Blood Codex- a Jake Crowley Adventure

by David Wood

  “We will.”

  Rose’s phone rang. She pulled it out, frowned at the screen. “Work,” she said. “Excuse me.” She tapped to answer, then said, “Hi there. Can I call you back in a min...” She stopped dead, listening. The color drained from her face.

  Crowley put a hand to her elbow, concerned.

  “Okay, thank you,” Rose said, and hung up. “That was my boss from the museum. Apparently someone showed up today looking for me. They got quite angry when they were told I wasn’t there.”

  Chapter 11

  Jake Crowley’s house, Deptford

  Crowley stared at his laptop screen, lips pursed, scrolling through reams of search results. Danny Bedford, Dan Bedford and Daniel Bedford had returned a lot of hits, most of them not especially relevant. Eventually he hit upon a news article in one of the London local paper websites. “Here,” he said, looking up.

  Rose sat on the sofa across the room from him, staring out into the daylight through his front window. The haunted look remained in her eyes. No, he corrected himself. It had morphed. No longer as much haunted as it was hunted. She embodied both vulnerability and strength, and he couldn’t blame her for that. He needed to nurture the strength in her, remind her of her agency and power so she didn’t fall into despair.

  “Here,” he said again, a little louder.

  She blinked and looked over, his iPad forgotten in one hand. “Sorry, what?”

  “I found this article.” He turned back to his screen and read. “Daniel Bedford, twenty eight, an orderly from Great Ormond Street Hospital, was reported missing last Thursday.” He paused, scrolled back up to check the date. “This is from last week. Anyway, blah blah blah, reports from his workplace, family are appealing for anyone with knowledge and so on. His parents are up in Yorkshire, but according to this they were planning to travel down to London to help police and try to find him.”

  “Do you think they’re going to?” Rose asked in a small voice.

  “Find him? No idea.” Crowley blew out an exasperated breath. “I wish we knew why these buggers were so interested in birthmarks like yours.”

  “They’re interested in people like me,” Rose reminded him.

  “Yeah, like you.” No point in pretending this was anything other than an extremely dangerous situation. But he remembered to appeal to her strength. “But you’re tough, and you’ve got me on your side.”

  “I’m grateful for that.”

  “And I’m not going anywhere. I know we’ve only just met, really, but as far as this thing is concerned we’re entangled. I don’t plan to leave you on your own until we have this all sorted out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you think we should go to the police?” He had been reluctant to ask, but needed to have her input.

  “I already put in a call. The guy I spoke to said he’d look into it, but I could tell he was just blowing me off. Couldn’t wait to get off the phone. I don’t think he even wrote down any of the names or details I gave him.” She bit her lip. “It’s hard to explain, but I don’t think there’s time for a police investigation. Twice in such quick succession, coming to my home, armed. These guys are serious. If we sit back and wait, won’t that just make me more vulnerable?”

  “I agree. Maybe we can approach them if we learn more, but let’s stick to learning more and staying hidden for now. And I mean it; I won’t leave you on your own until we know what’s happening.”

  He wanted to add, And I hope I don’t have to leave you on your own afterwards either. But it sounded cheesy and weak in his head and would sound even more so if it came out of his mouth. And it was entirely inappropriate in the circumstances.

  “We need to pin down their reasoning,” he said instead. “Figure out what they’re trying to do, what they want with you. That’ll keep us one step ahead of them.”

  Rose hefted the iPad. “I found this.” She turned it to face him and he saw a photo of someone’s back bearing a birthmark just like hers.

  He had been skeptical when Margaret Wilson had said Danny Bedford had a mark identical to Rose’s. He could imagine it was similar enough to spook Margaret, and clearly the connection here, but identical? But this was a photo of a man’s back and the mark was indeed identical as far as he could remember from his brief look at Rose’s the night before. “That Danny?”

  Rose shook her head. “Someone else.” She flicked at the screen, tapped. “This is a website where people submit pics of unusual tattoos or body marks. It came up from an image search I threw in for eagle birthmarks. This user’s name is BoldGreg79.”

  Crowley shook his head. “Someone else with the same mark?”

  “What’s going on?” Rose’s hunted look became frightened again. “How can something as random as a birthmark repeat like a photocopy. Three times now, that we know of. How many more? What am I?”

  “That Greg guy got a user profile?” Crowley asked.

  Rose blinked, looked back to her screen and tapped. “Yeah. Says Greg Pritchard, location Tiverton.”

  “That’s down in Devon,” Crowley mused, wondering if there was any connection beyond the obvious. “Hang on.” He went back into a search engine, typed Greg Pritchard Tiverton. The first result was a news article from the North Devon Gazette. He drew air in over his teeth, the nerves in his gut roiling again.

  “What is it?” Rose came to stand beside him, looked over his shoulder.

  “Says here that a Greg Pritchard of Tiverton was killed a month ago in a bungled home invasion.”

  Rose made a small noise of horror, one hand going up to cover her mouth. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

  “No, it really can’t.” Crowley took her other hand, squeezed it. “It’ll be okay, Rose. We’re in front here, staying ahead of the game. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Should we go to the police after all?” Rose asked. “We should just report this, the attack on me, everything. It’s all getting out of control.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Jake, Danny Bedford is missing, probably dead. That Greg guy is definitely dead. Surely I’m next! We have to tell someone!”

  “Call me paranoid,” Crowley said, “but we don’t know who to trust.” He gestured at the North Devon Gazette story still on the screen. “That’s a murder covered up if we’re right. How do we know how much reach and power these people have? You said yourself, going to the police will likely make you more vulnerable at this stage.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I think we need to carry on like we said, gather more information, as much as we can. All the time we’re one step ahead, we keep learning and stay one step ahead. We were right not to go back to your place and we definitely can’t do that now. You can’t go back to work.” He paused, thinking. Wondered if he’d been made as Rose’s accomplice. What if these guys went back to the Wilsons’ place? Had he used his name there? He was fairly certain he hadn’t, but maybe it was a chance they shouldn’t take. And they’d seen him, maybe they’d snapped a photo, and could make his ID from it.

  “What are you thinking?” Rose asked.

  “I’m thinking maybe we shouldn’t be here either. Let’s get some things packed, computer, tablet, chargers, all that. I’ll pack some clothes, then we can head to the shops and buy you some clothes to be going on with. Then I think we find a hotel or something and check in while we figure out what to do next.”

  Rose took a long breath in through her nose, shook her head slightly. But Crowley saw a steely resolve settle into her eyes. “Okay. Drop off the grid, eh?”

  He nodded. “Let’s go dark, see what we can do. I’m going to call in sick to work, then I’ll pack. We leave our phones here and buy new ones with pre-paid credit so we can’t be traced by our mobile signal. Then we draw out all the cash we can so we don’t have to use ATMs or credit cards any time soon.”

  Rose smiled crookedly. “You’ve done this before?”

  “No, I just enjoy a lot
of crime fiction. We’ll be out of here in ten minutes and I suggest we head out of town and set up camp somewhere in the suburbs.”

  Less than an hour and a half later, armed with all the cash they could pull from their accounts and a bag each with a few changes of clothes, Crowley checked them into a small hotel in Battersea, not far from Clapham Junction train station. The place was run down, cracked walls and peeling paper, but not seedy. Altogether forgettable, usually frequented by traveling businessmen by the look of things.

  They had agreed on a double room, Crowley saying they always had a fold out sofa and he’d sleep on that while Rose could have the bed. Better they stay close together all the time they could. They signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Lansing.

  “Where did you get a name like that?” Rose asked.

  Crowley grinned, remembering the fun-loving goof whose name he had lifted. Melancholy accompanied the recollection. “He was in my unit, great guy. Tim Lansing. Stepped on an IED outside Kabul.”

  “Killed?”

  Crowley nodded. “He used to joke about stepping on an ‘IUD’. Goofy sense of humor. I miss him.”

  “Oh, man, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. All a long time ago, you know. But his name has stayed with me. We were good mates. So I thought I’d use it here.”

  They went up to their room and Crowley was pleased to see he had been right about the extra fold out bed. It would have been embarrassing had they needed to negotiate other sleeping arrangements. He marveled again at just how bizarre the turn of events over the last twenty four hours had been.

  “So what now?” Rose asked, slumping down onto the bed. It creaked and sagged and she made a face. “Comfy!”

  Crowley grinned. She seemed to be holding up well. As did he, for that matter. For all his military experience, this situation was entirely new to him. While some of his skillset would be transferable, he wondered how long he could continue to feel in control. He admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that he was enjoying himself, at least in part. Life since active service had been good, but it lacked that edge of adrenaline-charged excitement. While that was generally a good thing, he realized he had missed it a little bit. But he wasn’t foolish enough to think this was any kind of game. He would use the excitement to fuel the battle at hand, but not get complacent.

  “Danny’s interest in the occult sticks out to me,” he said.

  Rose frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he was after this Devil’s Bible and stuff, acted all weird from time to time. And I remember your lecture at the museum, talking about odd beliefs around birthmarks.”

  “Oh, so you were listening then. I thought you looked bored.”

  “I was positively entranced, Miss Black!”

  “Sure.” She grinned at him and it warmed him somewhere deep inside. “But what’s your point?”

  He shrugged, not entirely sure where he was going with the train of thought. “I don’t know. I’m just wondering if there’s anything in that.”

  Rose pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, I don’t know a lot, but some people believe a birthmark can be used to tell the future or even tell who you were in a past life. That sort of thing. There’s a common thread in some birthmark mythology about past lives, in fact.” Her brow creased again. “I have to be honest, seeing at least three people with a birthmark exactly like mine does make me more inclined to consider supernatural stuff I would have laughed off yesterday!”

  “I know what you mean. That’s kind of where I was going with this, I think. We ought to consider the possibility that someone out there might be a true believer in some occult birthmark lore. They might be focusing on people with matching birthmarks, or even specifically people with your birthmark.”

  “So what do we do about that?”

  Crowley shook his head, raised his hands in defeat. “No idea.” He blew out a breath, exasperated. “But Danny apparently said this Devil’s Bible had the answers. Methods of learning the truth, or something, right? Maybe we need to educate ourselves on any occult connections with birthmarks. See if something useful comes up. Honestly, I’m fishing here, but it could be a connection. And if we learn something more, it might become a future bargaining chip with these thugs who are after you.”

  “I’ll call George Wilson,” Rose said, pulling out her newly purchased untraceable pre-paid phone. “He might have an idea of some of that stuff, or direct us where to look.”

  Crowley nodded and handed over the number.

  Chapter 12

  The Old Bailey, London

  “Well, this has taken an utterly bizarre turn,” Crowley muttered, as he followed Rose into the bright echoing hall and high arches of the Old Bailey’s lobby. Light flooded in from skylights in the domed ceiling far above, reflecting off yellow and gold edges, brightly painted frescoes, and shining across the glossy white and black tiles of the floor.

  Several people milled around, some clearly tourists and others with the focused intensity of law officials at work.

  “Why’s it called the Old Bailey anyway?” Rose asked.

  “The street outside is called Old Bailey, the courts are named after that.”

  She gave him a withering glare. “I know that. The most famous law courts in the world, probably, so that much is obvious. I mean, why is the street called Old Bailey. It’s a weird name.”

  Crowley glanced at her, wondering if she was being facetious, but her face was open and without guile as she scanned the impressive interior. “A bailey is a wall. That street follows exactly the old fortified wall that used to enclose the City of London, and these courts were right outside that.”

  She turned a smile to him. “Ha, there you go. You are a history teacher after all.”

  “Sometimes, sure. I can tell you more too. The initial location of the courthouse, so close to Newgate Prison, allowed for convenient transfer of prisoners to the courtroom for their trials. Plus, its position between the City and Westminster meant it was a good location for trials involving people from pretty much anywhere in the metropolis. North of the river Thames, at least. Back in the day, crossing from south of the river was a bit more difficult.”

  Rose laughed and Crowley felt his cheeks color slightly. “You make a text book passage sound interesting. You have a good voice for teaching.”

  “That wasn’t a textbook passage,” he protested. “But I have said that or something very like it dozens of times over the years.”

  She squeezed his hand briefly, then let go. “I wasn’t mocking you, I meant it. I think you’re probably an excellent teacher.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But getting teenagers to listen to anything they don’t want to for more than five minutes takes a lot more than knowledge and a good voice.”

  “You’re telling me. Seems like I spend half my day trying to entertain school groups.”

  A bell rang and the people bustling around seemed to intensify, the crowd thickening.

  “That was a piece of luck,” Rose said. “I thought we might have to wait a lot longer before a trial turned out.”

  “I still don’t know how likely this is,” Crowley said. He looked around the space, spotted the door Margaret Wilson had told them would be there. Security guards milled everywhere, some at stations, others wandering free, roaming in search of ne’er-do-wells.

  Rose stepped closer to Crowley’s shoulder as the milling crowd thronged the open space. Voices echoed in a rising hubbub of noise, laughter sometimes ringing out. “Margaret said the man doesn’t want to be found, so he makes it very difficult.”

  Crowley shook his head, still almost certain they were being taken for fools. “But the only access to him is via the basement of the Old Bailey? That’s a little far-fetched for anyone, right?”

  “The only access she knows of,” Rose reminded him. “I’m sure this Declan Brown character has many other ways to his...” She petered out, clearly unsure how to describe where they needed to go.

  “His secret undergro
und lair?” Crowley finished for her.

  They grinned at each other but the weight of the trouble they were in quickly returned.

  Rose’s brow creased. “We have no other choice at this stage. Margaret assured us this was the man to speak to if we wanted to learn more about Danny’s occult ideas.”

  He returned the squeeze of the hand she had given him moments before, but he didn’t let go. He watched the movement of two guards who walked toward each other then paused for a quick chat.

  “Here we go!” he said, and gently pulled her along.

  They moved quickly through the bustling crowd, Crowley not taking his eyes off the guards. Another came in through the front doors and started heading in their direction, but his attention was directed elsewhere. Crowley realized they were only going to get one shot at this. Turning his attention to the ornate wooden door in one side of the wide entrance hall, he hoped fervently to find it unlocked. Margaret had assured them it would be, at least during the day when the courts were open. Declan Brown was a man with many suspicions, she had said, and made it so that only the most determined could find him. Margaret had offered to get word to Declan and have the man come to meet them. She seemed fairly confident he would. But Crowley had said there wasn’t time when Margaret had said it would probably take a couple of days.

  Now, heading for a door marked Private, in plain sight, in the busiest law courts in the land, lying low and waiting for a couple of days didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all. Blood rushing, heartbeat loud in his ears, he reached for the door handle. Rose turned, her fingers tightening painfully around his hand.

  “The guard’s turning around!” she hissed.

  But the handle turned and the door swung easily inward. Crowley hauled her through behind him and quickly shut it again. They stood in a narrow wood-paneled corridor, leading away under a series of soft yellow lights. The noise and bustle outside was almost entirely silenced by the thick wood, the stillness sudden and eerie. They stood motionless for several seconds, both doing their best to calm nervous breathing. Crowley realized he still held Rose’s hand, firm and warm in his own. He was reluctant to let go, so chose to pretend he hadn’t noticed for the time being. They both watched the door like it was about to come alive any moment, but everything remained inert and quiet.