by Kim Fleet
Vasily tipped back his head and laughed. ‘No, my friend, you wouldn’t.’
‘So where did you buy it? Is there a new auction house specialising in relics?’
Vasily lowered his voice. ‘Who says I bought it cleanly?’
It was a moment before Luker caught on. ‘You bought this illegally?’
Vasily shrugged and stowed his phone back in his pocket. ‘Everything in this world is available,’ he said, ‘for a price.’
CHAPTER
FIVE
Monday, 26 October 2015
14:43 hours
‘I’m afraid our client is running a little late,’ Simon Hughes said, as he ushered Eden into his office.
‘That’s fine,’ she said, taking a seat in a leather chair that was so slippery she had to plant both feet on the floor to stop herself sliding off. ‘You can fill me in on the background before he gets here.’
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s all quite delicate,’ he started.
Eden raised an eyebrow. ‘Are we talking official secrets delicate?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. More … celebrity … delicate.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘You may or may not have heard of Lewis Jordan,’ Simon said. ‘He’s a TV producer. An independent.’
‘Didn’t he do that exposé of suicide cults?’
‘Yes. Won an award for it, if I remember rightly.’ He brushed an invisible speck of fluff from his knee. His trousers hitched up a fraction, flashing his socks. Today’s were a vibrant turquoise colour. ‘Lewis Jordan’s coming to Cheltenham to make a documentary. Unfortunately, he’s been getting a number of unpleasant letters and is worried.’
‘Poison pen letters?’
‘Quite so. I need you to find out who’s sending them so they can be stopped.’
‘Why hasn’t he got someone on it before?’ Eden asked. ‘No offence, Simon, but why choose a Cheltenham firm of solicitors to handle this, not one of the big London sets?’
Simon gazed out of the window and didn’t answer immediately. Eventually he said, ‘He has a previous connection with Cheltenham.’
Before Eden could comment, there was a commotion on the stairs outside, and a voice boomed, ‘Is he up here, Gwen? I’ll go straight in, eh? Blimey, this place has gone upmarket since last time.’
And Gwen’s voice, irritated, saying, ‘Wait a moment, I’ll let him know you’re here. He’s got someone in there.’
Too late. The door bounced back on its hinges and a tall, dark man erupted into the room. Gwen pushed past him, her face twisted.
‘Sorry, Mr Hughes, I said you were in conference but he …’
Simon silenced her with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s quite alright, Gwen. Perhaps a tray of coffee?’
‘Peppermint tea for me, if you have it.’ The man flashed a set of expensive dental work. Veneers or implants, slightly too large, Eden thought.
He advanced on them, pumped Simon’s hand, then turned the full force of his personality on Eden. ‘Lewis Jordan,’ he said.
Eden sized him up. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Botox injections from the droop of that eyebrow. Curly hair cropped close to his scalp; toffee-coloured skin, very smooth and toned. Expensive, spicy aftershave, too liberally applied. A black cashmere overcoat slung over his shoulders like a gangster. His eyes were dark and deep-set, the lashes webbed with mucus.
‘Eden Grey,’ she said, determined her grip would match his. ‘Mr Hughes asked me to be here. I’m a private detective.’
‘My own private eye. Now I know I’ve arrived!’ Lewis announced, throwing himself into a chair. ‘Now Eden, let me tell you what the deal is.’
Eden slid a notebook out of her bag and hunted down a pen.
‘I’m here to make a documentary,’ Lewis said. ‘You remember a few months ago there was a big fuss about that skeleton at Hailes Abbey?’
Eden hid a smile. ‘I remember.’
‘When they dug it up, they found something amazing.’ Lewis lowered his voice and bent in close to tell her in an awed tone, ‘The Holy Blood of Hailes. You’ve heard of it?’
‘Yes, in fact my boyfriend …’
‘So what I’m going to do is investigate this blood. It’s going to be CSI Hailes Abbey, you get me?’
‘Hm-mm.’
‘Money no object. I’ve sweet-talked the studio into stumping up.’ He winked at Simon. ‘So it’s going to have the full forensic works. And I’ll be there filming the whole way.’
Gwen rattled in with a tray of coffee and Lewis’s peppermint tea in a chipped china beaker. She dumped it beside him with a curt, ‘That’s yours,’ then poured and creamed coffee for Eden and Simon with as much graciousness as if she was understudy for the Queen.
No one spoke while she was in the room. As soon as the door closed behind her, Lewis Jordan continued, ‘The trouble is, Eden, I’ve been getting these letters. Nasty, y’know what I mean?’
‘When did they start?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘You’ve taken them to the police?’
Lewis huffed. ‘Plod. Like I’d speak to them.’ A look she couldn’t interpret passed between him and Simon.
‘Do you have the letters on you?’ Eden asked.
Lewis fossicked about in the inside pocket of his coat and extracted a large envelope. He tossed it over and Eden pulled out a sheaf of papers.
You don’t deserve to live
I’ll tell the world what you are
Keep looking over your shoulder, sick boy
One word from me and your life is over
Each message was printed onto a single sheet of ordinary, cheap A4 paper, the sort found in a million offices and homes throughout the country.
‘Have you still got the envelopes?’ Eden asked.
‘Only one.’
It was a plain white A4 envelope, available from a high street stationers. Self-adhesive flap so no DNA there. The stamp was for a large letter, probably bought as part of a strip of self-adhesive stamps, but it might be worth checking for saliva, just in case the letter writer was careless, or confident. No postmark, only a biro scratch through the stamp.
‘Anything else? Phone calls? Text messages? Any threats on social media?’ Eden asked.
‘Nothing like that,’ Lewis said, ‘but some flowers came for me a few days ago. I wasn’t at home – my cleaner took them in. She thought it was a hoax and chucked them in the bin. I only found them when I took the garbage out.’
‘What sort of flowers?’
‘A wreath. All dried up and dead.’
‘Any message on it?’
‘A card saying “This is what you deserve”.’
‘Nasty,’ Eden said. ‘Do you still have the wreath and the card?’
‘No, I’d emptied the garbage on them before I realised.’ Lewis grinned. ‘Didn’t want to keep them covered with bacon fat and tea leaves.’
‘Shame,’ she said, ‘we could have traced the florist from the card.’
‘What do you think, Eden?’ Simon asked. ‘Can you do some digging?’
‘I’ll certainly see what I can find out.’ She addressed Lewis. ‘Are you worried about your personal safety?’
Lewis dug a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed at his eyes. ‘I can’t believe someone hates me that much. Me! I’ve never done anyone any harm.’
‘I can give you some advice on how to protect yourself,’ Eden said.
Lewis shook his head. ‘No one would hurt me, but yeah, between us, these letters have shook me up.’
Eden folded the letters back into the envelope. ‘I’ll keep hold of these and see what I can find out. I need you to write out a list of everyone – everyone – who might be even the slightest bit niggled with you. OK?’
‘Sure, if you think it’ll help. It won’t take long. ’Scuse me a minute.’ He pulled a small bottle out of his pocket and in a practised movement, tipped back his head and put a drop in one eye, then the other.
He sat back up, blinking. ‘Right, Eden, we’ve got work to do. I’ve got a very interesting meeting to get to and a skeleton to look at. Wanna come?’
Eden glanced across at Simon, who shrugged and said, ‘Let me know if you need anything. Nice to see you again, Lewis.’
As they left, Lewis poked his head into reception and called, ‘Great to see you again, Gwennie. Looking lovely, girlfriend.’
Eden couldn’t see her reaction, but she heard a foot connecting at high speed with a metal bin and a muttered comment that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Drop dead.’
As they walked down the High Street, Lewis told her more about the documentary. ‘I rang the people at the Cheltenham Cultural Heritage Unit – they’re the guys who dug it up. They sound like a right bunch, going to be perfect on camera. I’m thinking tweedy professor, a bit eccentric: audiences love that.’
Eden, lengthening her stride to match his, doubted that Aidan would see it that way. Lewis was right: this would be a very interesting meeting.
The Cheltenham Cultural Heritage Unit was only a stone’s throw from Cheltenham Minster, the town’s remaining mediaeval church. They cut through the churchyard with its chest tombs and squirrels, sandwich wrappers and beer bottles, to a Georgian townhouse opposite the museum. The forecourt was filled with cars: Aidan’s elderly but gleaming black Audi rubbed shoulders with three cars of dubious heritage: rusting, multi-coloured, and ancient.
Lewis pressed the bell and Trev opened the door.
‘Eden! Can’t get enough of me, eh?’
‘I’m only human, Trev,’ she said, squeezing past. ‘Trev, this is Lewis Jordan.’
‘The film guy who’s going to make us all famous. Great to meet you.’ Trev crushed Lewis’s hand. ‘The gang’s this way.’
Trev led them down to the basement and into a room filled with metal shelves crammed with cardboard boxes of archaeological finds. The skeleton was in a side room, laid out on a gurney.
Aidan glanced up as they came in. He was dressed in a sharp, slim-fitting black suit, grey shirt and impeccable tie. Clear skin, clean fingernails, not a wisp of nose or ear hair. Eden sneaked a glance at Lewis, amused to see the disappointment on his face. So much for the tweedy professor.
‘Dr Aidan Fox,’ said Aidan, shaking hands. ‘I’m the director of the Cultural Heritage Unit. I see you’ve already met Trev. And these are Mandy and Andy, both archaeologists.’ He paused and peered past Lewis to Eden. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m working with Lewis,’ she said.
‘Besides, she did find the skeleton,’ Trev interrupted. ‘Only fair she should be in the film.’
Lewis rounded on her. ‘You found the skeleton?’
Eden shook her head. ‘It’s not important.’ She caught him appraising her. ‘And I don’t want to be in any film.’
Lewis seemed bewildered by the thought that anyone would eschew the chance to be famous. He recovered quickly, though, and advanced on the gurney bearing the skeleton.
‘So this is our guy,’ he breathed. ‘Where’s the rest of him?’
‘The skeleton was disarticulated,’ Aidan said, ‘and spread over a large area. We excavated what we could, but it’s not unusual for some of the bones to be missing.’
‘So there might be bits of him out there somewhere?’
‘Very likely,’ Aidan said. ‘Finding them is another matter.’
‘What can you tell me about it?’ Lewis said.
‘The skeleton is male, and at least a couple of centuries old.’ Aidan gave a wolfish smile. ‘The police were pleased to hear that. Meant they could cross it off their homicide figures.’ He continued, ‘Fully grown but no signs of arthritis or bone deterioration that you expect in old age, so I’d guess between twenty-five and forty-five years old.’
‘And what about the blood?’
‘Blood?’ Aidan frowned at the dry skeleton.
‘You know. The Holy Blood. The thing you found with him,’ Lewis said.
‘We don’t know for definite that it was with him,’ Aidan said, crossing his arms. ‘And the Holy Blood of Hailes was destroyed during the Dissolution of the Monasteries.’
Lewis flapped his hands. ‘Whatever. Where is it?’
Aidan nodded at Mandy, who selected a box from a shelf and opened it. In a nest of bubble wrap lay the crimson bottle with the silver stopper. She handed a pair of white cotton gloves to Lewis. He put them on and picked up the bottle, holding it up to the light.
To her astonishment, Eden detected the glint of tears in his eyes as he gazed at the bottle.
‘The Holy Blood of Hailes,’ Lewis whispered. ‘The Holy Blood of Hailes.’
‘We don’t know that,’ Aidan began. ‘It’s probably a replica that was used to …’
Lewis butted in, ‘We’ll get it tested. DNA, carbon dating, the works.’
Trev whistled. ‘Cost a bit.’
‘Money’s no object. Not for this.’ Again that gleam in his eye. Lewis laid the bottle back in its box as gently as if it were a newborn infant. ‘I’ve arranged for an expert to come down and look at this skeleton.’
Eden saw Aidan bristle, and recognised the slight to his professional dignity. He was a bones man; he knew what he was doing, and the suggestion that Lewis dismissed his judgement and skills hurt him. From the corner of her eye she saw Mandy and Trev draw themselves up. They felt the snub, too.
Lewis, blind to the fact he was offending everyone in the room, continued, ‘She couldn’t get here today. She’s pretty important, done a lot of war crimes trials in the past.’
Aidan let out a groan.
‘But she’s agreed to come down tomorrow and have a look at the skeleton, take samples and get it analysed for us.’ Lewis grinned round at everyone. ‘She’ll tell us what’s what.’
Aidan caught Eden’s eye as Lewis rattled on. ‘She’s called Dr Lisa Greene. Very clever from what I’ve heard. You’ll love her.’
As a parting shot, Lewis added, ‘And I’ll have a cameraman with me tomorrow, so if you could all look the part,’ a pointed glare at Aidan’s immaculate suit, ‘I’d appreciate it.’
Lewis was staying at the Imperial Hotel: a neoclassical building guarded by a line of pillars, standing at the top of the Promenade and commanding a view down the whole street. Opposite was a gun carriage left over from the Crimean War, commemorating a battle that had long since fallen from collective memory.
‘I used to swing on that,’ Lewis commented as they passed, and negotiated their way through the revolving door into the hotel.
As they entered the lobby, a slender woman in a short organza skirt, thick tights and Doc Martens bobbed out of the coffee lounge brandishing an iPad. In her late twenties, she had matte black hair cut in an Eton crop, the merest suggestion of pale blonde roots glinting along her parting.
‘Lewis! There you are!’ she announced. ‘I’ve emailed the press releases but Grazia wants to send round a photographer, and BBC Midlands Today is coming to interview you in …’ she tipped her wrist to read her watch. It was a heavy, man’s watch on a broad silver band, ‘… ten minutes.’
‘Who’s this?’ Eden asked.
‘Xanthe Fleming, my private assistant,’ Lewis said. He slipped his arm round Xanthe’s waist and pulled her to him. She wriggled free of his grasp by elbowing him in the ribs and rattled through a hectic interview schedule that would occupy him for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening.
Upper crust girls’ boarding school, Eden decided, and a couple of pints of blue blood. Probably appeared in Country Life as deb of the month before hoofing off to a redbrick university to study fine art.
Time to take control.
‘Can I speak to you both for a moment?’ Eden said. ‘We need to get some things clear.’
‘Sorry, which publication are you?’ Xanthe said, consulting the iPad.
‘I’m Eden Grey, I’m a private detective.’
Lewis frowned. ‘What’s up?’
Eden st
eered them into the coffee lounge and to the far end where they couldn’t be overheard by the girl on the reception desk.
‘I think it would be better if you kept a low profile,’ Eden said. ‘Announcing to the world exactly where you are and what you’re doing isn’t a good idea.’
‘I can’t vanish off of social media,’ Lewis said. ‘Everyone will think I’m in rehab.’
‘You’ve been getting hate mail,’ Eden reminded him. ‘And you’re paying me to advise you. Let me tell you – the best way to protect yourself is to be invisible.’
Xanthe tutted. ‘But I’ve sent out the press releases now and had a lot of interest. Everyone wants to know about the new documentary. This holy relic thing is trending. Or it will be soon.’
‘Can you pull the press releases?’
‘No,’ Xanthe said. ‘They’d never publish anything I sent them ever again. It could take months to rebuild Lewis’s profile!’
Eden doubted that. ‘OK, but don’t send any more. Radio silence from now on, right?’
Xanthe cocked an eyebrow at Lewis, waiting for his cue.
‘You really think this is necessary, Eden?’
‘You were worried enough to hire me, what do you think?’ she said.
Lewis nodded at Xanthe. ‘Keep it quiet for a while. We’ll do the big splash when the documentary’s ready.’
Two men, one brandishing a camera, bashed through the revolving door.
‘That’ll be Midlands Today!’ Xanthe squealed, springing up to greet them.
While Xanthe fussed over the cameraman and reporter, Lewis turned to Eden. ‘Find out who’s sending those letters,’ he said. ‘To be honest, Eden, they’re freaking me out.’
Eden went home and spent an hour on the Internet researching Lewis Jordan. A search engine brought back thousands of hits, many from gossip magazines and celebrity kiss-and-tell exposes. A string of beautiful pouting girlfriends. All blonde, she noted. Lewis definitely had a type he favoured, but there were also a number of encounters when he’d strayed from the blueprint and picked up a girl in a bar, in a club, at a TV party and made the mistake of being photographed smuggling her into his flat. And then there were the pap snaps – Lewis leering and drunk as he went into or came out of a lap-dancing club. For a serious documentary maker, he lived like a premier footballer.
