by K. M. Ashman
The car sped away into the encroaching darkness. The occupants were conscious that they were getting closer to solving the mystery but completely unaware they were being watched from the church tower.
----
Jason Venezelos sat in the one room of the squalid bed-sit he had called home for the past few weeks. It was dirty, sparsely furnished and smelled badly of the recent occupants who had hidden away from the prying eyes of society as they plied their trade in sex and drugs. Ordinarily, he would not have even considered such a place but the back street location in the sleazy part of town and the greed of the landlord, who was only interested in the money he offered, meant it was perfect for his needs. Anonymity.
He paid in cash, kept his head down and made sure he did not draw attention to himself, eating at grubby takeaways and changing his routine daily as he went about his business.
When they had first arrived in England, he and his brother has rented a small flat but when Peter failed to return one evening, he knew there was a possibility that he had been caught or worse. The brothers had made a pact that should anything happen to either, then the other would continue in their quest so he had left the flat in a hurry and found the sleazy bed-sit in a nearby town.
The two Greek brothers had been in the UK for six months, following the leads they had been given back in Rome. At first, it had been exciting and they had embarked on their quest in a haze of patriotism. However, after the first few weeks, the trail had grown cold and their enquiries had drawn nothing new. The lack of progress was frustrating and they were on the point of giving up when fate stepped in to lend them a hand. Jason Venezelos had been researching their own country’s history, taking advantage of the free internet access in the local library when a Google search pulled up the image of a very interesting coin. Further investigation had revealed the owner was looking for identification and valuation but to Jason, it was priceless and exactly what they had been looking for. A couple of false e-mails later and they had managed to set up a meeting with the man with a view to purchasing the coin.
That’s when it had started to go so wrong. The man had refused to sell and the conversation had gotten heated. In the end, a scuffle broke out and only the intervention of a passer-by stopped the fight getting worse. The brothers had ran but soon doubled back and followed him back to his home, For several days they watched him, never managing to get close but finally the opportunity arose when he had visited a library and showed the coin to the librarian. When he left the library, the brothers made their move but Peter had lost his temper and used his knife on the man. They immediately knew the wound was fatal and what made matters worse was the fact that he didn’t have the coin after all but had left it in the library.
Everything was going wrong but despite his pleas to his brother to flee the country and return home, Peter had insisted on returning that night and breaking into the library to retrieve the coin, torching the building to hide their tracks.
Jason sliced off another wafer of cheese from the block he had bought the night before, chewing slowly as he stared at a spider making its way across the peeling wallpaper. Since that night, the situation had escalated. A policeman was obviously on their trail and Peter had set out one night to warn him off and that was the last he had seen of his brother. In the meantime, Jason had relocated to this slum and kept his head down. He finished his meal before throwing the remains across the room. He picked up his rucksack and left the room without a backward glance, knowing that whatever happened, he wouldn’t be returning here again.
----
Chapter 23
England 2010
Brandon sat opposite India at the hotel breakfast table. They had booked two rooms the previous night on Brandon’s credit card.
‘You look awful,’ said Brandon.
‘Thanks a bunch,’ answered India.
‘I mean tired,’ said Brandon, ‘didn’t you sleep?’
‘Not much, the past few days are catching up with me.’
‘Me too. I think we are so close, yet are missing something obvious. Everything keeps spinning around in my head, making no sense.’
They both made small talk as they ate their breakfast. Brandon enjoyed a cooked breakfast while India made do with fruit and muesli.
‘Not having a fry up?’ asked Brandon.
‘Not hungry,’ said India. ‘There must be something obvious we are missing, a vital piece of the jigsaw. If we could just find out what that is, I am sure everything else would just fall into place.’
‘Well, that’s just it,’ said Brandon, ‘it’s always the last piece of any investigation that closes the deal.’ He smiled up at the waitress as she cleared the table.
‘Would you like anything else, sir?’ she asked.
‘Yes please,’ interrupted India, ‘could we have some paper and a pen.’
‘Of course,’ said the waitress, ‘I’ll bring them straight over.’
‘Paper and pen?’ queried Brandon through a mouth full of toast.
‘I just need to write things down,’ she said, ‘to make some sense of what we know.’
‘Let’s go elsewhere,’ said Brandon, ‘I’d rather speak in private. You never know whose listening.’
‘Your room?’ asked India.
‘I’d rather not,’ said Brandon awkwardly, ‘it’s a bit messy.’
India laughed.
‘That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Brandon, feigning hurt feelings.
‘We just spent three days sharing a room in Greece, remember?’
‘I thought I was very tidy,’ said Brandon.
‘If that’s what you call tidy, then god only knows what your room is like without me to tidy it up,’ laughed India, ‘okay, my room it is.’
A few minutes later, they were in India’s room. She made a couple of coffees while Brandon sat at the dressing table, painfully aware of the heady mix of soap and perfume that still lingered in the beautiful woman’s room. India brought the coffees over.
‘Budge up,’ she said, nudging him with her hip.
He shuffled sideways on the upholstered bench that served as a stool, just big enough for both of them.
‘Okay’, said India, opening the pad they had been given by the waitress, ‘what do we have so far?’
‘How long have we got?’ asked Brandon.
‘Bullet points only,’ said India.
‘Okay,’ said Brandon, ‘first and foremost, we have an abducted child of a VIP, taken from outside a hotel in London.’
Missing girl, wrote India in the centre of the page, drawing a circle around the entry.
‘Actually, we have a string of abductions,’ she said, ‘don’t forget the two girls in the tunnels.’
‘Well, they are classed as murders,’ answered Brandon ‘and we don’t even know if they are linked yet.’
India added the entries to one side of the page.
‘Dead guy at the library,’ said Brandon, ‘and don’t forget the Greek at my mother’s house.’
India wrote quickly adding names and events as they came up until finally her sheet was covered with circles.
‘Is that it?’ she asked, finally.
‘Let’s not forget the Palladium,’ said Brandon.
‘Of course.’ said India and added the name of the artefact that had fascinated her for so long.
‘So, what do we have?’
‘One big mess,’ India sighed, gazing at the tangled spider’s web she had drawn.
‘Let me see,’ said Brandon and India slid the sheet across the table. He took a few more sips of coffee before speaking again. ‘Have you got a different colour pen?’
‘Why?’
‘There are too many lines here and we need to differentiate between them.’
India searched her handbag and came up with eyeliner.
‘I’ve got this,’ she said handing it over.
Brandon took the blue pencil and drew over som
e of the lines, leaving a thick blue trail as he went.
‘These are the direct links to the Palladium,’ he said gazing down at the paper, ‘but even with the most tenuous links there seems to be two different sets of lines. The blue ones connect the Palladium right up to yesterday’s situation in the church.’
‘And the other ones?’ asked India
‘Not clear,’ said Brandon, ‘we have the two dead girls and the prime minister’s niece but they don’t seem to link anywhere to the rest. Perhaps we have been barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said India, twisting the paper around, ‘what about him?’
She pointed at the circle containing the name Bennett.
‘A bit of a dead end,’ said Brandon, ‘we thought he was the killer but forensics have ruled him out. It seems like someone else was responsible.
‘Then why did he kill himself when the police went around?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Brandon, ‘all we know is he was a bit of a loner who occasionally helped out with the homeless. A bit of a tree hugger by all accounts.’
‘Which organisation did he help out?’ asked India.
‘Apparently it was a charity called Gateway,’ said Brandon, ‘an organisation dedicated to the homeless and destitute. They base themselves around the train and bus stations of London.’
‘Who else works for them?’
‘All sorts of people,’ he said, ‘students, volunteers, nuns, the occasional celebrity on red nose day, anyone and everyone, really.’
India stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Brandon.
‘I need to make a phone call,’ said India, holding up her mobile. She walked out of the room leaving Brandon poring over the paper. Five minutes later she returned and sat back down, a smug look on her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Brandon.
‘I know the link,’ answered India, ‘it was so bloody obvious, it’s a bit embarrassing.’
‘Well,’ asked Brandon, ‘what is it?
‘Nuns,’ said India.
‘Nuns?’
‘Yep, nuns. You said yourself that Bennett worked alongside a group of nuns with Gateway.’
‘What have they to do with the Palladium?’
‘Think about it Brandon, the Vestal Virgins were nothing more than forerunners of modern day nuns. Not long after the Vestals were disbanded in 382AD, the new, Christianised roman government resurrected the idea of pure female servants of god, though in the Christian ways rather than the original pagan practises.’
‘It’s a bit tenuous,’ said Brandon, ‘there are hundreds of different orders of nuns across the world and I see no link between those at Gateway and any of the events of the past few weeks.’
‘No neither did I,’ said India, ‘but something stuck in my mind so I made a few calls. Apparently the nuns working at Gateways belong to an order called Santa Rosa, a small convent linked to a church in middle England.’
Brandon stared at her, beginning to see where the conversation was leading.
‘And you know the name of this church?’
‘I do and so do you, the church of St Giles in Tockenham.’
‘But that’s where we were yesterday,’ said Brandon.
‘The very same.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Brandon. ‘So do you think that the girl’s murderer may have been linked to that church?’
‘I don’t know,’ said India, ‘but you have to admit it is a very interesting coincidence.’
Brandon stood up.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get packed.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to the church of St Giles. No more pussyfooting around, I want to ask the priest some straight questions. I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour.’ He left India’s room and made his way down the corridor. As soon as the door shut, he felt his phone vibrate and he opened up the unread message. It said simply, ‘Call in.’
He sat on the edge of his bed and dialled a number. A few seconds later, someone answered.
‘Brandon,’ said a voice, ‘how’s it going?’
‘Not bad, Mike,’ said Brandon, ‘what’s up?’
‘Bit of an update,’ said the disembodied voice, ‘we’re being called off,’
‘What?’ asked Brandon incredulously? ‘Why on earth would they call us off?’
‘The official take is it’s getting too expensive but off the record the feeling is the girl is probably dead already.’
‘Do they know that for certain?’
‘I don’t think so but there’s been no contact from anyone at all regarding a ransom.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ said Brandon, ‘she is the prime minister’s niece, surely they are not going to just give up.’
‘The word is the instruction came from the very top. Intelligence says the kidnappers probably realised they were in deep shit, topped her and have gone to ground. The police will continue with the investigation but all Special Forces have been stood down and that, my friend, includes you.’
‘This is bollocks,’ said Brandon, ‘just as I seem to be making some progress, the gig is cancelled.’
‘Orders are, if you have anything solid, to hand it over to Scotland Yard. Sorry mate, it’s over. Close all your leads and make your way back to Stirling for debrief.’
Brandon paused before answering.
‘Okay, Mike,’ he said, ‘it’ll take me a day or so to round up my kit. I’ll report back first thing Monday.’
‘Roger that,’ said the voice, ‘I’ll book you in. See you then.’
‘Yeah, cheers Mike.’
The phone went dead and Brandon let himself fall back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling in frustration. India would be devastated, though truth be told, sometimes it was difficult to differentiate between the hunt for the girl and the hunt for the Palladium. He knew India felt they were intertwined but he was not so sure. Eventually, he sat up. It didn’t matter anymore. He would pass everything over to the police and India could carry on with her treasure hunt.
At last he stood up and threw his bag onto the bed. He would break the news to India downstairs and arrange some transport. In the meantime, he had to pack. It was over.
----
Chapter 24
Off the Coast of Britannia, 64AD
Rubria woke to the sound of voices up on deck. They had been at sea for over two months, hugging the coastline and spending the nights moored in friendly ports along the Gallic shore. Often they were forced to spend days at a time lying up to avoid the changeable Atlantic weather but despite this, Rubria had not once left the safety and anonymity of the ship.
At last, the journey was coming to an end and the ship neared the coastline of Britannia. She wrapped herself in the rough cape Rose had managed to buy in one of the many nameless ports en-route and climbed the ladder to join the others on deck.
She pulled the cape tighter as the bracing wind swept over the timber decks, making her shiver in the unfamiliar low temperatures. For a moment, she paused, taking in the scene around her. The day was overcast and damp, yet in the distance, she could see a coastline looming out of the mist. Some of the crew lined up staring at the approaching landfall they had travelled so far to see. She approached the familiar shapes of two fellow travellers amongst the small crowd.
‘Is that it?’ she asked, causing Rose and Dragus to spin around.
‘Priestess, you’re awake,’ said Rose, stepping forward to adjust her cape, ‘You should have called.’
Rubria smiled as the slave fussed over her.
‘Is that Britannia?’ she asked again, looking over Rose’s shoulders.
‘It is,’ said Dragus, ‘draped in the same misty garb she wore when I last left her shores.’
‘It looks cold,’ said Rubria.
‘It is,’ he said, ‘but not all the time. For a few months a year she sheds the greyness of winter and the clime matches that of Rome in spring.’
‘Just a few months?’
‘Yes but good months. We will just have to make the most of them.’
‘You are obviously enamoured of these shores, Dragus, yet you are Roman born. What is it that stirs your blood so?’
‘I don’t know, priestess,’ he answered with a sigh, ‘but there is something here that gets under the skin. The people are proud and often brutal but despite what you hear, they are not barbaric.’
‘The sailors say the people here send their children to fight their battles,’ said Rose.
‘It is true that every member of the tribe fights to the death when threatened by our fist but that is the way of many peoples protecting their way of life. Pay no attention to the tales of sailors, they have little other use of their time but to make up stories to impress.’
‘You have some sympathy for the heathen,’ said Rubria in mild surprise.
‘The last time I was here I fought under the Eagle of Plautius,’ said Dragus. ‘Many Celts fell at the end of my gladius and I shed no tears for them. However, throughout my five years here, I realised they are a proud people trying to resist invasion and occupation, a sentiment I admire. I do not offer sympathy, priestess but respect. It is a very mystical place and though they worship different gods, I am sure you will be impressed by their spirituality.’
‘Do they worship the goddess?’ asked Rubria.
‘I saw no such tribute during the campaign but it does not mean she is not here. Most of my time was spent behind the palisades of the legions.
‘Then we shall bring her grace to these poor people.’
Both Dragus and Rose stared at Rubria.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Dragus.
‘Our time at sea gave me time to think,’ said Rubria, ‘I cannot return the Palladium to the temple of Vesta while Nero holds Rome beneath his heel. If the gods will it, the people will see him for the tyrant he is and cast him at Pluto’s feet. Until that time, I am forced to stay away from my home but it is a burden I will gladly bear in the name of the Vesta. However, I will not hide her glory away from the eyes of the undeserving, I will carry out my calling and educate these poor people in her grace.’
