'I don’t think,' Jill said after a moment, 'that the scourging is what killed her. In fact she may have been – actually, the more I think about it, she probably was -- dead after the first lash.'
Mike gave her a puzzled frown. 'So what?'
Jill looked steadily at him for a moment, took a deep breath, then went on. 'When the body first arrived here, her front was covered in blood, even though as you’ve seen, there’s no wounds at all on the front of her body. If the blood flowed from the back of her, there would have been flow lines, but the blood was evenly spaced from her scalp down… It’s my opinion that she bled out of her sweat glands.'
'What?' Mike looked at Jill with disbelief. 'Surely that’s impossible.'
'No, it’s called hemathidrosis. I was puzzled for a while until I remembered reading about it.'
'Hema what?'
'Hemathidrosis. There’s only about a dozen recorded cases, and it’s only seen in someone who has under gone absolute tremendous stress and agony. In hemathidrosis a person actually bleeds from every sweat gland in their body.'
Mike was quiet for a long moment, visualizing what must have happened. 'So what would you say she exactly died from – the scourging, or the hema-what’s-it?'
'Fright. Pure utter fright.'
Mike digested this, vowing even harder to find the monster responsible for this atrocity. 'OK, then, is there anything else you’ve found out?'
'I’m not finished yet.' She looked at him, her green eyes unblinking, leaving it up to him when he wanted to come back.
'Tomorrow?' he questioned with a raised eyebrow. 'Will that be all right?'
She nodded, then turned to one of the drawers in her wall cupboards, dismissing him.
Mike raised his eyebrows, OK, it was her domain. He wanted to get started on the boyfriend as soon as possible anyhow. 'Oh, the girl’s family are coming up to give a formal identification, some time this afternoon, if that’s all right with you?' he asked, but thought, damn tough if it isn’t.
She shrugged. Without turning round, she said, 'I’m not going anywhere.'
'Bye then.'
Covering the body up, she muttered something that could have been goodbye, or might just as easily have been, fuck off. Judging by her attitude, Mike wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if it was the latter.
He shrugged, and with a small smile turned and left her to her own devices.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Outside, Mike found Smiler sitting on the wall, his hands under his thighs, and his legs swinging. Tiny’s lead was hooked onto Smiler’s right foot. Sitting down next to him, and ignoring the enquiring look from the WPC in the waiting patrol car, Mike waited for the inevitable question. He didn’t have long to wait.
'She’s got black hair, hasn’t she?'
Staring at the police car, Mike sighed, then turned to Smiler. 'Yes, she’s got black hair. But answer this one, if you’re so clever -- how did she die?'
'Judging by the amount of blood that I saw, she must have bled to death.' Smiler nodded his head with conviction, then looked grim-faced at Mike.
Mike was quiet for a moment, digesting what Smiler had said about the girl bleeding to death, which was in fact basically what had happened. Then he came back with, 'Well, there you go, then, Smiler. Most people who are murdered, unless poisoned or strangled, do bleed to bloody death.'
'So there was a lot of blood? More than normal, would you say, Mike?'
'I suppose so…' He glanced back at Smiler, sighed, then said, 'Give me one of your fags.' Mike smoked rarely, so rarely he never thought about buying any, just borrowed the odd one now and then. Smiler handed him a cigarette along with his lighter, and waited patiently until Mike said, after lighting up and taking a deep draw, 'The poor woman was scourged. '
Smiler looked at Mike with horror. For a while he just stared at him, then he said in a hushed voice, 'Do you know exactly what happens when someone is scourged? Do you, Mike? Do you really know?'
'Well, after the friggin’ mess I’ve just seen, you can guarantee I have some idea. But I bet you can fill in the blanks.'
Taking that as an invitation, Smiler went on, 'Historically a scourging consists of thirty-nine lashes with a wooden-handled whip of about eighteen inches long, with nine leather thongs about six to seven feet long. At the end of each thong is a piece of lead shot, and attached to the lead shot are pieces of sheep or cattle bone. The idea behind this is that the lasher, snapping his wrist in a certain way, causes the weight of the lead shot to dig into the flesh, while the sheep bone digs in under the surface, and literally lifts small shards of skeletal muscle about two inches long.'
In his mind’s eye, Mike saw the ribbons of white muscle hanging from the girl’s body. 'Oh, my God.' He actually felt sick. He shook his head as he puffed air out of his cheeks.
'Well, yes, because in the Bible it states that Christ was scourged. Then he bled through his sweat glands as he carried his cross.'
'Hmm. That’s what she meant.'
'What?’
'Never mind.' Mike looked at Smiler, at his under-developed body that had, in the last few months, definitely put some weight on. But he still had the body of a scrawny twelve-year-old, and Mike wondered just how much knowledge was in that head of his. Sometimes it was like listening to a college professor spouting off about his favourite subject. Smiler repeated word for word everything he’d read, and rarely in the voice of a seventeen-year-old street kid.
Smiler nodded solemnly at Mike.
After a moment, Mike said, 'You sure you’re not a fifty-year-old dwarf?'
Smiler laughed, a rare event that brought a smile to Mike’s face.
'Come on, sunshine. Let’s get you sorted. You have yet to meet the great, the funny, the fantastic Aunt May. '
'Are you sure she knows I’m coming?' Smiler asked, the smile gone and a hint of nervousness in his voice. He was never keen to meet new people. He could often see the horror on their faces when they looked at him.
'Told you, I phoned her. She’s looking forward to meeting you. She’ll be cooking something special. Not that everything isn’t special, she’s a great cook… And I think you’ll love the island. Now come on. I’ve got stuff to be getting on with.'
They got into the car, unaware that they were being watched, although Smiler shivered and gave Mike an odd look that he missed entirely. He was too busy flirting with the blonde WPC.
CHAPTER TWENTY
About the time Mike and Smiler were heading towards Holy Island, a meeting was taking place in London. In a high-rise apartment on Canary Wharf, eight men sat around a table. Two European princes, an American military leader, a Russian billionaire – though they were all billionaires in their own right – a French count, a Swiss banker, an African leader and an English nobleman.
The apartment was luxurious in the extreme; dealing in flesh paid highly indeed. Cream carpets so thick that you sank into them with each step, cream walls hung with colourful paintings by old masters that most of the world didn’t even know existed. It suited these men to carry on the rumour they had started many years ago, that the Vatican had it all.
Cut-glass ornaments in blood red were scattered around the room. Three Jacuzzis, two hot tubs on the verandas, stocked with everything a man could want. Here you were waited on by slaves, willing and unwilling – the unwilling beaten into submission, then plied with drugs to make them as complacent as the willing.
The apartment belonged to the English man, the earl. James Henry Simmonds was tall, slim, fair-haired and utterly charming when he needed to be. But tonight was not one of those occasions. Tonight he was with his own kind, brothers in spirit if not blood. He swallowed the remains of a rich old brandy, put the glass on the table, took a deep breath, and, interrupting everyone, said in a loud voice, 'He has to go, or he’ll bring us all down. Can’t you all see this?'
Getting the attention he wanted as everyone paused and looked at him, he went on. 'Times change, but some of u
s stubbornly refuse to adapt.' He glared vehemently at the Russian when he said this. 'We knew a long time ago that this day would come, and now that it has you all sit there like fucking old men dithering about what to do.'
Kirill Tarasov glared back, his thick lips curled into a snarl. 'When you decided to call an emergency meeting, I did not know it was to condemn one of our own.'
'I agree, though. He’s lost it.' They all turned to look at the American, as he went on in his high-pitched voice, 'And we have to think of our own safety. Strange events, these. They may have been predicted, but none could see the true scope of things.' The American, a small, squat man with a bald head and the innocent sounding name of Billy Slone, nodded slowly. As well as his military status, the Slone family looked after the pharmaceutical side, investing millions to make billions, legal drugs which cured one ailment but caused three others, which needed more medication and on and on. Their research had come up with the latest illegal drugs to hit the streets as well as being responsible for what was already out there.
'What to do about it, though.' He nodded at Kirill. 'Kirill’s right, he is one of our own. We have never in God knows how many centuries turned on our own. It’s an unwritten law.'
'Yes, we have,' Simmonds snapped. 'I checked with the historian. It’s happened twice before. One of them was an ancestor of his. The stupid idiot thinks he’s fucking Rasputin.'
'Hmm.' Prince Carl had been quiet up until now. 'So, seeing as our own scientists proved centuries ago that madness was mostly, unless self-inflicted by drug overuse, in the genes, how was his line allowed to breed?'
Rene Farquhar rose and moved to the window, where he turned his handsome face dark against the bright sunshine to look at them all. His English impeccable, he said, 'The same way as the homosexual gene has stayed with us. No matter how hard we tried to eradicate it, it still came through.'
'Yes,' Prince Carl agreed, 'but not in the families.'
'Does it fucking well matter?' Simmonds snapped. 'The man’s completely lost the plot. He had his chance when we had to move out of France early last year. We should have got rid of him then. I did say, if you remember.' His petulant mouth took on a self-righteous pout. 'It’s barely eighteen months, and he’s up to his old tricks again. Prancing around Northumberland, proclaiming himself as the fucking Leader. Not caring one bit about what will happen if his true identity is found out. If something isn’t done soon, we’ll all suffer. Trust me, we can’t take the risk… And I for one am not prepared to do so, not for that megalomaniac.'
'I still can’t understand why his gene pool wasn’t weeded out centuries ago, if it was proved that his branch was so damn susceptible to madness?' Prince Carl said.
'I already said, for fuck’s sake.'
'We could always go back to Africa,' Tarasov put in, attempting to placate, seeing Prince Carl starting to take offence at Simmonds' tone. Picking up an apple from the fruit bowl, he brushed it on his cashmere jacket before taking a bite, looking warningly under his eyelids at Simmonds.
'What, because of one man?' Slone said, immediately making clear his alliance with Simmonds. 'And you all know white flesh brings in more capital these days, especially from the wealthy African and Arab states. The world has changed a lot this last century, no matter how hard we’ve tried to slow progress down.'
'Thank you,' Simmonds said, a look of satisfaction on his face. 'Oh, and when are we going to release the AIDS cure? You know, bring the price of black flesh back up? We all know that’s the reason it's gone down, fear of the AIDS virus.'
'The meeting to discuss that is scheduled for six months' time, as you well know.' Prince Carl glared at Simmonds. 'Please stick to today’s problem… How many know of the body?'
Simmonds sniffed, but answered the Prince. 'At the moment, a few of the Northumbria Police. Their best man arrived back there this morning. He’s been in London for a few months, investigating missing kids and drug trafficking. We’ve managed to throw spanners in every direction he’s turned until now, but I’m certain he suspects something.'
'Good, is he?' Prince Carl asked, refilling his whiskey glass from the sparkling decanter on the solid gold coffee table.
'From what I’ve been told, very good. He managed to escape a trap set for him last night, though God knows how.'
'Why hasn’t he been recruited, then?'
Simmonds shook his head. 'He was deemed too high risk. A man of many morals, allegedly.' He laughed.
'Everyone has a price,' the American said.
Simmonds turned to him and sneered. 'Apparently not this man.'
'OK, I get the picture. So what do we do now?' Slone looked at all of them in turn. They were all silent, none of them wanting to be the one to put it into words.
The one in question was, after all, family.
The families had been around for more than fifty-one centuries, long before the birth and death of Jesus Christ. Started by thirteen ruthless men, down through the ages they had come, with members in every secret organisation known to man and many that were not. Always keeping their own secret, their fingers on the pulse of the world they secretly ruled. And now the future they had delayed for all those centuries had arrived. In the age of the computer, with knowledge only a click away, the world their forefathers had known had shrunk to a fraction of its size.
Prince Carl lit a cigarette in the silence, blew smoke at the ceiling, admired the solid gold ceiling rose. Two unicorns back to back. He had the same rose in his French castle, as they all did in their various dwellings around the world. 'OK, the way I see it, it’s time for his line to end. Madmen are too unpredictable. The last thing we need in this day and age is a loose cannon. Some of these conspiracy theorists are getting closer to the mark all the time.'
'Yeah.' Tarasov said. 'I actually read an article the other day that said the flat screen TV was around fifty years before we let it go on the market. Good job they don’t know the half of it.'
'Where are they getting this from?' Simmonds threw his glass at the wall. It shattered on impact. A trail of golden whiskey ran down the wall and fell onto the sparkling broken crystal. Immediately a young, dark-skinned girl ran in and cleaned it up.
Tarasov shrugged. 'Don’t know, but some of the peasants are getting pretty close. You would be amazed if you widened your scope and did a little reading.'
'I have people to do that for me,' Simmonds sniffed.
Farquhar said, 'Kirill’s right, though, we are going to have to be more careful. The peasants have rights, you know. We can’t go swashbuckling around the world like we used to do. Sometimes it amazes me how we’ve made it this far.' He laughed.
'You know why we’ve made it this far,' Slone snapped. 'Because of all the failsafes in place. They have been there for centuries, and so far they’ve worked.'
'So far,' Tarasov snorted.
'OK, enough. We have to make a decision now.' Simmonds was adamant. Grim-faced, he looked at each of them in turn.
'How many in his immediate family?' Prince Carl asked.
'Fifteen legals, God knows how many outbreeds. The legals are spread around the world, most of them doing good work for the families.'
'Any of them showing signs of madness?'
'Only one, but it’s really more that she’s hyperactive, and slightly eccentric.'
Prince Carl sighed. 'Makes no difference, they all have to go. It’s the way. Ask the historian.'
'Why?' Farquhar asked. 'Surely we can keep them under surveillance? It’s more risky killing a whole family these days than the last time we did some weeding. When was it, 1640? For all our sakes, we must be more careful now.' He looked at Simmonds as he went on, 'Not easy to go around chopping people's ears off now… not en masse, anyhow.'
Simmonds curled his lip. 'Yeah, well, at least they still kept their heads. Not like the revolution that your ancestors stirred up a couple of hundred years later.'
Tarasov looked at Simmonds with delight on his face, 'So it was you behind that
black man losing his ears a few months back. Thought at the time when I read about it that it might be… In the genes, is it?' He laughed.
'You read too much,' Simmonds snarled at him. 'And at least my family doesn’t fucking well eat them!'
'Hmm.' Prince Carl looked over the rim of his whiskey glass at Simmonds.
'OK. I think we better move on,' Slone said, thinking about the time his grandfather had told him about when he’d been a young man, when four main leaders of the families had knives at each other’s throats. And apparently that had not been the first time. Everything about the families was documented by the historian, and to be read only by the family leaders. What the head of each family chose to tell those not in the loop was up to him.
He looked at the three men who had yet to have any input. Their faces were unreadable. Then he glanced quickly at Simmonds and nodded for him to move on.
'So, that’s it then. We are in agreement?' Simmonds looked at them all in turn.
'No,' Tarasov said. 'I vote he goes, but not the family. It’s far too risky. He’s in England, remember, not some third-rate country where we can buy silence… And, easy as it might be to wipe him out, fifteen others are all connected. Most of them in high profile jobs around the world.' Shaking his head he went on, 'A lot of questions are going to be asked… Also, I do know her quite well, and before a vote is taken I would exercise my right to speak for her life.'
'I agree.' Slone said, and everyone nodded. 'We keep close tabs on them, especially the female. Just because she’s hyperactive doesn’t mean she’s mad. If we’d gone after every rogue gene there wouldn’t be any of us left, for Christ’s sake. '
'I also know the woman in question,' the African leader said. 'She is more eccentric than anything else, but an excellent pathologist. It would be a shame to lose her genes. She is also in the loop, being one of the three closest relatives, and clever enough to suss out what may happen to her and the rest of her clan. I vote that one of us pay her a visit and explain the situation. She will understand the need for his execution. I do believe she is working in the north of England.'
Thorn In My Side Page 7
