by Kevin Ashman
Rubria realised she had been very lucky. There were six other acolytes ready to take the next step forward but she had been selected by the high Priestess as the most ready and had lain prone for two days before the image of the Goddess, giving thanks for her selection. She stared at the open doorway holding her breath as the footsteps approached until, at last the Pontifex Maximus stood before her.
‘You are summoned, Acolyte!’ intoned the familiar voice formally. Rubria took a pace forward……and slammed the door in his face!
‘Get thee from my vision, temptation,’ she cried out, ‘I reject you!’
As expected, a minute later the door was flung open once more and six Sisters who had already served their times as Priestesses, filed into the room and took their place in a circle around her. She dropped to her knees, and bending her head forward, allowed her long golden tresses to hang low to the floor. Another person entered the room and stopped before Rubria.
‘Do you discard all worldly possessions acolyte?’ asked the High Priestess gently.
‘I do,’ she answered meekly.
‘Do you surrender to the service of the great mother, blessed Virgin of the house of Vesta?’
‘With all my heart.’
‘Will you repel the hand of man in deed and thought, even unto death?’
‘I will!’
‘And will you nurture the flames of our mother’s untouched womb, forsaking all other god’s.’
‘Until the day I die.’
‘Then make the choice, Acolyte. Leave the world of the ignorant and embrace the heart of the enlightened.’
The high Priestess gathered Rubria’s hair and bunched it together, holding it high. Another Priestess holding a silken cushion stepped forward and gave her a pair shears. The gathered Sisters said a mutual prayer, and as she prayed with her eyes tightly shut, Rubria’s hair fell to the floor beneath her. When the last of the golden locks had been cut she waited patiently as the stubble was shaved from her scalp. Fragrant oils were smoothed over her skin and she was helped up to face her fellow priestesses. A Palla of purest white silk, the mantle that would be the only type of clothing she would wear for the next ten years was draped over her shoulders and wrapped around her body before the surplus was draped down her left side. A white lace Infula was placed gently over her head and the headdress hung down over her shoulders to be fastened to the Palla over her left breast with a Suffibulum, a broach of pure gold.
When they had finished, the high Priestess handed Rubria the cushion, this time laden with her old clothing and topped with her shorn golden locks. They left her alone in the cell for a few minutes, a beautiful vision in white, until once again the voice of the Pontifex Maximus boomed out.
‘Acolyte, you are summoned!’
This time, after taking a deep breath, Rubria stepped forward and left the cell, carrying the remnants of her old life before her and walked towards the roaring flames of the fires of Vesta.
Chapter 4
London 2010
‘What do you mean, not working for the police?’ asked India, half trotting to keep up with Brandon as they walked through the morning light to the car, ‘You said you were a Detective Inspector.’
‘I lied.’
‘Why?’
He turned and spoke over the bonnet.
‘I bent the truth,’ he said, ‘I am working with the police, not for the police.’
‘Now you’re not making any sense,’ she said, opening her door, ‘You were with the police by the library, that constable brought me to you.’
‘Ah yes, Wendy. She’s the one who tipped me off about you and the necklace.’
‘Is that legal?’
‘Well it’s not very professional but in my game, it pays to have a lot of, shall we say, inside contacts.’
‘And what exactly is your game?’
‘I suppose you could call it private investigation,’ he said, ‘But a bit more complicated. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘On occasion, shit happens! Usually our great police force can sort it out but occasionally, something happens that is beyond their means and they call in certain agencies that have the skills to delve deeper.’
‘Like MI5 you mean?’
‘No, not really, they are too engrossed in national security.’
‘MI6?’
‘Pen pushers!’
‘SAS then, they can do anything.’
‘Hairy arsed soldiers with no subtlety,’ he said dismissively, ‘That leaves people like me. Someone who can use the infrastructure of the government to find out things that certain people would rather keep out of the public eye, who by the way, are happy to pay handsomely for our services.
‘And these investigations, I suppose they are out of the ordinary?’
‘Usually, and quite often impossible to solve. Think of this assignment as mission impossible,’ he smiled,’ And I’m your Tom Cruise.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she mumbled and climbed in to the car.
Two hours later India was back outside the library sat in the Land Rover. The fire brigade had long gone and a couple of council workers were putting up some temporary fencing. They had stopped off at her flat for he to pack a small case, and, after leaving a message on her mothers phone to look after the cat, had rejoined Brandon in his car. Within half an hour, she found herself outside the library once more.
‘So what now?’ she asked.
‘Right!’ he said, ‘First of all we need that necklace; you said it’s in the safe right?’
‘Yes, I put it there myself.’
‘Do you keep much money in the safe?’
‘No, why?’
‘If you did then the chances are the council would have had it removed. If it’s used for small change then it’s probably still in there.’
‘And you want me to get it.’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘What about him?’ she asked pointing at the lone police officer standing guard on the steps, waiting for a locksmith to arrive.
‘Leave him to me!’
‘You’re not going to kill him are you?’
‘Nothing quite so dramatic, I’m afraid, I was thinking more of using this.’ He flashed his warrant card.
‘Oh!’ She said. A few minutes later they stood in the foyer of the library, having been allowed through the broken front door by the police officer.
‘The office is over here,’ she said, wading through the wet aftermath of the blaze. ‘Looks like the fire brigade caused more damage than the actual fire.’
‘Where’s the safe?’ he asked.
‘Under Jenny’s desk, this one over here,’ she said crouching down, ‘Shit!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘She looked up from her position on the floor.
‘Someone’s beaten us to it.’
He stooped down and saw the door wrenched open, the guilty crowbar still lying on the floor.
‘What sort of stupid safe is that?’ he asked angrily.
‘The sort needed for a petty cash tin and a purchase card,’ she said, ‘It’s a library not a bloody bank.’
‘Point taken!’ he said, standing up, ‘This necklace, you had a close look at it right?’
‘Briefly, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about, it was worthless, and certainly not worth dying for.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Look,’ she answered. ‘This is all very exciting, but can we do this somewhere else? We have conned our way into a crime scene that stinks like a bonfire, close to where someone was murdered. I am not exactly comfortable here.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘We’ll go to my place.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Well for one I only just met you,’ she said, ‘For all I know you could be a mad axe murderer and luring me back to your
lair.’
‘It’s hardly a lair,’ he laughed, ‘Why don’t you reserve judgement? It’s about ten minutes away.’
‘Probably a slick bachelor pad full of Ikea furniture and Barry White albums,’ she mumbled.
It was nearer twenty minutes when they stood outside Brandon’s home. The car had been parked in the double garage next to the jet-ski and they had both crunched across the Cotswold gravel driveway to stand in front of the cottage.
‘You have got to be fucking joking!’ she said, staring in awe at the chocolate box scene before her. The cottage was made of white painted stone, with deep set leaded windows framed by swathes of climbing ivy. The sweeping roof was thatched and a heavy oak door sat snugly inside a porch covered with the obligatory roses.
‘I’m in the wrong job,’ she mumbled.
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a cliche really,’ he said, ‘Not really my scene but Mrs Walker loves it!’
She span around.
‘Mrs Walker?’
‘Yes, come on I can hear her out the back, let me introduce you.’ He strode off around the side of the beautiful house, passing rows of carefully manicured flower pots. After a second, India ran after him and grabbed his arm.
‘Wait a minute,’ she hissed, ‘You never said you were married, What’s your wife going to think about you bringing another woman home first thing in the morning?’
‘Ask her yourself,’ he said, ‘But do me a favour, could you curb the language a bit?’
‘Language’ she said in astonishment, ‘I’ll show you fuc….’
‘Ahem!’ interrupted a voice and she spun around to face the person obviously standing behind her. The woman stood before her in a heavy duffel coat and green Wellington boots, holding a bucket half full of chicken feed.
‘Hello dear,’ she said sweetly, ‘Nice to meet you, my name is Agnes, Brandon’s mother!’
India and Agnes sat in the farmhouse kitchen drinking coffee as if they had known each other for years. Brandon had disappeared into the depths of the cottage.
So!’ said Agnes, ‘It’s not often he brings a lady home, what’s the occasion, I don’t suppose there is any good news on the horizon is there?’
India paused for a moment before realising what she meant.
‘Oh no,’ she gasped, ‘Nothing like that, Mrs Walker, we are not….. I mean…… Brandon and I are work colleagues.’
‘Oh I see,’ said the woman, ‘Never mind, early days yet.’
‘Mother!’ said Brandon coming back into the kitchen, ‘Leave her alone, this is strictly business.’ He turned to India ‘Anyway, let’s show you your room. We can both catch up on some sleep and then get down to business.’
‘My room?’ queried India
‘Yes, dear,’ said Agnes, ‘You will be using Brandon’s room. Don’t worry I’ve already made it up. There’s clean bedding and I have run you a nice bath.’
‘I don’t understand, how did you know I was coming?’
‘Oh Brandon sent me an e mail a few hours ago,’ she said holding up a touch screen phone, ‘He is good like that.’
India glared at Brandon.
‘Yes he is, isn’t he?’ she said sarcastically, ‘And where will Brandon be sleeping exactly?’ she asked, not letting go of his stare.
‘Don’t you worry about him,’ said Agnes, standing up and finishing the last of her coffee, ‘He will have the couch in his den!’
India stood in the doorway feeling a little awkward. She had slept for six hours and made her way downstairs in a fresh pair of jeans and a baggy T shirt. Brandon was already up reading a newspaper at the kitchen table.
‘Hi there,’ he said looking up, ‘You look better, come on through. Hungry?’
‘Famished,’ she said.
‘Mom,’ he shouted, ‘India’s awake, could you bring us something to eat.’
‘Will do,’ came a distant response
‘Do it yourself you lazy git,’ hissed India.
‘It’s okay,’ he laughed, ‘She loves it really, come on, we’ll go through to the den.’ He stood up to lead India through a side door. To her surprise it opened immediately onto a staircase leading downward.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, ‘The bat cave?’
‘Something like that,’ he said and pushed open the door at the bottom.
India stared in shock, she was not quite sure what to expect but she hadn’t expected this. The room was how she had imagined the private offices in gentlemen’s clubs or the houses of parliament might look. The ceiling was oak panelled and the walls were completely covered with bookcases containing thousands of hard backed reference books. Subtle wall lights emitted a gentle glow and there was a log fire crackling in a hearth. The furniture consisted of two deep red leather winged armchairs and against a wall was the most comfortable looking battered leather settee she had ever seen. A glass coffee table supported by metal dragon lay in the centre and the only nod to technology was a laptop on a desk underneath a stained glass window. As the only source of natural light India realised it must have been just above ground level outside. The smell of polish hung in the air and the whole thing felt warm, comfortable and stank of money.
‘This is your den?’ she asked.
‘That’s what my mother calls it,’ he said, ‘I like to think of it as my office.’
‘Some office.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is really. After my father died I bought this cottage for mum and had the cellar done out. More to stay out of her way than anything else.’
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
‘Big C,’ he said, ‘Had a bad time of it. Anyway, make yourself comfortable, we have work to do.’
‘Sandwiches!’ called Agnes and she pushed the door open with her foot, her hands occupied with the tray containing the afternoon treats. After fussing for a while she left them alone and shut the door.
Brandon poured the tea while India took a bite of a ham and cucumber sandwich. Finally, she sat back and putting the crust on the table, put one teaspoon of sugar in her cup.
‘So Detective Inspector Walker,’ she said as she stirred her tea slowly, ‘Let’s start again, this time from the beginning. What is all this about?’
‘Do you watch the news, Miss Sommers?’ asked Brandon, sipping his tea.
‘Of course.’
‘Did you see the story about the dead girl found a couple of weeks ago in Victoria station London?’
‘I remember seeing something about it. Found in a toilet, as I recall.’
‘That’s right, fifteen years old, and do you remember what was the cause of death?’
‘Drugs?’
‘No, not drugs, but you wouldn’t know anyway. The details weren’t released to the media for the truth was too horrible for the sensitivities of the great British public. She wasn’t found in the toilet either, she was found deep in the underground complex, in a side tunnel.’
‘But the news said…’
‘Forget the news India.’ he said, ‘The news tells us what the government wants us to know. The truth is she was found by a maintenance team locked in a side room far down one of the disused tunnels and she was naked.’
‘Sexual assault?’ guessed India.
‘No. She had been beaten. whipped repeatedly by a nylon cane across her legs buttocks and back until the skin hung from her back in shreds.’
‘Oh my God,’ said India, ‘That poor girl. She must have died in agony.’
‘Not quite,’ he said, ‘There was evidence that she lived for a while after her beating. There were a few crisp packets and an empty bottle of water in there with her. It seems she had been left there in the dark and eventually died of starvation.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said India quietly, ‘Do you know who she was?’
‘Yes, her name was Diane Thomas, no one of great importance. Fifteen years old from Reading. Abducted from her home a few months ago and hasn’t been seen since until her body was found.’
‘An
d is that why you are here, to find her killer?’
‘Not exactly, we know the killer. He was a rail worker from Hammersmith called Bennett. He used to help feed the homeless part time around Victoria Station.’
‘So you know the victim, you’ve got the murderer, why are you involved?’
‘We need the motive.’
‘Can’t you ask him?’
‘He’s dead, killed himself with some sort of poison as the police broke down the door to his flat.’
‘Poison?’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s all a bit too Agatha Christie for me as well, but that’s what happened.’
‘So how am I involved?’
‘Well we interviewed all the other workers obviously but as far as they were concerned he was perfectly normal, but there was one thing about him that a few people noticed. He always wore a particular necklace. Seems like he was a bit paranoid about losing it as well, said it belonged to his mother but when we found him it was missing. We searched his flat top to bottom but there was no sign of it, apparently he had been the victim of a burglary the week before and we think it was stolen then.’
‘And you think it was the same necklace that Mr Jones brought in to the library.’
‘We do, though at the time we failed to realize its significance.’
‘How can you be sure it’s the same one?’
‘Your Mr Jones posted a picture of it on the net last week.’
‘That’s right, he did. I remember him telling me, but I still don’t understand the importance of one coin. What possible relevance could it have?’
