by James Becker
‘Come and take a look at this,’ Bronson said, moving to the kitchen window.
Like all the other ones in the property, it was a two-part sash window, single-glazed with a wooden frame. The only lock was a simple turnbuckle mounted on the top of the lower frame that locked both halves of the window together when it was rotated through ninety degrees.
Bronson pointed at three or four vertical scratches on the side of the catch.
‘That’s where he tried to slip it,’ he said, ‘and if you look down here, at the gap between the two panes, there are scratches there as well, where he forced the tool up to the catch.’
‘But he didn’t get inside the house?’
‘It’s just possible he did manage to open one of the windows, but if he did he must have secured it from the inside afterwards, and then left by one of the doors. Could he have done that?’
Angela shook her head decisively. ‘Not a chance. The rear door is bolted on the inside — in fact, we haven’t had it open since we’ve been here — and the front door’s fitted with a deadlock. I think even Richard Mayhew would have been suspicious if he’d found that open.’
‘OK,’ Bronson said, putting his arm round her shoulders. He could tell she was still nervous. ‘So apart from that first day, when it’s possible he got in through the unlatched window, or maybe even strolled in through the front door if he had the balls to do that, he can’t have got back inside.’
‘So what can we do to make sure he doesn’t get inside again? Go to the local police?’
Bronson laughed. ‘Unless the Suffolk Constabulary is very different to the one I work for in Kent, it’d be a complete waste of time. They’ll have their hands full trying to solve crimes that have already been committed. They certainly won’t have time to try to prevent a possible future crime.’
‘So what can we do?’
Bronson glanced round the room, then looked at her. His face softened. ‘As I see it, you’ve got three choices. First, do nothing. Keep all the doors and windows properly secured and hope that’ll be enough to keep this tea-leaf out. Second, stop what you’re doing here and transport the entire contents of the house straight to the British Museum and do your classifying and sorting out there. That’s probably the best option.’
Angela shook her head. ‘Most of this stuff is of no interest to the museum — we really don’t want to clutter the place up with the kind of things you can find in any provincial antique shop. We’ll cherry-pick the very best bits and most probably sell the rest through a local auction house. What’s the third option?’
Bronson grinned at her. ‘It’s obvious, really. You employ a night-watchman. Somebody to patrol the house and make sure nobody breaks in.’
Angela stared at him for a few seconds. ‘We can’t afford to do that — not on our budget. Have you any idea how much it would cost?’
‘That depends who you get. Some people are a lot cheaper than others.’
‘You’ve got someone in mind, haven’t you?’
Bronson’s smile widened. ‘Of course I have,’ he said. ‘Me.’
15
Michael Daniel Killian stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimaced. The pad over his left ear, which he’d only changed an hour earlier, was showing spots of red again. Carefully, he unwound the bandage from his head, then teased away the cotton pad he’d placed over his injured ear. Some of the fibres had stuck to the open wound, and he gave a grunt of pain as the pad came free and his ear started bleeding again.
He turned his head sideways and looked closely at the wound. The old bastard in England had done a pretty good job. His teeth had been strong and sharp, and his jaw muscles surprisingly powerful. His bite, and Killian’s initially futile attempts to escape his grasp, when he’d jerked away, had actually severed the upper part of the ear, and that section of it was now attached only by a narrow band of flesh close to his head.
He’d not tried to get his injury treated in England — the old man had died in the house, and any doctor he went to would remember such an unusual wound. His image might even have been recorded on the CCTV system of any hospital he visited. So he’d simply covered the injury as best he could.
He’d also been worried about the surveillance cameras he knew were all over British airports, so he’d dumped his Heathrow to LA ticket and instead had taken the Eurostar to France, then hopped a flight from Paris to New York, and then on to LA, in an attempt to muddy the waters. To anyone who asked about his bandaged head — and only two people had during his entire journey — he’d explained he had a bad ear infection, and was returning to the States for treatment.
But Killian hadn’t gone to a hospital or doctor in America because he still feared his injury would excite comment and — far worse — be remembered. Instead he’d placed pads around his ear to hold the loose part in position, hoping that it would somehow re-attach itself without the need for stitches. He could now see that this wasn’t happening.
For a couple of minutes Killian stared at his ripped ear as small rivulets of blood dripped off the lobe, splashing into the sink. He couldn’t go on without doing something about the injury.
Replacing the cotton pad, he roughly retied the bandage around his head, tightly enough to stop any more blood seeping out. Then he walked out of the bathroom and down the hall to the smallest bedroom of his modest and fairly isolated single-storey house, located in the countryside a few miles outside Monterey.
The moment he touched the door handle, a feeling of peace and contentment suffused his body. He opened the door and stepped inside.
At the far end of the room stood a tall cupboard, the doors and sides hidden behind deep purple cloth. Above it, a richly ornamented crucifix gleamed golden in the light from the candles burning on either side of it, the only illumination in the room. Directly in front of the makeshift altar was a single bare wooden pew, wide enough for only two or three people to kneel side by side. Killian had bought the pew from an antique dealer in France, and knew it was over five hundred years old.
He closed the door behind him, crossed himself and bowed his head, then walked forward slowly, reverently, to the wooden pew. He stepped into the centre of it, crossed himself again, then knelt down, clasping his hands together. For some seconds his lips moved in silent prayer, then he looked up at the crucifix.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he began. ‘I need Your guidance and Your help and Your strength to complete the sacred task You have set for me.’
Ten minutes later, Killian emerged from his chapel, bowed once towards the altar, then closed the door behind him. Then, removing his black shirt and clerical collar, he assembled the materials he would need for what he now knew he had to do.
In his bathroom, he again stared at his reflection for a few seconds, then plugged the electric soldering iron into the shaver socket and tested the tip with his finger to ensure that it was getting hot. Taking a small piece of cotton cloth, he folded it until it fitted over his entire mouth. He used one hand to hold the cloth there while he wrapped duct tape around his head to hold the material firmly in place, as a simple but efficient gag. Finally, he made sure that the scissors were close to hand.
His preparations complete, Killian unwrapped the bandage around his head and removed the pad from his ear. Once again, blood started to flow from the open wound.
Picking up the scissors, he opened the blades and positioned them over the thin band of tissue that connected the two sections of his ear. As the steel of the scissors touched his flesh, Killian jumped involuntarily, then steadied himself. He took a deep breath through his nose, and squeezed the blades together.
The pain was instant and startling as the twin blades closed together, cutting deep, and despite the gag, he screamed, the sound emerging as a muffled howl. Tears streamed down his face. For several seconds he couldn’t even see his image in the mirror, then he blinked furiously and rubbed his eyes.
The loose flap of flesh was still attached, still hanging from
the rest of his ear. He knew he’d have to do it again. He took several deep breaths, then positioned the scissors once more. This time, he closed his eyes before he applied pressure to the handles.
He heard a distinct ‘crunch’ as the scissors sliced through the remaining flesh, then a faint wet slap as the top of his ear landed in the sink in front of him. He didn’t look down as he was trying very hard not to scream again, and his eyes had once more filled with tears. But, he thought, as his vision slowly cleared, at least the worst of it was over. Or perhaps not. He glanced down at the soldering iron, its tip smoking ominously.
His ear was bleeding copiously, the amputation of the remaining flap of tissue having cut through several blood vessels. Killian dabbed at it with a piece of cotton cloth, which was instantly soaked with blood, turning a deep red. His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the soldering iron. As he lifted it past his face he could feel the radiant heat on his cheek. He hesitated for barely a second, then touched the tip of the implement to the top of his ear closest to his head, where the blood flow was most pronounced.
This pain was different, even worse than before, a searing, burning agony that seemed unbearable. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air. Suddenly Killian felt he couldn’t breathe. He reached up and tore the rough gag from his mouth, gulped in a lungful of air and screamed. After a few seconds, the pain faded and he felt more in control. He looked in the mirror again. The treatment, such as it was, did seem to be working. The blood flow had clearly diminished, at least around the fresh, straight cut he’d made with the scissors.
Gritting his teeth, Killian lifted the soldering iron again and pressed it once more to the top of his ear. And once more he screamed.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, he’d managed to stop all the bleeding, though the side of his head felt as if it was on fire. The wound to the top of his ear looked appalling, a rough crust of red and black burnt flesh, where the tip of the soldering iron had done its work. He hoped it would now start to heal.
Gingerly, taking infinite care, he applied a salve to the injury. That cooled the burning sensation, at least a little, but did nothing for the pain. He took a clean cotton pad, rested it gently against his ear and cautiously wrapped a bandage around his head to hold it in place, grimacing as the pressure increased. Finally he swallowed half a dozen painkillers — three times the recommended dose, but he needed something to reduce the agony.
He walked out of the bathroom — he’d clean up the mess in the sink later, when he felt better — and stumbled down the corridor to the lounge, grabbing a bottle of whisky and a glass. He slumped into a recliner near the window, poured a generous two fingers into the glass and downed it in a couple of gulps. The fiery liquid seared his throat as he swallowed it, then settled warmly, comfortingly in his stomach. He eased backwards, turning his head to avoid his torn ear touching the fabric of the chair, and lay there, glad his ordeal was over.
As the painkillers started to kick in, the throbbing ache from the side of his head began to subside. Killian thought back over the events of the last few weeks, wondering if he could have handled things differently. He shook his head, and instantly wished he hadn’t as a fresh spike of pain lanced through his head.
It had begun a couple of years earlier, with a visit from a former colleague, Father Mitchell, a deeply troubled man who’d long been aware of Killian’s encyclopedic knowledge of Church history, its doctrine and practices, and without doubt this had influenced his decision to break the sacred trust of the confessional.
Killian closed his eyes and replayed the conversation in his mind.
‘Do you believe in the sanctity of the confessional?’ Mitchell had asked him.
‘Of course. Anything learned in the confessional is to be kept between you, your parishioner and God.’
‘Do you think there are any circumstances when that trust can be breached? Suppose one of your parishioners confesses to murder? What then?’
‘The position of the Church is unequivocal. What’s said in the confessional is sacred. You should encourage your parishioner to surrender to the police, of course, and confess to his crime. But you yourself may not breach that trust and approach the authorities.’
Mitchell had nodded, because he had already known the orthodox answers to those questions. He’d paused and Killian had been struck by his haunted, almost terrified look.
‘Then you must be my confessor, Michael. Hear my confession. Right here, right now.’ Mitchell leaned across the table and seized his arm with a grip so firm it actually hurt.
‘Very well,’ Killian had said, reluctantly.
Mitchell had explained that a couple of weeks earlier, a man named JJ Donovan had entered the confessional box at his church in Monterey. He had seemed over-excited, hyped up about something and eager to talk. Donovan had followed his usual routine, confessing a fairly dull litany of what he perceived to be his sins, and Father Mitchell had granted him absolution, just as he’d done on previous occasions. But then, instead of ending the session as usual, he’d asked Donovan directly if there was some other matter troubling him, something that might account for his very different, almost elated, mood.
What Donovan had told him had shocked him into stunned silence; a silence that had lasted so long Donovan had eventually knocked on the pierced wooden divider between the two sections of the confessional and asked if he was still there.
‘I told Donovan that what he was planning to do was a mortal sin, a blasphemy of such appalling magnitude that nobody would ever be able to forgive him. And I absolutely forbade him to even contemplate proceeding with his plans,’ Mitchell told Killian. ‘What stunned me most was that he apparently thought I’d be pleased with what he was intending.’
‘What was it that so shocked you?’ Killian asked quietly.
So Mitchell told him, and what he said was so extraordinary that Killian felt the blood drain from his face.
‘Dear God in heaven,’ he had whispered, and then pulled himself together. ‘Tell me everything you know about that man,’ he’d said. ‘His address, telephone number, whatever you have.’
Mitchell had passed across a sheet of paper.
‘God will reward your courage,’ Killian had told him. ‘Now you must leave everything to me. If Donovan approaches you again, about anything at all, let me know immediately.’
Killian had prayed for guidance that night, and by the following morning the way ahead had been clear. Donovan himself wasn’t the problem. Whatever he had found could also be discovered by others, now or sometime in the future, and that could have disastrous consequences. The only way to achieve a lasting solution was to allow Donovan to locate the relic. And then it would have to be utterly destroyed, as would everybody involved in its search.
He would have to break the first commandment; Killian knew this. But he also knew that he’d have God’s forgiveness. Because the reality was that the killing of one or two men — or even the deaths of hundreds or thousands of people — was completely inconsequential, totally insignificant, in comparison with the stakes he was playing for.
16
‘I’m not even going to discuss it,’ Richard Mayhew snapped. ‘It’s completely out of the question.’
‘Actually, Richard, it’s not out of the question at all, and I’m afraid you’re not in any position to make an autonomous decision.’ Angela’s tone was sweetly reasonable, but there was no mistaking her resolve.
‘I’m in charge of this group,’ Mayhew snapped.
‘According to Roger Halliwell, you’re only the administrative head. That means you control the budget that buys our food and pays for the accommodation back at the pub. Otherwise, we’re here as six individuals from six different departments, with an equal say in what we do. Chris has volunteered to stay here overnight to make sure that whoever’s been burgling this house doesn’t get back inside again, and I for one think that’s a really good idea. I had hoped you’d think it was a good idea as well but, as you
don’t, maybe we should take a vote on it.’
‘What’s the harm, Richard?’ Owen Reynolds suggested. ‘It’s not like one of us staying here — Chris is a police officer, well able to take care of himself. He’s the ideal man for the job.’
Mayhew glanced around the kitchen, sensing general agreement among the others there. He made one more attempt to get them to change their minds.
‘Suppose he gets hurt? What about the insurance implications, all that kind of thing?’
‘It’s not your property,’ Bronson interjected, ‘so you have nothing to do with the insurance of the building or its contents. But if it would make you any happier, I’d be pleased to sign a waiver absolving you and the museum from any responsibility for me being here overnight.’
Mayhew recognized defeat when he saw it, and raised his hands in the air. ‘Oh, very well, then. Do whatever you like,’ he muttered irritably, and stalked out of the room.
Bronson had nothing to do. His stint as an unpaid night-watchman wouldn’t start until the evening, when everyone else had left the building, so he made a point of checking every room in the house, noting possible hiding places, points of entry, and so on. He made two complete circuits of the interior of the old house, then did the same outside, before going back to the kitchen, where Angela was still working her way steadily through the collection of china and ceramics.
‘Anything interesting?’ he asked, flicking the switch on the kettle.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘You?’
Bronson shook his head. ‘Just one very slight oddity,’ he said. ‘This house has been owned by the same family for a while, hasn’t it?’
Angela nodded. ‘Since the middle of the nineteenth century, I think. Why?’
‘There’s a coat of arms above the main door, cut into the stone lintel, and others on the backs of the dining-room chairs, on the wall over the fireplace in the salon, and so on. There’s also a coat of arms in the background of each of the two paintings of Bartholomew Wendell-Carfax that are hanging in the first-floor corridor.’
