by Sam Christer
‘Back in 2010?’
‘Si.’ She needs a beat to compose herself. ‘Roberto was persuaded by a scientist he knows …’ She gives a sad laugh. ‘… A so-called friend, to scrape blood and fibre from the cloth.’ She hangs her head in shame. ‘He did this – he damaged the cloth and passed on samples to be tested.’
Nic waits until she looks up and faces him. ‘I need to know who that scientist is, Signora – why he wanted to test the Shroud and what he did with the results.’
Her face crumples. ‘I am afraid.’ She reaches behind her neck and unclips the chain holding the locket. She puts it to her mouth, closes her eyes and begins to pray.
87
DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES
JJ isn’t surprised to find Jenny Harrison hanging around the factory floor after the rest of the mob have headed out into the Friday night blackness to begin their weekends.
She walks between the machines and gives him a hopeful look. ‘Did you manage to find out anything about Kim?’
His face says he hasn’t. ‘It was like you said, Jenny. No one in the station has any record of her being arrested.’
She bites nervously on a fingernail. ‘Who did you talk to?’
The question throws him. He hasn’t talked to anyone and has no intention of doing so. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember their names. There was the woman who answered the phone, someone in custody and then someone else in the investigations unit. They’re not very friendly or helpful, are they?’
She huffs out a sarcastic laugh. ‘No cops ever are. Did you call East First Street? Was it an Officer Reed?’
‘Might have been. I didn’t make a note of his name. Didn’t want to ask too much in case I got your friend into trouble.’
The comment silences her. Kim Bass has piles of trouble stacked in every corner of her life. She sure doesn’t need anyone like Fish Face tipping them over by asking the wrong questions to the wrong people. Harrison slings her bag over her shoulder and zips her jacket. ‘Thanks.’
He watches her head to the door. She’s going to cause problems. He knows it. It’s what women like her do. ‘Jenny, wait.’
She turns around.
‘I’ll make some more calls tonight. Give me your cell number. If I can find anything out, I’ll call you.’
She hesitates. ‘Like you say, maybe it’s best not to dig around too much.’
‘Okay, but give me your number in case anyone calls me back and says she’s in a lock-up somewhere.’
She swings her bag round, finds a pen and scrawls the number on the end of a cigarette pack. ‘Call me at any time. I don’t care how late.’
‘I will.’ He almost leaves it at that, then remembers it’s not how he should act. ‘Take my number too. Let me know if you hear anything.’ He reaches into his back pocket and produces a business card.
‘Thanks.’ She looks at it, then wanders off again.
This time he lets her go. God has helped him. Having her phone number is a blessed surprise. If he rings it when he’s inside that big old house of hers, he’ll know exactly where she is. One call – that’s all it will take to stop Jenny Harrison being a problem.
88
TURIN
Roberto Craxi is feeling all of his fifty-nine years and it’s annoying the hell out of him. He’s gathering his thoughts as he regains consciousness, piecing together how he’s been attacked and so easily beaten.
There was a time when no man was his match. In his prime, he could outsmart, outmanoeuvre or outmuscle the biggest, quickest and most savage of opponents. But things have changed. The metal garrotte someone pulled tight around his neck had been a sure sign those days are over. He never even saw his enemy.
Right from the start he suspected the sounds outside the cabin were a trap – but what choice did he have? Sit there in the dark with his guns cocked hoping his wife didn’t get caught in the crossfire? No chance. And what fears had the night held for Roberto? None. Darkness was his friend, an old companion with whom he’d shared long battles and much bloodshed. It was in the darkness where he felt most alive.
Until tonight. Until he met his match.
The man holding him captive had known exactly what he’d do. How he’d slip out low and silent from the cabin and circle it clockwise – unhurried, meticulously, ensuring his wife was safe before disappearing into the undergrowth parallel to the main approach.
At first he thought he’d just brushed against a hanging branch, at worst a wild, straggling rose growing in the thicket. Then it had snapped around his neck. As soon as the high-tensile wire gripped his windpipe he realised he was in trouble. One swift pull and he was dead.
‘Don’t move and I let you live.’
He’ll never forget the man’s first words. It’s what he would have said. What he has said, more than a dozen times. A clear, professional instruction from someone who is already in control and knows it.
But of course Roberto had moved. He’d tried to grab his attacker but the garrotte was unlike any he’d ever known. Instead of the wire being tethered to two small wooden handles, it was more like a lasso attached to the end of a long metal rod. Roberto couldn’t even get near his attacker, let alone fight him off.
The man in the shadows had simply held tight at the other end, hauled him choking to the floor and jammed a sedative in his neck.
The painful memory of the attack races through Roberto’s mind as he lies on his side in a small, black, cramped space. He doesn’t know where his enemy is, but he’s damned sure he knows what he wants and what he’s prepared to do to get it.
89
CARSON, LOS ANGELES
JJ understands what he has to do the minute he opens his front door. The smell of the decomposing corpse can’t be allowed to get any worse. It’s going to attract attention.
He doesn’t even take his coat off and hang it on the round post at the foot of the stairs like he normally does. He goes straight to the bedroom. The smell up here is stomach-churning. JJ has created death. Seen death. Handled death. But he’s never smelled death. Not the brutal rotting stench that only death can bring.
He steps gingerly across the floor and covers his mouth as he gets close to the white linen sheet in which he’s wrapped his precious Em. A part of him aches to look at her but he’s frightened of what he might see. Best perhaps to remember her as she was that first night when he brought her home.
He sits on the edge of the bed and considers what to do and how to do it. Her home is overlooked. Even with the keys from her purse, returning her to the house is going to be risky. But she’s worth it. She deserves it. She must be put to rest.
90
TURIN
Erica Craxi tells Nic everything she knows about Tamara Jacobs, why the payments were made to her husband and who he was working with.
The revelation shocks him. He goes over the details several times. It’s the kind of information you have to double-check. You do everything you can to make sure you’re not going to make a dreadful mistake. Finally, after repeated assurances, she agrees to allow Goria in the room so Nic can make sure he has not misunderstood anything.
He hasn’t. By the time she’s done she feels exhausted and anxious – very, very anxious. ‘What will happen to me now?’
Nic watches her bite on a nail as she waits for his reply. He looks towards Goria and the Italian’s eyes give him the answer he’s looking for. ‘We can protect you. We being the LAPD, along with this man’s men. I told you I trust him, and I do. We will make sure you are kept safe.’
‘No Carabinieri.’ She looks frightened.
‘No – no Carabinieri. I promise. Fabio and his team will keep you safe until we find your husband.’
The PI crouches, takes her hand and says something in Italian that makes her smile briefly. She glances down at her cell phone then at Nic. ‘Can I call Roberto again?’
‘Of course.’
He watches as she speed-dials her husband and nervously paces the room while her call goe
s unanswered. She dials again. Nic knows the chances of Craxi returning safely have all but disappeared. His wife of twenty years closes the phone and walks to Nic. Tears are rolling down her cheeks as she takes both his hands and looks into his eyes. ‘Please find him – don’t let Roberto die.’
He squeezes her hand. ‘We’ll do our best.’
She puts something in the palm of his left hand and whispers, ‘It is Saint Christopher, the patron saint of all travellers. May he guide you to my husband and all that you’ve come for.’
91
Ephrem works quickly. Methodically. He knows his task is far from complete. Under the pale moonlight and falling temperature he busies himself hiding the car he moved his captive in. He’s covering his tracks. Laying traps for anyone who might be on his trail.
The untraceable cell phone in his pocket vibrates. ‘Hello.’
‘Do you have him? Is he still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Molto buono. You have served the Lord well. You know what to do – what is expected of you?’
‘I am in no doubt.’
‘Good. The Americans have sent a lieutenant from the Los Angeles police force to find Craxi. He is called Karakandez. When this call is finished I will send you a photograph and details about him. Be careful. He is very experienced and determined.’
‘The man will not be a problem.’
‘Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him. He is from Homicide and has crossed continents to be here. He will not want to go home without a result.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It is.’
The monk finishes the call and waits patiently for an image to materialise on the screen of the phone.
Moments later, the face of Lt. Nic Karakandez appears. Ephrem takes a long look at it. It is the face of the man who called the cell phone in Craxi’s lodge – the face of his enemy. He closes his eyes and imagines the man in front of him. Visualises what must be done to complete his mission. He takes one final look at the detective’s eyes – the window to his soul – then he deletes the photograph.
Ephrem will meet Nic Karakandez, he is sure of it – and God will guide his hands as he kills him.
92
CORONER’S OFFICE, LOS ANGELES
Amy Chang sits in her office chair, herbal tea in hand and listens to the very English voice of Professor Alexander Hasting-Smith on the other end of the line. She tries to picture him. Maybe public-schoolboy neat and tidy like the British Prime Minister or perhaps crazily hairy like that big bearded bishop who married Kate and William?
Professor Alex is nothing like either. He’s late forties and barely five-nine, lives in baggy shirts and corduroy trousers and despite being an expert in anatomy and biology, is only a fried breakfast away from being clinically obese and a year or two away from being bald.
‘Dear lady,’ he says, stretching out the lay-dee. ‘The comparable tests I undertook were exhaustive. I can categorically assure you the marks on the Shroud are not only consistent with having covered a man who suffered the ignominious end of crucifixion but are also identical to those endured by the body of Jesus Christ.’
What do you mean?’
‘Well, take the iconic spear wound. The cloth shows blood staining in alignment with a wound in between the right fifth and sixth ribs. The lower and inner part of this wound is approximately two-fifths of an inch below the tip of the sternum and about two and a half inches below the midline. Entirely consistent with the hole made by the spear that the Roman soldier plunged into Christ. The staining on the Shroud is also corroborative in that it contains clear fluids as well as blood.’
‘I didn’t see any fluid markings.’
‘You won’t have done. Not unless you inspected the cloth itself. But it is there. I assure you.’
It’s been a long day and she takes the point without rancour. ‘And the fluid flow?’
‘Down across the body. Consistent with the wound from the spear being made on a person in the upright – crucified – position.’
She puts her tea on a desk coaster and opens a folder on her Mac containing the high-definition Shroud photographs. ‘Forgive my ignorance but exactly what tests did you do, Professor?’
‘Goodness. What tests didn’t I do? Are you aware of Pierre Barbet’s work in this field?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She suddenly feels out of her depth. ‘Until very recently I hadn’t even seen pictures of the Shroud. This really isn’t my normal area of interest.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He sounds disappointed. ‘Then why was I called and asked to contact you by the FBI?’
‘Dr Quentell thought your knowledge about the Shroud could help with an ongoing investigation here in Los Angeles.’
‘Ah, very well – then I’m happy to elucidate.’ A little energy seems to return to his voice. ‘Barbet was a French surgeon interested in the Shroud and had the good fortune to examine it in pure daylight. I’m going back to the 1930s now. Thirty-three, I think. Anyway, being a surgeon he had access to cadavers and amputated limbs, so he reconstructed the crucifixion of Christ. He nailed a dead body to a giant wooden cross and found the marks on the corpse perfectly fitted those found on the Shroud.’
‘And you did the same?’
‘Yes. I wish to be unambiguous about that.’
‘Could you talk me through exactly what you did – and what you found?’
‘With the greatest of pleasure. Some of it was debunking filmic myths. In Hollywood crucifixions you see nails hammered through the palms of hands. A completely inadequate way of holding a man upright. The movement and weight of his sagging body would soon tear the flesh. That certainly wasn’t the method employed in the case of the Shroud.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘Not at all. Barbet discerned that the suspension nails had been driven through Destot’s Space.’
Amy knows he means the gap in the wrist bounded by the hamate, capitate, triquetral and lunate bones. ‘I can see that could certainly be strong enough.’
‘It is. I assure you.’ He sounds almost offended. ‘If you look at the Shroud, you’ll notice that the thumbs are not visible. Can you see that, do you have a photograph to inspect?’
Amy enlarges the shot she has onscreen. ‘Yes, yes I have one onscreen.’
‘Good. Well, as a pathologist, you’ll know that a nail driven through Destot’s Space would damage the Median nerve and that would almost always result in the thumbs turning inwards.’
Amy glances at the photograph and it seems to comply. ‘What about stigmata marks – they’re always in the palms of hands, aren’t they? I’ve never seen religious paintings of people showing their wrists bleeding.’
‘Not a question for me, Doctor, I am not a theologian, I am a scientist. Though I do believe stigmata take various forms and are not confined only to Catholicism.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Indeed. You’ll find evidence of stigmata in Buddhism and even in polytheistic religions, particularly ones with tutelary deities.’
‘Professor, I’ll have to take your word for it.’ Her eyes go to the HD prints again. ‘I’m looking at the feet and I can’t see any images indicating how they were nailed to the cross.’
‘An excellent observation. You can’t see any because it’s very blurred. There is a possibility, a thin one I believe, that the nails were inserted between the metatarsal bones.’
‘Would that have been sufficient to hold a grown man?’
He becomes animated again. ‘I think not, which is why I pinned my cadaver through the ankles. Entirely adequate. Again, if you examine any good stills, you will see dark patches indicating a spillage of blood around the ankle regions.’
Amy’s not sure she can discern such detail but she doesn’t want to debate the matter. ‘Professor, is it possible for you to mail me a summary of your findings?’
‘Certainly, Quentell gave me your details.’
‘Thank you. One thing, though, before
you go – I’ve been wondering about blood spillage and decomposition. Hours after death, wounds don’t bleed enough to transfer perfect outlines of their shapes onto cloth. A body kept in the open air for days will putrefy and there will be signs of loss of body fluids and matters. The Shroud shows no evidence of that. How can you explain it?’
‘Easily,’ he says. ‘It’s a miracle.’
93
TURIN
It’s 2.30 a.m. Saturday when Nic and Fabio Goria have settled Erica Craxi in a safe house guarded by the investigator’s men. As they leave, rain beats hard on the windshield of Goria’s speeding Fiat – too hard for the worn wipers to make clean sweeps of the heavy downpour.
The lateness of the hour, the warmth of the car and the rhythm of the rain are testing the detective’s ability to stay awake. Boy, does he need some shut-eye. He drifts off as he listens to the repetitive rasp of the tyres on the wet road and the rain hitting the windows. He’s miles away. Out on the open sea, his old boat cutting white water as it picks up speed towards the sun shimmering on the horizon. He turns towards the laughing voices on the back of the boat. Carolina and Max are there in red life-jackets, wind in their hair, the joy of life all over their wonderful faces.
Nic wakes. His heart is hammering with the pain of remembering them. He winds down the window and lets the cold air and beating rain pound his face. Not long now. Not long until late nights and murder cases like this are problems for other people. Gradually, familiar city centre sights smear themselves across the rain-streaked window. Goria kills the engine and headlights as he draws up to the kerb around the corner from Nic’s hotel. ‘Here you are. Now you can have a proper sleep.’
He yawns as he unbuckles his seat belt. ‘Thanks, I certainly need it. Given the circumstances, Fabio, you and your guys did okay tonight. Erica Craxi certainly gave us plenty to follow up on.’
