‘I haven’t kept your brother for too long,’ Ricard said, a smile returning to his face.
‘That’s good. Now it’s time to do some serious shopping,’ chuckled Rosalind, glancing over to the receptionist.
‘That’s right, the party frock,’ said Ricard, his eyes flicking over Rosalind’s face. ‘If you’re looking for a good night out, we have a table at the annual Power of Music charity dinner this evening. We’ve been sponsoring the event for years. You are both very welcome to join us. The music is a bit young for my tastes, but lots of show biz types turn up. It’s a fun evening and it’s all in a good cause.’
Rosalind gave her brother a sideways glance.
‘Vincent, you did promise,’ she said before he could object.
Blake hoisted his eyebrows in protest but was met by his sister’s pleading eyes.
* * *
A few minutes later, Blake and Rosalind exited the Middle Temple and stepped into the bustling thoroughfare of the Strand. Blake suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned his face skywards in annoyance. ‘Tickets,’ he said palming his forehead.
After agreeing to meet with Rosalind again in five minutes outside a nearby coffee shop, he marched back off into the Middle Temple.
Blake entered Ricard’s office building and walked briskly up to the receptionist. She glanced up from her computer.
‘Back so soon?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ said Blake with a rueful shrug. ‘I forgot to ask him something.’
‘Let me have a look,’ she said as her fingers pecked at the keyboard and her brow crinkled in concentration. ‘You might be in luck. Mr Ricard’s next appointment is running a bit late.’ She snatched a glimpse at her watch. ‘Go on through and I’ll give him a call to let him know you’re here.’
At that moment the mobile phone next to her keyboard vibrated loudly, and she answered with an enthusiastic greeting. Pausing a beat, she shot Blake a cursory glance and then nodded in the direction of Ricard’s office before returning to her conversation. Blake hesitated and then left the receptionist to her call.
The door to Ricard’s office was ajar and so Blake walked in. Ricard was with his security manager, and they were talking quietly with their backs towards the door. The two men were standing next to an open wall safe behind Ricard’s desk, its existence normally hidden from view by an old oil painting of a church now hinged outwards from the wall. Blake approached the desk as Ricard reached into the safe and removed a wooden presentation box about a foot in length. He was about to hand it over to the security manager when Blake announced his entrance. ‘Sorry, I should have knocked.’
Surprised by the unexpected voice, Ricard turned around sharply. His sudden movement caused him to lose grip on the box. It fell from his fumbling fingers and bounced off the hard edge of his desk before landing with a heavy thud onto the floor. Blake rushed forward and picked it up. Immediately his eye was drawn to a wedge-shaped dent in the box just above its brass lock. Small flakes of translucent lacquer came off in his hands as he handed it back to Ricard.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Blake awkwardly.
‘Don’t worry, no harm done,’ said Ricard as he passed the box over to the security manager.
‘Did you forget something?’
‘It completely slipped my mind, but the tickets for the charity dinner, do I pick them up from the venue?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ricard. ‘Leave your address with the receptionist and I’ll get them dropped over to you later.’
Chapter 48
Blake and Rosalind were introduced to each member of their table in turn. Blake could hear little of Ricard’s introductions over the urgent vocal performance of the West London rapper who had just taken to the stage. Instead he nodded politely at the faces around the large circular table. He had been placed opposite to Rosalind. She sat between Ricard and the lady receptionist from their meeting earlier that day. Blake had been positioned between a music promoter called Martin and an overweight partner of a management consulting company who had come along for the free booze.
Rosalind gave her brother an antagonistic look from across the table. She was already half cut when she slid herself into the taxi, and Blake’s gentle words of concern had been met with a frosty reception. Just like old times, he thought, forcing a smile at the waitress who had just filled his glass with champagne. It was going to be a long night.
‘So, what line of business are you in?’ said the management consultant seated next to him as he spiked a scallop with his fork.
‘I’m in the art business.’ Blake fought to make himself heard over the ambient noise of the hall. He had long given up trying to explain his career to strangers. His profession wasn’t traditional by any means, and his route to it had been unconventional to say the least.
At Oxford, he had worked at the university’s research laboratory for archaeology and art history. There, he pioneered a number of revolutionary sample dating techniques. After Oxford, Blake was recruited by British Military Intelligence, where he spent four years in the Middle East working with international security agencies to dismantle smuggling networks set up in the aftermath of the Second Gulf War. One of his assignments was recovering priceless objects looted from the Museum of Baghdad. Following an honourable discharge, Blake was headhunted by the British Museum, where he became an authority in document authentication. Thanks to his unusual combination of skills and unparalleled knowledge of the illegal trade in rare and antique objects, Blake now acted as a special advisor to the police. Yes, much easier to say he worked in the art business.
‘In the art business, you say? Excellent,’ said the businessman. Small beads of sweat stood proud on his forehead. ‘I might be on the lookout for a few pieces myself. Just bought a rather large apartment overlooking the river and the walls are looking a little bare. Give me a call,’ the man said, dabbing his face with his napkin.
Blake nodded and took a sip of champagne.
‘It’s bloody hot in here.’
Blake agreed and gave a long sigh. He sat back in his chair and observed the scene around the table. Rosalind was holding court with Ricard and the receptionist. In her early thirties, the receptionist was pretty and had a small turned-up nose. She was sheathed in a tight-fitting dress and wore thick black eyeliner slicked across each eyelid. An enormous ring sparkled from her hand. Gesturing to a waitress to refill her glass, Rosalind finished off her anecdote and drained the glass in two gulps.
Blake could feel himself zoning out into the middle distance. People around him were talking in torrents, but no one was listening to each other. It was like having a particular note playing in one ear whilst a different discordant note played in the other. Tuneless and dissonant. Nothing real, just the sugar rush of glitz and show. It made his blood run cold. For a moment, a feeling of loneliness swept over him, before the sound of breaking glass grabbed his attention.
The sound had come from the other side of the table. Rosalind was tilting back on her chair, playing with the buttons of her new dress, as a hard-lipped waitress cleared up the broken glass from about her feet. Once the waitress had finished her work, Rosalind dropped the chair back onto four legs and reached for an empty water glass from the table. It was enthusiastically filled by the receptionist, and large splashes of white wine lapped over its brim onto the table cloth.
All through dinner, Blake kept a watch over his sister, trying to catch her eye. But she was on a mission. Blake had seen it so many times before. They were travelling though the eye of the storm, but the winds would hit soon. It was just a matter of time, and when they did they would be hurricane-force. He had to get her out of there.
Abruptly the music from the stage stopped and the voice of the celebrity host began to explain the proceedings for the evening’s charity auction. At that moment, both Ricard and the receptionist gave their apologies to Rosalind, having recognised a local councillor waving at them from another table. Quickly taking the opportunity, Blake g
ot to his feet, rounded the table and took Ricard’s seat next to his sister, his face scrunched with concern.
‘I know that bloody look,’ she slurred.
‘I think it might be time to go,’ said Blake.
Blake’s sister brushed the comment away, trying to make eye contact with a nearby waiter.
‘Come on, you’ve had a skin full,’
‘Is that right?’ she said loudly. ‘Don’t think your sister is capable of controlling herself?’ There was suddenly dead air between them. Blake could feel the eyes of the table looking at them as the celebrity host droned on from the stage.
He leant forward and put his arm around her.
‘Let’s go home,’ he whispered.
She pulled herself away, letting his hand drop from her shoulders like a heavy coat slipping to the floor.
‘Piss off,’ she said, her eyes throwing daggers at him. ‘Always trying to get in the way. “Must look after little sister”,’ she jibed. ‘Well, I don’t need your help. Why don’t you fuck off back home and leave me to enjoy myself with my friends?’
Blake retreated to his chair, his hands raised in mock surrender. ‘Okay, Rosalind, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going home,’ he said getting to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a call later.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she said.
With that Blake retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and negotiated his way across the hall towards the exit. Through clenched teeth, he glanced back to the table to see the receptionist return to her seat. Blake stopped and watched as she took Rosalind by the hand and pulled her to her feet. Giggling to themselves, the two women staggered off in the direction of the ladies’ restrooms. Blake started off again towards the doors. This time he didn’t look back.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the receptionist arrived back at the table alone as a boy band walked onto the stage to thunderous applause. The backing track for their opening number started to fill the cavernous hall, and the receptionist took the opportunity to subtly open her purse and show Ricard a small vial half-filled with white powder. Before she sat down, she whispered, ‘She’s out cold.’
Ricard nodded.
Chapter 49
‘Noorjehan is so excited to have Sarah stay over,’ said Dr Desai, smiling over to his wife, who was tapping on her laptop in the kitchen.
‘Sarah hasn’t stopped talking about it all week, have you sweetheart?’ said Blake, handing his daughter her overnight bag.
‘Bye, Dad,’ she said quickly, giving him the briefest of hugs before disappearing upstairs.
‘Be good,’ he shouted after her.
‘Don’t worry, she is always very well behaved,’ said Desai reassuringly.
‘I was thinking of taking the girls over to the Bank of England for the mayoral election results. I think it’s good for their education to see the political process in action,’ said Desai. ‘As long as Captain Lambton wins of course,’ he smiled. ‘Is that okay with you?’
‘No problem,’ said Blake.
‘It’s going to be quite a night tomorrow, and that’s not even including the super-sized blood red moon,’ said Desai enthusiastically.
Blake’s fingers played with the change in his pocket as his mind flashed with thoughts of St Mary Woolnoth and the Hawksmoor killer. Stepping towards Desai’s front door, his attention returned to the here and now. ‘Thanks again,’ said Blake.
‘No problem. Anytime,’ said Desai. ‘Don’t worry about a thing here. She’ll be fine.’
‘Really appreciate it,’ Blake thanked him as he stepped onto the pavement.
‘Remember to vote for Captain Lambton,’ Desai shouted through a grin.
Half walking, half running, Blake returned home. He unlocked the front door, stepped inside and immediately headed for his living room. A second later, he fired up his computer. Alina popped her head around the door. After checking that Sarah had been successfully dropped off with the Desais, she handed Blake a folded piece of paper.
‘Rosalind asked me to give you this before she went out.’
‘Gone out? Any idea where’s she’s gone?’
Alina shrugged her shoulders.
‘Didn’t say, but an expensive looking car picked her up.’
Blake eyed up the paper quizzically and then opened it. He hadn’t seen Rosalind since the charity dinner. The sheet contained a single word.
Sorry
After the word, Rosalind had drawn a circular face with a sad, downcast mouth on it. Blake rolled his eyes. ‘Have we any wine?’ he asked.
‘Some white wine in the fridge, I think. Do you want some?’
‘Please,’ said Blake. ‘Help yourself too.’
Alina thought about it for a moment and then smiled.
‘That would be nice. I’ll take it up to the bath with me.’
Moments later, she reappeared holding a glass, its sides already condensing from the chilled liquid within.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, depositing the glass next to the computer. ‘My bath awaits.’
‘Enjoy your time off,’ he said, taking a sip and then giving Alina a small toast.
As the staircase creaked with Alina’s footfalls, Blake looked back to his computer screen. He clicked open an internet search window, typed in ‘St Mary Woolnoth Hawksmoor’ and hit the return key. He moved the cursor over the first of the returned searches and selected the link.
* * *
Standing within the triangle formed by the junction of Lombard Street and King William Street is the remarkable church of St Mary Woolnoth. The site has been a place of worship for over two thousand years, and the present church stands on the site of a Roman Temple dedicated to the Roman goddess Concordia. The present Christian church is at least the third to have been built on the site. A church dating back to 1445 was badly damaged during the Great Fire of London of 1666 and was completely rebuilt by Nicholas Hawksmoor between 1719 and 1727. Christian iconography is noticeably absent on the exterior of the building.
The interior of Hawksmoor’s St Mary Woolnoth is based on the motif of a perfect cube, a very unusual design device for a Christian church. Several commentators have connected the form of the church with that of the cubic stone or ‘perfect ashlar’, a central symbol in speculative Freemasonry. It is said that St Mary Woolnoth is located 2,000 cubits from Christchurch Spitalfields, another of Hawksmoor’s strange and unique city churches. The Old Testament Book of Numbers includes the measure of 2,000 cubits in its rules for city planning. St Mary Woolnoth is also unique because it has a station beneath it.
* * *
Blake shook his head. The more he learned about the enigmatic Nicholas Hawksmoor, the more uncomfortable he felt. Before his mind became lost down another rabbit hole of conjecture, he rallied his thoughts together in search of some firmer ground.
He turned over Rosalind’s note and searched for a pen around the table. Only after reorganising several piles of bills and bank statements did he find one. He coaxed off the pen top with his teeth and began to copy out the lines of writing that Mary had scrawled in her own blood onto the wall of the shelter.
HAWKSMOOR
* * *
FOUR BLOOD ALTARS
FOUR BLOOD SACRIFICES
FOUR BLOOD COINS
FOUR BLOOD MOONS
Taking a large gulp of wine, Blake surveyed the makeshift map that he had sketched out on the living room wall at the far end of the room. The Minories had been the key to unlocking the cryptogram of the Hawksmoor churches. Tomorrow, on the day of the last blood moon of the tetrad, the killer would attempt another sacrifice at St Mary Woolnoth. Milton would have the place surrounded. The trap would be set, and finally the identity of the brutal Hawksmoor killer would be discovered. He felt a cold chill as he recalled the horrific wounds suffered by the victims: throats sliced down to the spine, terrible mutilations to the cheeks, eyelids cut from the face.
And then there were the additional words that Blake had discove
red in one of the crime scene photos. He wrote them out underneath his earlier lines on Rosalind’s note.
EVE CAN’T BLINK
He sat back in his chair and pondered the puzzling line. The image of the victims’ hollow eyes kept invading his mind. Finally, he gave up and tossed the sheet of paper onto the pile of bills stacked on the table. Returning to the keyboard, Blake spent the next ten minutes studying photographs of St Mary’s and street maps of its surrounding area.
‘Shall I open another bottle?’ said Alina, scrutinising Blake’s empty wine glass. She was standing at the doorway in a dressing gown, brushing her hand through her wet hair. Her cheeks were flushed from the bath.
‘Better had,’ smiled Blake.
A minute later she was back at the table with a new bottle along with her glass. She poured enthusiastically and quickly filled their two glasses. As she did so, Blake studied her face. Her skin looked almost faultless in the dying light of the evening, like a painting. A lock of dark hair tumbled over her eye as she poured. She blew it back, her pressed lips directing her breath. She smelt good, like honeysuckle.
Gathering up the glasses and the wine bottle, Blake walked over to the sofa and transferred them to the coffee table. Alina sat next to Blake on the sofa. They began to chat and within minutes were sharing stories of growing up. Soon they discovered a shared love of painting and portraiture. On the computer, they took turns showing each other photographs of their hometowns and then shared stories of long-lost school friends. Glasses were filled, refilled and filled again, and smiles turned into belly laughs. Blake could feel a weight falling from his shoulders.
‘More vino?’ laughed Alina.
‘Rude not to,’ said Blake.
They both reached at the same time to collect the empty bottle. Their hands touched. A moment passed, their fingertips still touching. Staring directly at him, she slipped her fingers through his. She pulled his hand closer and momentarily placed it on her glowing cheek before holding it on her lap. Blake began to say something, but as the words left him, she leant over and pressed her lips to his mouth. Alina moved closer, her head tilting upwards. At last Blake kissed her, tentatively at first. As their lips brushed, he felt energy coursing over his skin. He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs as their kisses quickened. For the briefest of moments, he pulled back.
The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy Page 19
