The Secret Prophecy

by Herbie Brennan

  “Just a precaution,” Victor told him as he paid the cabbie.

  “Precaution against what?”

  “Listen,” Victor said impatiently, “I spend most of my life undercover, hiding from Themis. You pick up certain habits—it’s the only way you can survive. For example, I don’t own a car: too easy to trace. That’s why we travel by cab. But I never give the final destination in case somebody questions the driver and he happens to remember us. I don’t use credit cards because they leave an electronic trail. The Section keeps me supplied with cash, and I wouldn’t buy so much as a cinema ticket under my own name. That way nobody can track you.”

  “Okay,” Em said, chastened.

  They walked together through the quiet morning streets to the head of the avenue where Dr. Hollis lived; and suddenly it wasn’t quiet anymore.

  “What’s going on?” Em asked.

  Victor gripped him by the arm and pulled him back a pace or two. There was an ambulance and two police cars parked, lights flashing, about two hundred yards ahead. Paramedics were carrying a stretcher up the steps of one of the Georgian houses that made up the avenue. “That’s not the Hollis house, is it?” Victor whispered urgently.

  “Could be,” Em said. “Hard to be sure from here.”

  “Get around the corner,” Victor said firmly. “I want you out of sight.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To try to find out what’s happening. I don’t like the look of this.”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  “Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said? You’re the one they’re after, not me. Just stay out of sight, and I’ll fill you in when I get back. If I find out anything.”

  It was nearly fifteen minutes before he did reappear, looking grim. “He’s dead,” he said without preliminary.

  It came as such a surprise that Em said foolishly, “Who’s dead?”

  “Your Dr. Hollis. His wife’s still out of the country, but their housekeeper found him hanging from a beam in his study when she arrived to tidy up this morning.”

  “Like . . . suicide?” He couldn’t think why Dr. Hollis would commit suicide—he’d always seemed a cheerful soul. Unless, Em thought suddenly, it had something to do with sectioning his mother. Maybe the doctor felt guilty.

  “That’s the police theory. There’s apparently a note, but they wouldn’t let me see it.”

  Something in Victor’s tone made Em say, “But you don’t believe it?”

  Victor shook his head. “Damn right I don’t. I’ve seen this happen before. I think he was murdered.”

  Chapter 25

  Victor wanted more coffee. They found a tiny café along a narrow alleyway and picked a table as far away from the counter as possible so they could talk. At this hour of the day they were the only customers.

  “Listen, kid,” Victor said. “I’m sorry for springing that on you. I should have eased you into it.”

  “Don’t call me ‘kid,’” Em muttered.

  “So what should I call you: Edward?”

  “Em. Everybody calls me Em. It’s, like, my initials: E. M. for Edward Michael.”

  “Okay.”

  Em declined coffee and tea, and felt like throwing up when Victor suggested a doughnut. He was frightened, jangled, and nervous, and was finding it difficult to sit still. What he wanted was to keep on the move. What he really wanted was to run. Except he didn’t know where, and he didn’t actually know what from. He licked dry lips. “Why do you think he was murdered?”

  “It’s a familiar pattern. My guess is your Dr. Hollis wasn’t a Knight himself, probably not even a Themis sympathizer. I think they had something on him and used it to force him to sign the papers for your mother.”

  “What would they have had on him?” Em found himself watching the doorway as if he expected the Knights to pile through it at any minute.

  Victor frowned. “How should I know?” he asked crossly. “The Knights are experts at ferreting out dirty little secrets. But if I’m right, they blackmailed him with something until he agreed to sign the papers.”

  “Why didn’t they kill him right away then?”

  “My guess is they couldn’t find him. He left the country, remember? His big mistake was coming back. He obviously had no idea what he was up against.”

  Em sat looking at Victor for a long moment. Eventually he said, “What do we do now?” He licked his lips. “Dr. Hollis was our best lead.” And whether he’d been murdered or killed himself, he was still dead.

  Victor leaned forward in his seat to stare at him earnestly. “Listen, k— Listen, Em, I want you to think really hard. This whole mess comes right back to your father. I know it hurts you to talk about him, even think about him, and I’m sorry, but we have to face this if we’re to get any further. Section 7 is certain the Knights of Themis killed him. What we don’t know is why. Now they’re after his son—you. What does that suggest?”

  Em thought about it for a moment. “That he had something or knew something or found something, and they’re worried he might have passed it on to me?”

  “Exactly!” Victor exclaimed. He leaned back and took a long drink of his coffee.

  “But he didn’t!” Em protested. “At least, if there was something he’d discovered, he didn’t pass it on to me. He didn’t talk to me about stuff that much. He was a university professor, for cripe’s sake. He lived in his head most of the time. Or with his nose stuck in a book. I don’t think he talked to Mum much either—maybe that was one of the reasons she drank too much. I promise you, he didn’t tell me anything.”

  But Victor wasn’t ready to leave it alone. “I want you to think,” he said again with emphasis. “Before he died, maybe even weeks or months before he died, did he talk to you about anything unusual, anything at all?”

  “No,” Em said firmly.

  “Did he give you anything for safekeeping? A paper or a folder or an envelope; anything like that?”

  “No,” Em said again.

  “How about a gift of some sort?”

  Em frowned. “You mean something valuable?”

  “Not necessarily. But something you could conceal something in—a box or a case or even a book; you can slip a sheet of paper between the pages of a book. Anything like that? The Knights obviously think your father communicated something to you. I’m trying to figure out how he could have done that—tried to send you a message—without your realizing what he was up to.”

  “Dad never gave me anything before he died,” Em said. “I mean, not immediately before he died. Like, I got presents from time to time the way everybody does. I mean, he gave me stuff the Christmas before, but that was months—”

  “What did he give you for Christmas?”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “I’m serious,” Victor said.

  Em thought about it, trying to remember. Finally it came to him. “Pair of gloves and a scarf. And a box of chocolates. Wasn’t very imaginative when it came to Christmas. He gave Mum a frying pan. I thought she was going to hit him with it.”

  “Did you eat the chocolates?”

  “Well, I shared them. With Mum and Dad. But, yes, we ate all of them.”

  “There was nothing else in the box? Note? Slip of paper?”

  “Just chocolates.”

  “Did you ever wear the gloves?” Victor asked.

  “Yes, of course. And the scarf. It was cold last Christmas.”

  “There was nothing stuffed into the fingers of the gloves?”

  Em shook his head. “No, nothing. Of course not. Look, I told you; he didn’t give me anything before he died. Why would he? It’s not like it was my birth—” He stopped suddenly, then finished slowly, “—day . . . or anything. Listen, Victor, there was something. He gave it to Mum to give to me for my birthday. This was when he had the high fever and I suppose he thought he might not make it, so he gave it to her to . . . you know . . . Thing was, my birthday isn’t until October, and Dad was always a last-minute mer
chant, so why would he get me something that far in advance?”

  Victor was sitting forward again. “What was it?”

  “It was an iPod. He even had it engraved. But that wasn’t exactly sending me a message, was it?”

  “What did the engraving say?” Victor asked quickly.

  “Just ‘Happy birthday from your loving father.’”

  “Nothing else?”

  Em shook his head. Then, “Something about ‘good listening.’”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” Em said. “Just good listening, I suppose. You use an iPod to listen to music.”

  “And did you? Listen to your iPod?”

  Em shook his head again. “No. I never even switched it on. I was sort of . . . sad, you know. Mum gave it to me after my dad died. I just couldn’t cope with . . . I mean, it reminded me too much . . .” He could feel the tears beginning to well again.

  “Where is it now? Do you have it here?”

  “No, I left it at home. I put it away after Mum gave it to me. Didn’t look at it since.”

  “Put it away where?”

  “At home. I told you. In my room.” He’d shoved it in among his CD collection, some sort of mad thought that an iPod should be with his music. He supposed he’d thought he would take it out and use it one day when he got over the pain of his father’s death.

  “We need to get it,” Victor said.

  “You really think Dad may have sent me a message in the iPod?” It was possible, he supposed: he hadn’t even looked in the box properly. There could be a card in there—a whole letter for all he knew. He felt a curious sensation in the pit of his stomach. A message from his dad, maybe even a message about the Knights of Themis.

  “I really think it’s worth finding out.” Victor looked at him thoughtfully. “The question is, how do we get hold of it?”

  Em frowned. “I’ll go and get it.”

  “They’ll be watching the house,” Victor said. Em didn’t have to ask him who he meant. Victor drained the last of his coffee. “What we need is somebody who can get the iPod for us, somebody who can enter the house without causing suspicion.”

  “Uncle Harold,” Em said. “He has his own key, and he’s been sort of caretaking the place since they took Mum away.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  The question stopped Em short. He wasn’t sure he did trust Uncle Harold. From where Harold was standing, Em had gone off to visit his mother a couple of days ago and then simply vanished off the radar. Harold might even have reported him as a missing person. So how would Harold react to a message from Em asking for his iPod? He might just bring it, but he might just as soon tell the police the good news that his nephew had turned up again.

  “Is there anybody else? Some other relative? A friend? It would have to be somebody who could go into the house without raising suspicion.”

  Em thought about it. “Charlotte,” he told Victor.

  “Who’s Charlotte?”

  “A friend. She knows about my mother, and she knows I’m on the run. She was the girl who was with me in France when we were followed by the man with the gun.”

  “The one who spilled the coffee?”

  Em nodded. Victor grinned slightly. “A resourceful young lady. You think she’ll help out again?”

  “Definitely—she’s already loaned me money. The thing is, her father works at the university, so she has an excuse to be on campus.”

  “Do you have a key to your apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  Victor chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Wonder what would be the best way to get it to her . . .”

  “We don’t have to,” Em said. “I know where Uncle Harold leaves his spare—under a flowerpot on the windowsill to the right of the door.”

  Victor shook his head in disbelief. “No wonder you were burgled twice.” He pushed back his chair. “Do you have her number?”

  Em nodded.

  “Call her now,” Victor said. “Have her pick up the iPod and deliver it to you. Tell her to make sure she’s not followed, but we can’t really trust her about that since she’s not a professional, so we’d better make the drop someplace open where we can watch her before we make contact, make sure nobody has tagged along.”

  “How about the Leslie Memorial?” Em suggested. Leslie Memorial Park was a two-hundred-and-fifty-acre parkland in the center of town, fifty acres of which were taken up by a picturesque man-made lake. Vast swaths of the site were open grassland with meandering pathways and little in the way of cover.

  “Sounds good to me. If you meet by the memorial itself, we should be able to spot anybody following her half a mile away.”

  “Okay.” A thought struck Em. “Hey, wait a minute—I thought I can’t make phone calls?”

  Victor gave him a wicked grin as he pulled something from an inside pocket and handed it across. It was a black, almost featureless touch screen cell phone with no manufacturer’s logo. “Nobody will trace you when you use this little monster,” Victor said. “Special Section 7 issue.”

  Em took the phone without a word, stared at it for a moment, then began to dial Charlotte’s number.

  Chapter 26

  The Leslie Monument dated back to the Second World War and featured a tall aviator in the cockpit of a Spitfire. Although only half life-size, it was set on a high granite plinth that dwarfed Charlotte as she stood at their appointed meeting place, impatiently consulting her wristwatch.

  “I think we should go and see her now,” Em said. “She’s not going to hang around much longer. You know what girls are like.”

  “Not for a good many years,” Victor told him. “But just hold fire—I want to be certain.”

  They were standing together inside the overhang of a clump of bushes, one of the very few in this area of the park. Apart from Charlotte and an old woman seated on a park bench feeding bread to pigeons, there was no one else in sight. “Certain of what?” Em demanded. “There’s just Charlotte.”

  “Certain she hasn’t been followed. Can’t be too careful. I just want to be sure of the woman on the bench.”

  “She’s an old lady,” Em protested. “Hardly Themis material.”

  “First time we met, you thought I was an old man.”

  “Okay, point taken. But she was here before Charlotte arrived. That doesn’t suggest following.”

  “Mmm,” Victor said noncommittally. Then, “You’re probably right. Off you go.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Fewer people see me the better,” Victor said. “Just get the iPod and get back here. Don’t hang about chatting.” He caught Em by the arm. “One more thing: you mention nothing about me—understood? I told you about Section 7 on a need-to-know basis. She doesn’t need to know.”

  “What do I say if she asks me what’s going on? She’s bound to. She knows about Mum. She’ll want to know where I’ve been hiding. She already knows about the man with the gun—should I tell her about the Knights?”

  “Tell her you’ve been sleeping on park benches. It’s almost true.” His tone softened. “Em, we can’t afford to tell her the whole truth, for her own sake. This is a dangerous game. You’re involved through no fault of your own. I’m involved because I’m a professional. But there’s no need for her to be involved. We’ve put her at enough risk already just asking her to get the iPod.”

  Em shrugged. “Okay.”

  Charlotte looked none too pleased as he approached. “What kept you?” she asked. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Sorry,” Em muttered. He’d decided to say as little as possible rather than get into a convoluted explanation that would only lead to further questions.

  Charlotte sniffed. “I very nearly went home.”

  “Sorry,” Em said again. He glanced around him to ensure that no one else was about and realized that hanging around with Victor was making him paranoid. Even the old lady had wandered off, although her pigeons still clustered
around the bench, mopping up the last of the bread crumbs. “Did you get the iPod?”

  “Yes, of course I got the iPod. Did you realize the police are watching your apartment? There was an ugly, great police car parked right outside with a uniformed sergeant and a uniformed constable.”

  “They didn’t cause you any problems, did they?” It was a stupid question. Of course they must have caused her problems. The police were paid to cause people problems, especially people who were letting themselves into houses that weren’t their own. He wondered how Charlotte had managed to get past them.

  Charlotte smiled for the first time. “With my honest face? Of course not. When I saw them parked there, I went straight across and asked the sergeant if he had a key to your house.”

  Em’s jaw fell. “You did what?”

  “I told him your uncle Harold asked me to collect something for him. It was nearly true, except it wasn’t your uncle Harold who asked; it was you.”

  “What did he say—the sergeant?” Em gasped.

  “He said they didn’t have a key—they were just keeping an eye on the house. I said that was all right, because Uncle Harold had said something about a spare key under the plant pot and would they like to come in with me, help me look.”

  “Oh my God!” Em exclaimed. “You didn’t tell them about the iPod?”

  “They didn’t ask. They didn’t want to come in with me either. I suppose I looked respectable, and I think I may have mentioned that my dad was with the university. Anyway, they just sat in their comfortable police car while I found the key and let myself in.” She gave Em a disgusted look. “Your room is a dreadful mess.”

  “Yes, I know,” Em said. “But you found the iPod?”

  “I told you I found the iPod.” She produced a red-striped box from the pocket of her jeans but snatched it away when Em reached for it. “No you don’t. I want to know what’s been happening. I was really worried about you, Em. I thought you would have phoned me before now and not just because you wanted me to do something.”

  “It’s not all that easy,” Em said vaguely. “I’ve been sleeping on the street.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Charlotte said. She looked him up and down. “You’re clean, and you’ve had a change of clothes.”