by D C Macey
‘Come in, come in. Back home, this is where you need to be,’ said Elaine, guiding Helen along the hall towards the kitchen.
‘Your mum and dad want you to phone as soon as you’re settled,’ said Grace.
Helen nodded. Sam had contacted them as soon as he had arrived back from Malta the previous evening. ‘I’ll call them in a while.’
Grace placed a cushion on the kitchen chair as Helen sat then slipped another between the chair back and her spine. ‘How’s that?’
‘Great, thanks. I’m fine. Nothing’s broken; I’m just shaken up.’
‘More than that, I think,’ said Sam, sitting opposite her.
Elaine placed a pot of coffee on the table and sat too. ‘So what exactly happened?’
‘I’m not sure. There was a crash. I don’t know whether the other driver lost control in the snow. One moment I was pulling out into the main road, the next he’d come from nowhere and hit me. Then it must have turned into some sort of road-rage attack; the driver seemed to snap and drove at me again. I’m not sure what happened after that. I think Alan Ralston arrived - he’d been following me - and scared the other driver away.’
‘The driver must have been a total nutjob,’ said Grace, as she slid mugs of coffee across the table. ‘Did anyone manage to get his vehicle registration number?’
‘I certainly didn’t; perhaps Alan did. I was too shocked to notice, then I think I blacked out when he smashed into the car the third time.’ Helen reached out her hand and clasped Sam’s. ‘Oh Sam, I am sorry about your car. Have you heard if it’s badly damaged?’
He squeezed her hand back. ‘I’ve no idea. I’ll find out what happened to it later. It’s insured, so don’t worry about that. The car can be replaced - it’s what’s happened to you that matters.’
‘Well, I’ll be okay. I hope the police catch the driver, but I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ She saw a change in Sam’s expression. ‘What?’
Sam glanced around the table then took a breath before starting. ‘It might have been an accident, but I’m not so sure.’ He had played through in his mind how he should break the news that Cassiter was still around. In the event, it was easier just to recount what he knew of events in Malta.
Elaine had suffered at Cassiter’s hand, and though her stoic features betrayed no emotion, Sam spotted her complexion pale as he broke the news. Grace looked angry and Helen remained expressionless.
‘It’s not over then?’ said Helen.
‘It’s not over,’ he replied.
‘Poor Iskinder. I will have to telephone Ignatius in Addis; he will be devastated at the loss.’
‘We’re going to need to be careful again. Very careful,’ said Sam.
‘I thought it was all resolved before,’ said Grace.
‘Well, we certainly found the Templar treasury, but there must be something else.’
‘What?’ said Elaine.
‘I don’t know yet. But I’m beginning to think it’s to do with what’s inside the boxes. It seems they saw Ignatius give Helen the box in Nairobi. I’m thinking they wanted to know more, which is why they tracked Iskinder and tried to get information from him.’
‘Do you think they did?’ said Grace.
‘No more than I got. Iskinder told me everything he knew about the boxes. Yet that little amount seems to have been enough to brutalise and kill for.’
‘Cassiter doesn’t need much excuse to be violent. What are you thinking, Sam?’ said Helen.
‘I think that from what I’ve heard of your encounter it was no accident or road-rage incident. You were targeted. Why? I don’t know. Let’s make sure nobody goes out alone for now. In fact, why don’t you all stay here in the manse together for a few days?’
The three women all nodded agreement.
‘What about you? How do we challenge this?’
‘Well, let’s start by telling the police everything we know - get them on board. Recent history will certainly give them reason to provide some protection, even though DCI Wallace has retired. What was his sergeant called?’
‘DS Brogan. I’ll call him in a little while,’ said Elaine.
‘Great. If you do that, Elaine, I’ll go with Grace to collect some things for you both from your house.’
‘You didn’t say what our next step should be,’ said Helen.
‘Iskinder wanted us to go to Libya, to a place called Leptis Magna.’
‘To Libya?’ Helen looked shocked.
‘I know. I didn’t fancy the idea, but he was certain it was the only way.’
‘I wonder what’s inside the boxes,’ said Grace. ‘It’s another one of those Templar secret puzzles isn’t it?’
‘Yes, so it seems. I’m thinking … you recall there was lots of bullion and coin found in Crete? That was the Templars’ banking assets, their treasury, but that may have been only half of their possessions. What wasn’t there were the Order’s arts and treasures that they were known to have collected. Those are still out there somewhere. Cassiter and his people must know it too, and they are tracking us again - presumably to stop us finding it first.’
‘Again, Sam, what’s the plan?’
‘Simple. We have to get ahead and make sure we find whatever it is first.’
‘Here we go again,’ said Elaine. ‘Shouldn’t we just let the police deal with the whole thing?’
‘Yes, we need the police for protection, but I don’t think we can rely on them to solve the puzzle. The police will never recognise the clues. Crikey! We know what’s behind it all, and we can’t spot the solution.’
‘Why not just break the boxes open and see what’s inside?’ said Grace.
Sam shook his head. ‘These are historical artefacts; we can’t just break them open like looters. More important, Ignatius and Iskinder have both told us that breaking the boxes open will break the message, losing it forever. No, we need to solve this.’
‘Sam, I really need to phone my folks now. Tell me what you propose.’
‘I need to look into how we can find whatever is hidden in Leptis Magna without actually going there. It seems to have something to do with slabs or some such, set on the way up to the Temple of Jupiter. If we can find that, then we have a head start.’
• • •
Helen had slept much of the day. Feeling better, she entered the study, walked behind the desk and drew the curtains shut, closing out the fast encroaching twilight. She leant on Sam’s shoulder, peering over it to see what he was doing.
‘Well?’ she asked.
Sam pointed at the screen. ‘I’m just checking seat availability for flights to Orkney.’
‘Orkney?’
‘A stroke of luck. Turns out Colonel Gaddafi allowed a German University to do some archaeological work there a few years back. I’ve been in touch with the university’s administration department, but the academic staff aren’t back to work until next week. What they did tell me was one of their senior staff working on those Libyan fieldtrips was British - Professor Miles Bertram. He’s retired now, but it was easy enough to find his contact details. Seems he’s living in a sheltered retirement complex in Morecambe.’
‘Great. Where’s that?’
‘North-west England, on the coast. One-time popular holiday destination, now a little less so.’
‘If your man is in England, why are we going to the Northern Isles?’
‘I spoke with the warden of his accommodation. Turns out our Professor Bertram is not so retired. He goes up to Orkney each New Year to do some digging and research around the Tomb of the Eagles. The owners give him unfettered access while it’s shut to the public at this time of year, and in turn, they get to use anything he unearths in their exhibition for the following tourist season.’
‘Can’t you just phone him?’
‘No, it would appear our professor is very old-school. No mobile phone, and no email, now he’s retired. The warden has no idea of his address in Orkney. I just need to go up and fi
nd him at the tomb.’
‘We,’ said Helen.
Sam glanced at her. ‘Are you sure you’re up to a flight?’
‘I’ll be okay; we’re both going to Orkney tomorrow.’
Sam recognised the tone in her voice and didn’t bother arguing. He turned to the computer screen and confirmed there were plenty of seats available on the flight.
‘We’ll be fine, lots of empty seats, as you’d expect at this time of year. I won’t book the flights; I don’t want anyone to be able to work out where we’re going. We can just buy seats when we get to the airport tomorrow, if we get there well ahead of take-off time. Then it’s just a matter of hoping Professor Bertram can shed some light on what’s at Leptis Magna that might be so important.’
‘Yeah, let’s hope he can. I’m not keen on the thought of a trip to Libya right now,’ she said.
Sam nodded. ‘I spoke with Ignatius again while you were sleeping, passed on your condolences over Iskinder. The bishop’s pretty cut up. I’m guessing he was fonder of his assistant than he ever let on. He wants you to phone him.’
‘I will. They probably depended on one another more than he realised.’
‘Agreed, poor old man. Poor old Iskinder too. Oh, Elaine phoned Xavier and told him what had happened to you. He’s coming over next Monday.’
‘There’s no need for him to do that,’ said Helen, though inside she was pleased. The old Catholic priest from Sardinia had been a confidant of her mentor, John Dearly. Now that John was dead, Xavier represented a rare link with the past and the secrets John had taken to the grave with him.
‘Well, I’m pleased he’s coming. If anyone can help throw some light on the boxes, it’s him.’
The front doorbell rang and was immediately followed by the sound of Grace’s light step hurrying down the hall then a warm brogue of a voice rolling in through the opened door.
‘Come on, it’s Francis,’ said Helen, leading Sam towards the study door. Francis, the local Catholic parish priest had been John Dearly’s loyal friend and had transferred that loyalty to her when she took over John’s church and duties. She suddenly felt the need to be in the company of all her group.
4
Tuesday, January 7th
Eugene Jr scowled at his assistant. ‘What do you mean, we can’t follow them? Why not?’ Walking round the table that was doubling as his desk, he jabbed a finger into the man’s chest. ‘It’s not good enough. You messed up the car crash business. Now you can’t even follow them in a public place. What happened?’
‘They took a taxi to the airport and bought tickets at the ticket office.’
‘Where? Where did they go?’
‘It was with a local airline. They fly out to the islands. I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were doing, but I watched, then I lost them when they went through security.’
‘Dolt! Is there nothing you can do right?’ Eugene Jr slapped the man’s face. ‘My father will eat you alive for this incompetence. For God’s sake, he’ll eat me alive. How could you lose them? How?’
‘I know where they went, sir. Only two Loganair flights departed after they went through the security gate; they must have gone on one of those. One went south, to Jersey. The other went north, to the Northern Isles, Orkney and the Shetlands. They must have gone on one of those routes.’
For a long moment, Eugene Jr glared at his man. ‘Why didn’t you start by telling me this?’ He waved his hand in dismissal and pulled a phone from his pocket. Cassiter’s electronic surveillance team were based in Paris now, but they would be able to crack the airline’s system and find which flight Cameron and Johnson had taken. Then he could find out what was going on. He didn’t think his father had a man on the islands, north or south; he would need to get somebody out there quickly.
• • •
A little before four in the afternoon, the small passenger plane landed at Kirkwall Airport. It was just half past four when Helen and Sam collected their bags, cleared the passenger exit channel and hired a car.
They stepped out of the little airport building and into the cold air of an already blackened night. Helen shivered and pulled her jacket closed. Ahead of them, flakes of snow danced and flurried around in the tugging breeze before dropping to melt on the salt-strewn walkways.
The path ahead fed into a neat, if modest-sized, car park. It was evenly lit by golden glowing floodlights. Sam carried the bags and Helen pressed the car’s security fob. Her action quickly triggered a flashing of yellow hazard warning lights. ‘Over there,’ she said, pointing before hurrying off towards a little car.
‘It’s dark so early,’ said Helen as Sam threw in their luggage and slipped into the driver’s seat.
‘Yes, we’re a good way north here. And it feels very cold. The sea’s all around which actually keeps the temperature up compared to the mainland, but the wind chill’s the killer. Right. Let’s go.’
Helen rubbed her cold hands against her still colder cheeks. ‘My face is frozen.’ Reaching out a hand she redirected one of the air vents towards her, enjoying the blast of warming air. ‘What now? It’s dark, and you deliberately didn’t book a hotel.’
‘We can’t be too careful. Now we know Cassiter and his friends are back, every move must stay under the radar, as far as possible.’
‘So?’
‘There are plenty of farms that do bed and breakfast, and I reckon there are very few tourists at this time of year. We’ll have no problem finding a room available for cash, almost untraceable.’
‘What about our flights and the hire car?’
‘If they’re looking, which previous experience says they will be, what we’ve done with no pre-bookings and over-the-counter cash payments will only have slowed down their finding us. It won’t prevent it …’
The lights of the terminal and car park spilled into the surrounding dark to light up a junction, a street sign and a strip of main road that stretched away a hundred paces or so in either direction. Beyond that, the road vanished into the blackness. Only a little glow of light from the windows of a distant croft broke the broad sweep of the dark.
‘Which way?’
‘We’ll go left.’
‘The road sign said Kirkwall was to the right.’
‘Yes, we don’t need to go there at all. Where we’re going is the southmost of the islands, South Ronaldsay.’
‘Another island? Do we take a ferry too?’
‘Nothing as exciting, I’m afraid.’ The car’s headlights picked out the road ahead but their brightness did little to dispel a sense of isolation; the emptiness beyond the beams was almost palpable. ‘I doubt you’ll see much in the dark, but the road we want runs directly to the destination. It hops between a couple of islands in the process using a series of causeways.’
‘Oh, that’s clever.’
‘Well, it wasn’t done for the islanders benefit. Do you remember a British politician called Churchill? Winston Churchill?’
‘Of course, who doesn’t? He was your leader in the Second World War.’
‘Well, he ordered the causeways built during the war to protect the British Navy based at Scappa Flow. They were to stop Nazi submarines from slipping between the islands and attacking the fleet at anchor. You’ll see in a minute … or you would, if it weren’t so dark. Scappa Flow is an enormous natural harbour, one of the biggest in the world. Handy if you have a big navy … pretty well empty now, of course.’
Sam lapsed into silence as the snow fell a little harder, big flakes now driven by a rising wind. The windscreen wipers managed easily enough, and the fall turned to slush and water almost as soon as it hit the road. He brought the car to a halt at a little junction and pointed directly ahead. The headlights shone through the falling snow to reflect off black water that rolled and shifted unceasingly beneath the winter wind.
‘That’s Scappa Flow,’ he said.
‘It’s close,’ said Helen.
‘Yes, we’re right at the water’s edge now.�
� Sam drove the car forwards and turned to the left. ‘Here’s the first causeway, right now.’
The dark was suddenly lonelier still. As Sam hurried them across the causeway, their world shrunk to only headlight beams, falling snow and the metallic crash barriers lining either side of the narrow road. Silently, they both absorbed the atmosphere. An isolated and lonely road bound on either side by deep, dark waters.
Once across, the headlights seemed to expand their reach to include passing verges and occasional signs.
‘Sam, that said, Italian Chapel. What is that?’
‘It’s a bit of a tourist destination, though I’ve never been. If there’s time tomorrow, we could pop in and see. No promises though, it depends how we get on. The Italian prisoners of war built the chapel; I believe it’s very beautiful. There were lots of them kept up here during the war. They were the ones who helped build the causeways.’ He drove on through the snow.
Reaching South Ronaldsay, they followed the road to the island’s south end. Sam reasoned they may as well get as near to their final destination as possible. He eased back on his speed so they could check out signs for roadside bed-and-breakfast offers as they passed. Several of the farms, their presence signalled by the occasional lit window, displayed B&B signs. He kept going south.
Close to a turning signed as the way to the Burwick Ferry, Helen pointed out a B&B sign. Set just a little back from the roadside sign was a light marking the farmhouse.
‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Sam. ‘Let’s get an early night and be ready to find Professor Bertram in the morning.’
5
Wednesday, January 8th
The late northern dawn was lightening the horizon while Helen and Sam enjoyed a cooked breakfast and their host tried her best to answer Sam’s questions.
‘Aye, we often have tourists stay here but not at this time of year. We’re handy for the Tomb of the Eagles, right enough, but it’s shut up for the winter. I don’t think you can get in at all.’
‘We’re looking for somebody who’s working there,’ said Sam.
Shaking her head, the farmer’s wife moved forwards to refill coffee cups. ‘No, there’s nobody working there just now. I’m friends with the visitor centre manager, and she was only saying the other day that she wished she hadn’t let her seasonal staff go so early before the winter. There’s more work they want to do on access paths, but it’ll have to wait until the spring now.’
