The Black Shepherd

by Steven Savile

  Peter figured the internet could offer up some of that. But like it or not, places like Wikipedia were rife with self-edits and agendas and telling a fake news website and propaganda hole from the real deal was just about impossible. The internet might offer the world in your pocket through your mobile phone, but it also opened up that whole world of crazy, too.

  He needed to talk to someone – maybe a journalist who’d spent time digging to try and find the cracks in the perfect face they presented the world, or a man who knew a man, and when it came to that sort of interconnectivity there was only one man Peter Ash knew who even remotely fitted that bill.

  Ernesto Donatti, the Vatican fixer.

  He wasn’t about to make that call until he had some privacy though.

  They hadn’t spoken since the fire, and what felt like the great betrayal of their friendship.

  Ernesto Donatti had almost died in that chapel, side by side with Ash. Without Frankie they both would have. They should have been bonded by that. But they weren’t. They had too many burned bridges between them for it ever to be that easy.

  It was going to be a difficult call.

  There was no chance he was making it without a drink first. He needed to steel himself, because at the very least, it was him taking the first step to rebuilding those bridges, and even after everything they’d been through together, Peter still thought of himself as the victim, not both of them as victims. Maybe that would come. In time. Maybe it wouldn’t.

  So, how did you lay that first foundation stone?

  By calling in a favour.

  Peter poured himself a cup of instant black coffee that would have had Laura calling in the exorcist to cleanse him of evil spirits and settled into the armchair.

  A notepad and pen rested on the small table beside him. Both had the hotel logo on them.

  ‘Peter Ash? As I live and breathe. I felt sure you had left this earth, because I couldn’t believe my friend would go six months without reaching out to tell me otherwise.’ The familiar voice was both warm and friendly. And in that one teasing line, Donatti had done his best to thaw the ice between them. ‘More seriously, how are you, Peter? I have talked to Laura. She is quite the lady. Tell me, are you working again?’

  ‘Yep. In Germany,’ he said, not entirely sure how he felt about Laura and Donatti bonding. ‘What about you? In one piece?’

  ‘I seem to be on the mend, though I am not sure I will ever get used to being tied to a desk.’

  ‘I hope there’s no expiry date on those air miles,’ Peter said, earning a chuckle. There was a brief pause beyond that. Peter wouldn’t have noticed it but for the fact he knew his old friend better than he knew himself. There was a shift going on, the bonhomie shifting into practicality as Donatti’s tone changed. ‘As much as I am glad to finally hear your voice, I’m assuming this isn’t a social call?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. But it’s good to hear your voice, Ernesto. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Not entirely my doing, Peter. The road goes both ways.’

  ‘I didn’t call for a lecture.’

  ‘And I will not offer one. But tell me, what can I do for you?’

  Peter thought about it, wondering the best way to broach the subject, and decided to go at it head-on. ‘I’m trying to find out what I can about one of these new Churches. They call themselves One World. I want to get an idea of what they’re like, what they believe in, what they’re doing, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Related to a case? Or are you thinking of conversion? I can do you a good deal with the Holy Father if you’re thinking about coming home.’

  ‘Purely work,’ Peter said.

  ‘Well, you can’t blame a man for trying. Can I ask about the case?’

  Which was exactly what he’d expected from the other man. One thing his dealings with Donatti had taught him was that it went both ways. Donatti traded in information. Nothing came free. You wanted to know something? He wanted to know something in return. Still, he was guessing that getting Donatti to dish the dirt on One World shouldn’t bring him into conflict over protecting the reputation of the Catholic Church, which was normally what kept his lips zipped up tight.

  ‘Not yet. I’ll fill you in as we go, but first of all I’m hoping you can give me a bit of a Bluffer’s Guide because I really don’t know much about them.’

  ‘Where to begin,’ the Italian said. ‘Well, as you might imagine we tend to be interested in anything claiming to be a new religion—’

  ‘Competition for souls?’

  He could hear the smile in the other man’s voice as he said, ‘More of a shield from charlatans. One World. Let’s see, I think I first heard the name ten years ago. They are a Christian sect whose main priority is charitable work. Their focus was small scale. It wasn’t about trying to change the world with sweeping gestures. They set up food banks and soup kitchens and dedicated their efforts to trying to help the hungry. This, remember, was at a time when the focus was on improving living conditions in Third World countries. They made a point of preaching that we had a duty to help our own.’

  Peter nodded. ‘I’ve seen a soup kitchen in Tallinn.’

  ‘Estonia? I should start calling you Heineken. You’re reaching the parts other detectives cannot reach.’

  ‘Don’t quit the day job, mate.’

  ‘You’ll find them in most cities in northern Europe, though they were kicked out of Amsterdam and denied charitable status a few years ago. They’re less visible here in the south, but there is no denying their reach has extended. They’re a young Church – and I don’t just mean in how long they have been in existence. Their membership is predominantly under thirty-five. They have a strong presence on university campuses.’

  ‘Sounds like they’re planning for the future. Grab all the lost souls now so there’s fewer left for your mob.’

  There was a silence for moment. All he could hear was the other man’s breathing.

  Peter didn’t know whether Donatti was annoyed at his lack of faith, but he was almost certainly choosing his words carefully.

  He always did.

  ‘The competition for souls is not won or lost at any single point in time. People change their beliefs as they go through life, much as their needs change. Look at yourself, you are a prime example, Peter, an altar boy who wouldn’t be seen dead setting foot inside a church now unless it is to be crucified by a madman. There will always be those few lost and broken souls who find hope in a fringe Church because they seem to offer what they need most at that time in their lives, but they eventually find their way, seeing through the charlatans. Far from having to fight for the faithful, we benefit rather than suffer because of movements like One World.’

  ‘You’re equating them to a gateway drug? Does that make your lot the hard stuff?’

  ‘Something must have really damaged your soul, my friend, because your mind is a dark, dark place.’

  ‘I blame my days as an altar boy.’

  ‘That’s probably it,’ Donatti agreed. ‘What you need to remember is all of these pseudo-faiths and new religions have some sort of USP.’

  ‘USP?’

  ‘Unique selling point. They’re providing what they see as a safe place for the people we are accused of turning our back on.’

  He didn’t need to ask who that might be. ‘OK, slightly more blunt question: have you heard or seen anything that might suggest they would be involved in anything dubious, immoral, or illegal?’

  ‘They have accumulated a vast wealth in a relatively short space of time. Far more than you would expect them to raise through donations. Does that help?’

  ‘It certainly makes you wonder. So how do they do that? Mysterious benefactors? A lottery win?’

  ‘No idea, I’m afraid. But I suspect our forensic accountants will have taken a look at their tax returns. And we’re always interested in how other Churches thrive financially.’

  ‘That sounds almost like corporate espionage.’

  �
�Oh no, they are public record. If you want to leave it with me, I’ll see what I can find out for you.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. I’ll owe you one.’

  ‘You say that now …’ Donatti said, letting it trail off, the rest unsaid.

  Peter Ash knew he’d just written the Vatican man a blank cheque.

  He reached for the coffee, but it had grown cold. He drank it anyway, because it couldn’t have tasted any worse.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The quality of the road changed beneath the limo’s wheels, bringing Frankie out of her doze. She was angry at herself for slipping, but it was only natural, given the last few days. She’d been aware they were still moving, though she’d lost track of the songs. The ride, up until now, had been smooth as silk but now they were travelling on a rutted surface the suspension was being made to work.

  She tried to peer out through the glass even though she knew it was pointless.

  The limo jounced and juddered along what must have been a dirt road.

  She couldn’t be sure if the light coming in from the outside world was dimmer because they were in the cover of tall trees, or if they’d been travelling so long the sun had already begun its gradual decline towards dusk.

  They seemed to be travelling on a relatively straight road, at least.

  She assumed that Galileo could more than handle the interference the trees offered.

  Because if things went tits up she was going to need that phone.

  She was beginning to have reservations about coming out here alone. The fact the driver had been so eager for her to leave her stuff behind, then proceeded to dump it in the boot where she couldn’t see if anyone took it out again didn’t help things, either. And neither did the fact the tinted glass rendered her essentially blind. Both combined to leave Frankie feeling more helpless than she would have liked.

  She wasn’t a massive fan of the screen that separated her from the driver, either.

  She’d been hoping to use the time one-on-one to ask about One World.

  The car slowed. She heard the raw blare of its horn announcing their arrival to people within the compound as it drew gently to a halt. The music continued to fill the back of the car with what was now relentlessly chirpy eighties pop. The engine idled for a few seconds, before the car moved forward again. She assumed it was some sort of safety barrier or gate. Not great.

  Frankie could just make out the blur of movement through the dark glass but it could have been anything out there.

  Leaning forward, she scrolled through the playlist, looking at the duration of the individual tracks and guessing they’d been travelling closer to three hours, which was a lot longer than Tomas had suggested. As far as she could tell there hadn’t been any bottlenecks of delays, so he’d lied.

  She heard the gravel crunch beneath the wheels for a couple of minutes, and then the music died as the engine was turned off.

  She tried the door. The child locks were still engaged.

  She heard the driver’s door open and close, then a moment later Tomas was opening hers and telling Frankie, ‘Here we are.’

  She slid out, glad to be able to stretch her legs. The air was crisp and cold. Colder than back in the city by a good few degrees.

  She took her first look at her new surroundings.

  The compound appeared to comprise of a number of single-storey wooden buildings. None of them looked particularly luxurious. Each had a large number painted on the short side. Frankie’s first thought was that it was some sort of repurposed army barracks. She heard the slight thrum of a generator behind one of the buildings. There were trees. Lots of them. Twenty, thirty, and some even forty metres high, looking over the compound like something out of a grim little fairy tale.

  ‘This way,’ Tomas said, leading her towards one of the larger cabins. He didn’t turn to see if she was following.

  ‘My stuff,’ she said, but he showed no sign of slowing.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it later and bring it through to your cabin. Someone’s waiting to meet you.’

  Frankie didn’t like it.

  But she had no choice.

  She hurried after him as he entered what appeared to be some kind of office. A middle-aged woman looked up from the screen she’d been working on. Her face was creased with the kind of concentration only computer-illiterates suffer in the face of technology. The creases melted into a smile when she saw Frankie.

  She stood up and held out a hand, ‘Well, hello there. You must be Ceska? John spoke so warmly about you. I can see why. My, aren’t you just lovely?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Frankie said.

  ‘He was very impressed with you. He said you had the right stuff. Lots of great ideas. He really thinks you could make a difference here.’

  Frankie inclined her head, like she was shy and embarrassed by her kind words. It felt like something a younger her would have done. ‘I was just helping out,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘Paying back an act of kindness.’

  ‘Oh, it was far more than that, my dear. I’ve heard so much about you. Believe me, John wouldn’t have invited you here if he didn’t see something special in you. Now, why don’t we get you cleaned up and into some fresh clothes? I’ve laid some stuff out for you.’

  ‘That’s OK, I’ve got my own clothes.’

  ‘Of course you do, but while you’re here, we like everyone to dress the same way. It’s just a little thing, but some who find their way to us are in desperate circumstances, while others by comparison are almost rich. This way it makes everyone equal and saves any embarrassment.’

  She couldn’t really argue against that, and found herself being ushered through another door at the rear of the office.

  ‘What about my stuff?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the woman assured her. ‘I’ll make sure that Tomas brings it in. You won’t need it for a while, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, knowing it was the only response she could give.

  The door led through to a wood-panelled shower room. There was a small table with a pair of black jeans, a T-shirt, sweatshirt, socks, and a pair of basic trainers ready for her to change into.

  There was an assortment of plain underwear in a wicker basket beside them.

  ‘Why don’t you freshen up after the drive?’ She reached through to turn on the showerhead, a not so subtle hint. ‘There’s toiletries and deodorant, too. Take your time. You can leave your dirty clothes on the floor, I’ll see that they are washed and ironed, and put with your other stuff.’

  For one awful moment Frankie thought that she intended to stay with her while she undressed, the smile still plastered on her face. ‘Sorry,’ she said, eventually. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  There was no lock on the inside of the door.

  Frankie moved the small wooden table up against it. It wouldn’t stop anyone getting in if they were determined to get in, but it’d stop her from being taken by surprise.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The red cursor on the screen stopped eventually. It was a remote spot deep inside a dense forested region. Laura pulled up some satellite images of that precise location.

  Her first instinct was that the coordinates she’d fed into the system must have been wrong, because it didn’t look like there was anything there at all.

  Her second was that the tracker had been discovered and abandoned, meaning Frankie was on her own.

  It wasn’t until she enhanced the image, narrowing her focus down and down, that she finally made out the corner of what looked like a long rooftop. There were others clustered in around it, all of them obscured by the dense trees. Finally she saw a stretch of track that ran through the forest like a thin black stream, and part of what was obviously a vehicle.

  The compound, whatever else it consisted of, lay at least sixty kilometres from where the body had been found. Too far for the flames to be a threat, and too far for the girl to have run, but close enough that she couldn’t dismiss a possible connect
ion, especially with a car parked up outside the largest of the buildings.

  She scrolled across the image, looking for more structures within the forest. She couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  She knew full well that if it was Peter Ash jumping to these kind of half-arsed connections she’d have been shaking her head and telling him to rein in his imagination.

  She looked at the satellite image again.

  Was she seeing things that weren’t there?

  She had zero evidence that said the burned girl’s death had anything to do with One World, and a compound that was probably forty-five minutes’ drive down some pretty treacherous single-track roads filled with switchbacks and choke points, from where she’d been found. That was a long way. It didn’t fit with the idea that she’d made a run for it and been hunted down. You didn’t run sixty kilometres through rough woodland. It would have taken days.

  But that didn’t mean she’d died there, Laura thought to herself. She could have been killed a lot closer to home and dumped somewhere far enough away that people wouldn’t make the obvious connection.

  No.

  She was sure Frankie was in the right place for both her cousin’s disappearance and for the burned girl’s murder. It was just putting the two together that worried her.

  She reached for the phone to call Peter and bring him up to speed when an alert pinged from her computer.

  The crawler’s initial sweep was complete.

  She took a deep breath before switching windows to the program she’d left running in the background.

  She saw several thousand hits, which would take some narrowing down, but that didn’t matter because she had the name to run against the broader results, and there weren’t going to be hundreds of Maria Bartoks in Europe. Of course, that was assuming the girl had used her real name. If she hadn’t, it would take a lot more legwork to sift through them. She wasn’t going to think like that.

  It didn’t take long for Laura to find the name Bartok on the screen. She delved into the result, drawing out the data behind the hit, and spent a couple of minutes verifying it. Her heart started beating just a little faster as she read. It was an arrest report for one Maria Bartok, who had been brought in for vagrancy in Stockholm. The report itself was in Swedish, but the date wasn’t. Numbers were universal. She was looking at something which proved Maria Bartok was alive three weeks ago. Meaning she couldn’t be the body in the woods.