can be truly blessed tonight. Whatever you can afford.’
The waiter lowered his head, looking overwhelmed. ‘Yes, yes, I will.’ Then slipped out of the door.
Pope shifted the food and drinks off the trolley onto the coffee table, and poured out two glasses of water. ‘Got to admire you, boss. Most people give the room-service guys a tip. You’ve got him paying you.’
‘Paying his respects to our Lord,’ Wenceslas corrected.
Pope sat back down opposite him. ‘Yep, right. And in turn our Lord passes the cash to you. Showing His bountiful mercy or whatever?’
Ignoring him, Wenceslas said, ‘So, you said you have an update?’
‘I do. Seems like we have a rival for our affections – none other than my namesake, the Pope himself.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve had a report in from the bugging of Hunter’s home. A man called Giuseppe Silvestri, if I’m pronouncing it right, Special Vatican Emissary, appears to be negotiating with Hunter for two items in his possession, the Holy Grail and a tooth from Jesus Christ. Offering him three million euros.’
‘So, go offer him more.’
‘It sounds like he’s not motivated by money.’
‘Everyone has a price.’ Wenceslas held his water glass and seemed to be staring at it.
‘Waiting for Jesus to come along and turn that into wine?’ his MD jibed.
‘Smilealot, I despair of you. Shit, where’s that champagne? I need a proper drink.’ He squirted ketchup on his steak and across his chips. Nodding at the salad, he added, ‘And why are you eating that rabbit fodder?’
‘Quinoa – didn’t God tell you about it? The new superfood.’
‘Didn’t He tell you about the fatted calf? Which I’m eating now. The return of the Prodigal Son. My problem is the Prodigal Son never left, and now he sits eating rabbit food and judging me.’
‘Did they have French fries at the Last Supper?’
Wenceslas gave him a sideways look. ‘No, they had them at the Penultimate Supper – before the deep-fat fryer blew a fuse and screwed up the menu.’
‘So, no Judas and chips?’
‘I tell you, Smilealot. One day you will be struck dead. Now get real. Ross Hunter.’
‘A man we do want struck dead, right?’
There was a long silence. Wenceslas looked at him. ‘If we need to. If it gets us the items.’
‘Tut tut. The sixth commandment?’
‘The Great Imposter, Smilealot. Do I need to remind you? What Ross Hunter is doing is all about heralding in the Great Imposter. He’s going to make claims about the Second Coming. He’ll find the Great Imposter and give him the oxygen of publicity in all the world’s press and media, legitimizing him. You know what happens when oxygen meets flames? They burn more fiercely. Hunter must be stopped. Do you understand what I am telling you? Ross Hunter has this fantasy of revealing to the world the Second Coming. But this deluded man, in reality, is giving oxygen to the Antichrist. The most dangerous being in the world. A total imposter. You hear what I am saying? An imposter.’
‘Takes one to know one,’ Pope retorted.
Wenceslas glared at him. ‘What is your problem tonight?’
Pope smiled back, disarmingly. ‘You and I both know the real reason you want Ross Hunter stopped – gotten rid of. I’ve said it before. Quite apart from him writing that stinking piece about you, you are worried this Second Coming could be real. That it might not be the Great Imposter at all, but Jesus Christ come back. And just as last time He was here, when Christ had a go at all the moneylenders in the temple, this time He might just have a go at all the phoney charismatic evangelical preachers who’ve been cashing in on the God business for so long. And you know fine well you are going to be near the top of that list, Pastor.’
‘And that’s amusing you? If I go down, you go down. Everything we have goes down the Swanee.’
Pope looked at him with a sudden, dark chill in his eyes. ‘It’s not amusing me, Pastor. I’m totally with you – and ahead of you. I think the only certain way to stop Hunter is to nix him.’ He drew a finger, theatrically, across his throat. ‘And quickly.’
Wenceslas looked back at him, equally seriously. ‘You have someone in mind?’
‘I do. Someone I’ve been recommended highly. Very discreet, lives in Monte Carlo. I’ve already briefed him, paid the money into his Swiss bank account and he’s on the case.’
‘No possible connection back to us?’
Pope looked him in the eye. ‘Nope. This guy’s the top.’
‘He’s expensive?’
Pope smiled. ‘Reassuringly so.’
‘An eye for an eye?’
‘I think a tooth for a tooth might be more appropriate, in the circumstances.’
The bell rang again.
Pope went over to the door and opened it.
Another room-service waiter entered. He held a tray containing an ice bucket with the neck of the bottle protruding from it, two champagne flutes and a white napkin folded over his arm. This waiter was older and smarmier than the one the pastor had just saved, with slicked-down hair and an Eastern European accent.
‘Krug, gentlemen? I apologize for the delay. May I open and pour?’ He bowed obsequiously.
‘Thank you,’ Pope said, indicating the coffee table.
The man set the bucket down on it. Then, with a flourish, he covered the bottle with his napkin and raised it from the bucket. Water dripped from the base. He pointed it in Wenceslas’s direction.
There was a muted pop.
Wesley Wenceslas jerked back in the sofa.
For a horrified instant, Lancelot Pope thought the pastor had been struck in the face by the cork. Then he froze, staring in numb disbelief at the small round hole in the centre of his forehead. At the trickle of blood running down from it.
‘Jeeee—’ Pope screamed.
The napkin pointed at him.
There was a second pop.
107
Friday, 17 March
Ross had a restless night, with constant nightmares. When the clock radio came on at 6.30 a.m., with the news headlines, he instantly pressed the snooze button, feeling in need of more sleep, not ready for the day ahead that awaited him.
It seemed only seconds later that the radio was on again. He pressed the snooze button once more. Then the radio came on again. It was now 6.50 a.m.
He sat up, drank some water and picked up his phone. There was a text from Sally, which had been sent just before 11 p.m.
Hope you are having a good evening. Sleep tight. XX
Nothing from Imogen.
Hadn’t he sent Imogen a text before going to
sleep? He checked.
Sleep tight, and Caligula. Monty sez hi. X
No reply.
Great.
Maybe she’d gone to bed early.
Or maybe she was still pissed off at him for the text he’d sent by mistake.
Get over it, Imo. I have lunch with people all the time, it’s part of my job; to meet people and probe. Doesn’t mean I’m shagging them.
Even if I happen to fancy them. We’re not all like you.
The doorbell rang. Monty barked.
7.00 a.m. He felt a stab of unease.
Grabbing his dressing gown and wrestling it on, he hurried across the landing into the spare room, at the front of the house, and peered out and down at the street. The two painters, Dave and Rob, who had decorated the house for them when they had originally moved in, were standing there. And now he remembered, they’d said they could call in early on their way to a job. He went down, patted the dog trying to calm him, removed the safety chain and opened the door.
As they stepped into the hallway, both decorators looked at the walls in disbelief.
‘Blimey,’ Rob said.
‘Ignorant twats, can’t even spell!’ Dave added, looking around, pointing.
‘Spell?’ Ross said.
ROSS HUNTER, FRIEND OF THE ANTICHRIST, IMOGEN HUNTER, EXPECTENT MOTHER OF THE ANTICHRIST
‘I may be just an ignorant house painter, but I know how to spell. Expectent?’
‘He should know about expectant mothers,’ Rob said. ‘He’s had five kids.’
‘Should be an “a”, last vowel. Not “e”,’ Dave said.
‘Very helpful,’ Ross remarked.
‘You know me, Mr Hunter, from when we did this place before. Helpful is my middle name.’
‘Mine, too,’ added Rob.
‘If I find out who did it, maybe they can come back and correct it,’ Ross said, drily.
He showed them around each of the rooms.
‘I didn’t know newspaper reporters had fan clubs,’ Rob said.
‘Ha ha,’ Ross retorted.
‘It’s a lot of work,’ Dave said. ‘Can’t just paint over that writing, it would take too many coats. We’re going to have to strip the lining paper off. Insurance job?’
‘I bloody hope so.’
‘We’ll work out a price and let you have it later today or tomorrow. If it’s for the insurers, we could give you two quotes. Know what I’m saying?’ He winked.
Ross grinned and thanked them. Having shown them out he pulled on a tracksuit and trainers and took Monty for a run, to try to clear his head and think.
He returned shortly after 8.15 a.m., switched on the television to the Breakfast news and began to mash up a disgusting-smelling roll of raw dog food – a supposedly healthy diet Imogen had recently started buying for Monty.
A battery of flashing lights on the screen caught his eye, and he looked across. He saw the entrance of a large conference-style hotel cordoned off by crime-scene tape, with a cluster of police vehicles haphazardly assembled outside, along with a crowd of reporters and photographers. A ticker ran along the bottom of the screen announcing, Breaking News.
The scene changed to the studio and the neatly dressed presenter, Charlie Stayt, looking solemn. ‘In breaking news, the bodies of two men were discovered earlier this morning in a hotel suite occupied by the popular evangelical preacher, Pastor Wesley Wenceslas. We are going live, now, to the scene at the Hinckley Point Hotel, near Leicester, where police are about to make a statement.’
A stocky, confident-looking man in his forties, with gelled black hair and wearing a dark suit and tie, was standing in front of the cordon, with the hotel behind him. His tie flapped in a strong wind, amid a steady stream of flashlights.
A banner across the screen read, Detective Inspector Paul Garradin, Leicestershire Police.
‘I can confirm that two men have been found dead, from suspected gunshot wounds, in a suite at this hotel,’ he said. ‘We are treating these deaths as a double murder. We will hold a full press briefing later today after the victims’ identities have been confirmed. I have no further information at this point. Thank you.’
There was a barrage of shouted questions, which he ignored.
Ross continued to stare at the screen. Pastor Wesley Wenceslas. He remembered door-stepping him outside his London church, when he was working on his piece on evangelists, and one of the pastor’s minders pushed him away so hard he fell over. And he remembered Wenceslas’s attempts to sue the Sunday Times and himself after the huge piece was published.
Pastor Wesley Wenceslas was a total shit, a very clever and charismatic con man. Getting, finally, his just desserts? No doubt it would be all over the news in the coming hours.
But there was something about this report that made Ross feel deeply uncomfortable. He thought back to his conversation with Giuseppe Silvestri last night.
You may believe you have protected these items, but perhaps you do not realize there are people with, shall I say, fewer morals than His Holiness. They are determined to get their hands on them at all cost – even if that cost is your life, Mr Hunter. You have many enemies out there, we will try to protect you until you have passed them to us. Of course . . . when you have done that, you and your family will be safe.
As he had wondered earlier, was Pastor Wesley Wenceslas one of these enemies?
Was that who the Italian was referring to?
Wild speculation, he knew, but was there some link between these shootings and himself? A Silvestri connection?
Monty whined at him.
‘Sorry, boy!’ He finished preparing the food, trying to avoid breathing too much of the stink, then put the bowl on the floor.
Instead of falling on it ravenously, the dog walked across the floor and curled up in his basket.
‘Hey, what’s up? I thought you were hungry? What is it? Are you missing your mum?’
Ross went to the front door, scooped up the papers which had just arrived, then poured himself some cereal. He chopped up an apple, added some blueberries, grapes and Greek yoghurt, mixed them together and sat down.
He stared at the television. Waiting for another development on the murders. But there was nothing further. A mention of an EU protest against US policy on climate change. An MP tabling a no-confidence motion against the Speaker of the House of Commons. More issues on the National Health Service, and the defiant Health Secretary heatedly defending his latest actions.
Then he felt a vibration on his left wrist from his Apple Watch.
He looked at it and saw an email from Zack Boxx that had come in during the night.
Hi Ross, I told you I’d charge you £2k for the search. And a bonus of £1k for each of the results? Well I’ve got good news – or maybe it’s bad news – for you. You owe me £5k!
Aware he was unlikely to be up at this hour, Ross emailed him back anyway, excitedly.
What do you have?????
He waited several minutes, but there was no response. Impatiently, he picked up his burner phone, found the geek’s number and dialled it.
After four rings, it went to voicemail.
‘Hi, this is Zack Boxx. If you want to get any sense out of me, call me after 4 p.m. Sleep tight! And if you’re really desperate, leave a message.’
He left a brief message.
Then sat still, wondering. Eating his cereal with no appetite. What did Boxx have?
On the 9 a.m. news, the BBC ran the same story about the double murder he’d seen at 8.30 a.m.
He decided to take a look on Twitter and rapidly found a lot more information, put out by what sounded like a member of the hotel staff, in a tweet that had already gone viral. A room-service waiter taking the pastor’s pre-ordered breakfast found the two men both dead, each with a single gunshot wound to the head.
He shivered.
His iPhone rang. The display showed it was Imogen.
‘Hi,’ he answered.
‘Have you seen the news?’ she sai
d.
‘About Pastor Wesley Wenceslas?’
‘Yes.’ Her tone was grim. ‘A member of his staff has already put up a Facebook memorial page – and it’s getting hundreds of posts.’
‘What does that crook’s death have to do with anything?’
‘You don’t get it, do you, Ross? Two more murders. I’m really worried we’ll be next.’
‘But, Imogen, they’ve got nothing to do with me, those guys – other than I tried to interview them, years ago.’
‘Ross, come on, get real! This isn’t coincidence. There are fanatics out there; religion’s a bloody minefield. Come and stay here until we are safe.’
‘Imogen, I don’t think I’m in real danger. I’ve got what they’re after, and all the time I have it I’m safe. And you are a lot safer if we keep apart – and I’m not putting Monty in kennels just because of Ben’s allergies. Let’s talk later in the day, OK?’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your love nest.’
‘Hey – what do you mean?’
There was no response. She had hung up.
He dialled her number. It went straight to voicemail. ‘Imogen, I’m here alone. OK?’
After quickly showering, shaving and dressing, he checked his phone. Imogen had still not called him back. He tried her number again. And again, got her voicemail.
He hung up, angry at her. Angry at himself.
At his desk, he continued to work on his story of the events to date.
At 4 p.m., on the dot, he rang Zack Boxx, and got his sleepy voice.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Ross.’
‘Oh right, yeah.’
‘You said you have a result for me.’
‘I do. Yep.’
There was a long silence. Ross wondered if he had gone back to sleep.
‘You there, Zack?’
‘I’m here. You’d better come over, I think it would be easier to show you.’
‘Now?’
‘Now’s good, I suppose,’ he said, sounding reluctant.
Then Ross remembered his Audi was in the underground car park beneath the Waterfront Hotel. ‘I’ll be with you in an hour.’
‘I’ll still be here, unfortunately. Trapped on earth.’
