Absolute Proof

by Peter James

  Maybe, he thought, the gods were angry at Mike Delaney’s death.

  Or rather, God?

  His phone pinged with an incoming text. A few minutes later it pinged again. He ignored it. Imogen was always chiding him for looking at texts whilst driving, and a couple of months ago he’d written a piece about fatal road accidents caused by drivers doing just that. A Sussex Police traffic officer had told him about two recent separate fatals he had attended in which the drivers, one a female, the other a male, had veered, inexplicably, across the road into the path of oncoming lorries. It was later that the Collision Investigation experts had discovered texts, from each of the deceased’s phones, had been sent at the corresponding time of impact.

  Finally, shortly after 2.30 p.m., tired and hungry, and very badly in need of coffee, he turned into his empty driveway. He switched off the engine and looked at his messages.

  The first was from Sally.

  Hey you, I’m sorry if I come across a bit stalker-ish. I do really like you, but I totally get you’re a married man, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to compromise you. Been there, done that, still wearing the scars. So, bestest friends? Good luck with the article, tell me when it will be pubbed, and cannot wait to read! XXX

  He smiled, wistfully. Then tapped out a reply.

  Safe home, my new bestest friend. XXX

  Then he looked at the next text. It was from Imogen, and it was long.

  Ross, I’m not sure where you are. I don’t know if you heard but Bloor and Helmsley were killed last night. Their jet went down – it’s all over the news here. I’m staying in America for a few days, going to visit an old girlfriend. I couldn’t tell you when I saw you yesterday, sadly I’ve lost the baby. This is not easy to write, but I’m afraid I’ve also lost you, or rather, we’ve lost each other. I just don’t know who you are any more. You love your work more than you will ever love me. I think it’s better if we separate – I’m sure this won’t be a surprise to you. I’m sorry and I hope this bland text isn’t too hurtful. I did love you for a long time, I really did, and I know you loved me too. X

  As he sat reading it through again, his emotions were in turmoil and he was fighting back tears. He’d lost his baby and his wife. Was it this story that had driven them apart or was it just the final nail in a crumbling relationship? He was convinced she’d been having an affair. Had the baby even been his?

  He texted back.

  Is there someone else?

  A reply came back almost instantly.

  Does it matter?

  Life sure was full of surprises, he reflected, cynically.

  His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He answered it, blinking back tears, and heard a Brummy accent.

  ‘Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s DCI Starr, from Birmingham Major Crime Unit.’

  ‘Yes, hello.’

  ‘Is this a convenient time to speak?’

  Hesitantly, he said, ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘Well, just a couple of things to report, sir. The coroner has released Dr Cook’s body and the funeral is scheduled for this coming Friday. I was wondering if you might be attending?’

  ‘I’ve just, literally, flown in from the US, I’ll have a look at my diary. But I think I’m free.’

  ‘I was wondering, sir, if you do plan to attend, whether I might get a more formal statement from you, while you are up in the area?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll check my diary and get back to you.’

  Starr gave him the best number to contact him on and thanked him.

  Ross climbed out of the car, grabbed his suitcase and laptop bag from the boot, then walked to the house. He was too tired to look around to see if he was being watched. And beyond caring.

  140

  Friday, 24 March

  Ross drove round Spaghetti Junction, finding it hard to believe it was only ten days ago that he had last been here on this same nightmare of a road.

  And somehow it didn’t seem appropriate for a funeral that it should be such a fine, sunny day.

  As if echoing his thoughts, Sally, seated beside him in the Audi, said, ‘I thought the weather was meant to be horrible for funerals. All the ones I’ve been to, it’s been drizzling and windy.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘What time’s your appointment with the detective tomorrow?’

  ‘Eleven thirty.’

  ‘Good,’ she said approvingly.

  ‘I deliberately didn’t make it too early.’

  She cocked her head at him. ‘Now why might that be?’

  ‘Well, it’s a lovely country house hotel. I thought we might want to use the facilities.’

  ‘Maybe!’ She continued looking at him, smiling. Turning her focus back to the navigation app on her phone, she read out directions through a tricky series of junctions. When she was confident they were on the right road she said, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about what you did, throwing the contents of the vial into the fountain. There’s something . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘Something?’ he prompted.

  ‘I can’t explain it, well at the moment, anyway. But I think you did the right thing.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He nodded. ‘I know where the backup is, if I ever change my mind.’

  He reflected for a moment, feeling a deep twinge of sadness that he had not known about Angus’s death until his return from Los Angeles. He would have liked to have attended his funeral – if he would have been permitted.

  ‘Personally, I hope you don’t change your mind. Just my gut feeling that – there’s something very dangerous about it,’ she said.

  ‘Falling into the wrong hands?’

  ‘As it would have done with Kerr Kluge.’

  She put her hand on his arm and gave a gentle squeeze. ‘How are you feeling?’

  He thought before answering. Since getting Imogen’s text he had been through a whole gamut of emotions. It had been a shock. And yet, he couldn’t explain why, but ever since she’d told him she was pregnant he’d harboured doubts that he was the father. He should have felt sad – perhaps even devastated – that she had lost the baby, but he didn’t. All he really felt now – however wrong that might be – was a sense of relief.

  In truth, he was feeling more comfortable than he could remember. Sally looked even more lovely all in black. It felt as if she had always sat in the seat beside him, that she belonged there. He knew he should be feeling guilt about Imogen, but he felt none. Zero. He was feeling strangely liberated, in a way he could not rationalize.

  ‘It’s just great you came with me,’ he said.

  ‘I kind of like travelling with you, Mr Hunter. Not many people can turn going to a funeral into an adventure. I never met him but I feel as if I know Harry Cook quite well.’

  ‘I guess I owe him a lot.’

  ‘And maybe not only you? The whole world?’

  ‘We’ll find out on Sunday.’

  ‘They’re definitely running it then?’

  ‘My editor loves it. She originally asked me to cut the story down to fit a two-page spread, then she said her boss liked it so much he wanted to extend it to three, maybe four pages!’

  Brimming with delight, she said, ‘That’s amazing – and what you deserve!’

  ‘Yep, but I’m not getting too excited, in case a bigger news story comes along. I’ve been there before.’

  ‘Like, what could be bigger?’

  ‘A major air disaster. The president of the US getting assassinated. A member of the Royal Family dying.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘Well, if I’m lucky the story gets bumped for a week. If I’m unlucky, as I told you before, it gets cut to a few column inches. And if I’m really unlucky, it gets spiked.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It’s history.’

  ‘That cannot happen, Ross!’

  ‘Welcome to the wonderful world of journalism.’

  ‘You’re going to cause a global
sensation with this story, I know it. I believe in you.’ She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  141

  Friday, 24 March

  Forty minutes later they arrived at the attractive Norman village church. Just a few miles from where Ross had come a month ago to see Harry Cook – and found him dead.

  There were a few cars outside, and Ross parked behind them. He pulled his black tie from his pocket and, with the help of his courtesy mirror, at the third attempt finally got the knot in the right position.

  It was 11.40 a.m.

  They climbed out of the Audi into the unseasonably warm day. The sun beat down hard as they headed towards the church, Ross feeling awkward in his navy suit. He was always much more comfortable in casual clothes.

  They took the order of service sheets handed to them as they entered, walked a short distance down the aisle, then sat behind the small group of mostly elderly people in the church. A middle-aged couple with two teenage children, a boy and a girl, sat in the front row.

  He looked at the service sheet and saw on the front a photograph of a much, much younger Harry Cook than he had met. He was in his early twenties, if that, in RAF uniform, with a bristling moustache and a very proud smile.

  The service was officiated by a robed vicar with a white Santa Claus beard, who had clearly known Cook well. He described him as a dedicated family man, devastated by the death of his son who was killed in action in Afghanistan, and who had struggled to come to terms with the recent death of his beloved wife, Doreen. He doted on his niece, Angela, and her two children, Alice and Robert. A much-respected university professor, he displayed endless patience in conveying his love and passion for the history of art to his students over many years.

  ‘All of you who knew Harry,’ the vicar said, ‘will have experienced both his sincerity and his humour. Some years ago, he was asked by a newspaper what he had learned about the evolution of human nature as studied through the eyes of an art historian. He told me how he had responded. “Don,” he said to me, “let me tell you the one thing I’ve learned. Buy shares in food and ammunition. People are always going to have to eat, and they’re always going to kill each other.”’

  There was a nervous titter of laughter.

  ‘I told him that as vicar I didn’t have the spare cash for gambling on the stock market, but that I would remember his advice. He was analytical and he was passionate about the things he believed in. Most of all he cared about this world of ours. His passing robs us of a fine man, but now he will be reunited in Heaven with his beloved Doreen and his son.’

  There was a Bible reading from his nephew, and his niece read a poem. Finally, they filed outside into the cloudless sky. Ross and Sally, feeling almost intruders, followed the group across the graveyard, keeping well to the rear.

  It was an idyllic setting, Ross thought. Beyond the walled graveyard were gentle hills, dotted with sheep. They could hear the chorus of bleating.

  The vicar began the Committal: ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life, says the Lord.’

  Suddenly it felt as if the sun had clouded over.

  Ross looked up.

  There were no clouds. Just endless blue sky.

  ‘Those who believe in Me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in Me will never die,’ intoned the vicar.

  The sky was darkening. In the space of a few seconds, its colour went from brilliant cobalt blue to navy. Ross looked up again, frowning.

  ‘I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.’

  It was as if night was falling.

  Several people were now looking upwards, puzzled.

  The sky was growing darker still.

  A flock of starlings flew down, descending on the church roof to roost.

  Ross and Sally looked at each other, puzzled.

  It felt like a total eclipse of the sun was happening.

  Ross had only ever seen one total eclipse, watching in fascination, through protective lenses, as the moon had slid in front of the sun. But he could see the dim disc of the moon now, a long way from the increasingly faint glow that was the sun.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Sally whispered. ‘Is there an eclipse today?’

  The vicar’s voice was faltering, and he kept looking upwards, distractedly. ‘Since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with Him those who have died. So we will be with the Lord for ever. Therefore encourage one another with these words.’

  It was now almost pitch dark.

  ‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to call unto himself the soul of our dear brother Harry here departed, we therefore commit his body –’

  Then, as if a huge switch had been pulled in the sky, a brilliant, iridescent rainbow appeared above them in the stark blackness.

  But something was different about it, Ross thought.

  The vicar fell silent. There was a complete hush. Everyone was staring upwards. At the rainbow.

  It spanned the entire void above them, each end touching a shimmering, far and ghostly horizon.

  And as Ross looked, he remembered the rhyme he had learned at school, for getting all the colours of the rainbow in their correct order – the only possible order, the order in which the colours of every rainbow since time began had appeared. Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain.

  Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet.

  The colours of this rainbow were the wrong way round. They were inverted.

  Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red.

  Mike Delaney’s words in the bar in Los Angeles, came back to him.

  The sun will be darkened, the moon will lose its brightness, the stars will fall from the sky and the powers of heaven will be shaken. And then the Sign of the Son of Man will appear in heaven.

  Was this the sign?

  142

  Friday, 24 March

  Big Tony sat back in his yellow-cushioned window seat, smoking a cigar, drinking whisky and soaking up the sunlight pouring in through the window behind him. He’d been drinking more than usual this week, since arriving back from Los Angeles.

  Big fuck-up Los Angeles.

  Big fuck-up Tony.

  He was feeling a little drunk. Never normally touched the stuff until 6 p.m. Never had – except perhaps that day he was finally released from jail. He went a bit crazy that day. Anyone would after that long in the Big House.

  Outside it felt like the sun had clouded over, but he barely noticed. He was thinking about last Monday, trying to fathom it out.

  Either he was losing the plot or –

  Or?

  The crazy old guy on the sidewalk had moved too fast, faster than any athlete could have sprinted. And he never pushed Ross Hunter, he never got that close to him, he was still yards away when Hunter catapulted sideways.

  Then the old man had been right in front of him. Lit up bright by the headlights.

  No chance to avoid him.

  He could still see the white of the man’s eyes now. His whole face. He showed no fear. He was smiling. Like someone crazy, like someone who wanted to die, was ready to die.

  Sacrificing himself.

  It spooked the hell out of Tony. He had kept going for twenty blocks before he parked up, changed the plates and changed vehicles, into the one waiting. He then drove four hours to Vegas to catch up with the pal who had arranged the vehicles, and played in a poker game with him through the night. He’d lost heavily, too distracted to concentrate.

  Dusk was falling. The room was growing dark. What? He looked at his watch. 1.25 p.m. Had the thing stopped? He shook it, then looked at the clock on his DVD player. 13.25.

  He looked out of the window. Winking lights of a helicopter descending, passing his window level now. It w
as pitch dark. Dark as night. He looked up. ‘What the –?’

  He jumped to his feet, went over to the French windows, opened them and stepped out onto the balcony.

  And could not believe his eyes. How much had he drunk?

  He stared at the rainbow spanning the ink-black sky.

  And something was odd about the rainbow. It took a moment to figure it out – the colours were the wrong way round – back to front. Violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red.

  He continued staring, half in awe, half in dark, undefined terror. What the heck was going on? Was this an alien invasion? The start of the end of the world?

  He picked up his cell phone and went down to the concierge, asking him if he knew what was happening.

  The Frenchman didn’t. He was equally mystified.

  Big Tony took the elevator back up to his apartment. He entered and hurried across, through the opened French windows, back out onto the balcony. Above him and below him he could see other people out on their balconies, too, watching and photographing this phenomenon.

  143

  Friday, 24 March

  The door of Hassam Udin’s office, on the first floor of his house, flew open.

  ‘Hassam!’

  It was his wife, Amira, and her voice sounded urgent and alarmed.

  He was seated at his desk, with his usual cup of coffee, and cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. All morning he had been exchanging emails with a lady called Hilary Patel. It was a laborious process, his machine reading out each email one word at a time to him.

  Hilary was the Team Leader for Faith Engagement, for the Government Department for Communities and Local Government. He wasn’t actually sure what her title meant, but she was a delightful and hugely helpful lady. She was putting him in touch with a number of key faith leaders, helping him with a book he was writing, identifying the similarities between many of the world’s religions and faiths.

  ‘Hassam! Oh my God, I wish you could see this!’ Amira said.