It was also useful for alerting her to
something she’d missed. When she went back to the images and the
reports, after rising to walk around a few moments and request some
fresh coffee, she noticed that the corpse lay upon what looked like
thin paper sheets. Tiny segments could be seen, if you looked, lost
in the shadow and blood stains. She magnified the image but could
not discern much on a laptop. After an hour of fiddling with
images, she was sure she could make out one small line of writing.
Almost. Her instinct told her what was probably on the leaves. Her
intellect told her what that might mean: it certainly made sense of
why the crime had been passed straight up to Major Crimes by the
local borough unit.
There was no mention of the sheets of paper
anywhere in the reports. She did some research on the internet,
found the phone number she needed, switched her phone on and sent a
text.
She then closed down all the murder scene
details and concentrated on the background report. The body had
been found by a young priest, Father Wyn Jones. She clicked up a
copy of his grainy passport-sized photo and stared at the face,
trying to see what sort of man he was. Even in this old photo from
his application form he was striking: handsome and virile. He was
thirty-one years old and on his first posting as a fully ordained
priest. Born in Cardiff, Wales, he had studied in London at Allen
Hall, the Diocese of Westminster’s own Seminary. He was, according
to the file, a gifted and passionate priest who had expressed his
desire to work with the disadvantaged youth of the world. He had
been delighted with his placement into the Archdiocese of Southwark
and his posting to the Mother of All Sorrows Church in gang-ridden,
crime-rife Peckham. She stopped work on the people and switched to
the internet to examine the locale. Peckham was an old South London
parish of dereliction and despair. It had been the scene of a
dreadful murder a few years ago; a ten-year-old boy left to bleed
to death in the streets, attacked needlessly by a couple of
slightly older boys. The world was never good when children killed
children.
She explored further and found that in
recent months massive amounts of European funding had been pumped
in to help combat both the violence and the decay. It was a good
placement for a young priest with lots of drive and a desire to
achieve something. Energy and money always made things happen, for
good or ill.
Father Jones had worked relentlessly for
good. He reinstated the Church youth group and set up a youth choir
modelled on the Southern Baptist style song and dance of USA
churches. It had been highly successful and there had been real
connections made with the younger teenagers, who were in constant
danger of being drawn into the gang infrastructure. There were also
plans to set up a Church youth soccer team and he’d begun
fundraising to pay for it. All in all, Father Jones had made a
substantial contribution to his new parish in the fourteen months
since he’d been assigned. The old parish priest, Father Edwards,
who had been retired once and then dragged back out to keep the
church doors open, had no doubt found the young man to be a
blessing. The Bishop had been delighted and the parish had shown
signs of recovery. Services had seen a congregation where not only
was the average age under 60 years old, but there was talk of a
toddler group being viable if the numbers of families with young
children continued to rise. Father Jones was working on the simple
truth that if you gave purpose and hope to the lives of the
children, the parents would follow.
All had been well until about three months
prior when the Mother of All Sorrows had become the target of a
vicious graffiti and vandalism campaign. Parishioners had taken to
nightly patrols round the closed Church and the graveyard, as no
matter how much cleaning and restoration was done during the day,
it would all reappear as soon as it was dark. Obscenity had been
the main feature of the graffiti with graphic drawings of what was
supposed to be Father Jones in sexual congress with children,
animals, and corpses from the graves. Various classic motifs of
defilement and occult paraphernalia had been left in both the
Church, and the graveyard, all no doubt inspired by horror movies.
Cats were found strung up on the headstones and a chicken was
beheaded at the Church door, with its blood used to draw an
inverted pentagram. The Archdiocese and the police had sealed it
down with the help of the outraged parishioners and a local animal
charity. CCTV had been upped and a couple of the youths from one of
the local gangs had been arrested and charged with defacing Church
property.
All had gone quiet until Father Jones had
opened up the Church doors yesterday morning and found the body
upon the altar.
Unfortunately, the young man who was dead,
and spread across the stones, was known to Father Jones. Just the
day before, they had been involved in a fist fight on the Church
steps. They both still wore the bruises and cuts they had given
each other. In fact, Father Jones had been the last person to see
the young man alive.
Maryam finished her studies and switched her
phone back on whilst she ate a good meal. It was a bit early for a
full dinner, but the food wasn’t as good on the Eurostar, it had no
internet signal at all, and phone calls were almost impossible.
Whilst transferring at Lille, her phone beeped confirmation of the
appointment she’d sought for her arrival. She settled onto the
London train and switched everything off, using the time to reflect
and refresh her mind, clearing out the images of blood and violence
upon the altar, preparing herself to receive more information with
an open mind. She itched to lay out a tarot reading and study what
it may give her in the form of access to her own sub-conscious
thoughts. Public attention closed that avenue down, however, and
she put earphones on, pretending to listen to music. She sat with
her eyes closed, grounding herself fully despite the speed at which
she wasn’t touching the ground at all.
St Pancras, London was bitterly cold and it
was raining: winter cold and dark. Customs had been dealt with in
Lille, and the more relaxed attitude to train travel as opposed to
flight had ensured her work case had been passed through with the
minimum of problems. She alighted onto the platform and was met
immediately by a young priest named Father Scott. He appeared
disconcerted by her appearance; what, or whom, had he been
expecting? He was too well-trained to say anything however, and he
escorted her to the car whilst dutifully asking if her journey had
been bearable. She was quite surprised to find Bishop Atkins of the
Diocese of Westminster and Bishop to the Curia in England &
Wales sitting in the back seat of the car, awaiting her. Father
Scott packed her bags into the boot as she settled into the seat
beside the Bishop.
‘Marie.’ Atkins nodded hello.
‘Frederick, how nice to see you.’ He did not
extend his hand and she did not kiss his ring.
‘What arrangements have been made?’
‘I thought we’d drive you to Westminster,
where an apartment has been prepared for you. Then we can discuss
the matter before speaking to the priests at the parish concerned.
The police will want to speak to you in the morning, no doubt.’
Father Scott started up the car and they
began to weave their way to the exit queue to negotiate the ticket
barrier.
‘I did not have time to alert you, but I
have an appointment in a few minutes. Father Scott, could you take
us to New Scotland Yard? Thank you. Also, Fred, I’d prefer to stay
at the parish house in Peckham. After you drop me off, perhaps you
and Father Scott can take my cases there and I’ll join you later?’
She gave Fred her best smile-of-good-intent: the social lubricant
that women must often use when working with men used to being in
charge. ‘Do you have a folder for me?’
Atkins leaned down and opened his briefcase,
taking out a thin folder stamped with the mark of the Diocese of
Westminster. His jaw was compressed as he handed the file over
without speaking. He had always hated taking orders from anyone
outside the Church: he must have hated that Rome had sent her.
The drive took a little over twenty minutes,
which she spent examining the photos with a magnifying glass.
Atkins had spoken over her deliberations several times, to offer
more information and impressions, but nothing he said was
important. Of more import was the way Father Scott looked away from
the rear view mirror as Atkins had spoken.
Atkins was furious that he’d been dismissed.
As she exited the car, he had tried both to accompany her and to
suggest that Father Scott stay as a driver to assist her when she
left. Maryam assured them that she’d see them later, at Peckham, or
perhaps tomorrow if she was very late. She knew Atkins would remain
at Peckham until she arrived, no matter how long it took her.
She went in and was invited to sit. She
waited out being left to moulder into nervousness by the desk
sergeant. His job was to make sure everyone was left to stew until
they were admitted into the presence of those too overworked to
care that much and who would often hide their tiredness in cynicism
and anger. The ones who wished they were still desk sergeants and
regretted their thirst for promotion. She doubted that dynamic
would be presented to her today and settled into people watching
and enjoying her wait.
It had been a few years since Maryam had
been in the offices, and she noted the changes with some sense of
the sadness that was beaten into the walls here. Security was now
an awesome enterprise and she noticed that all the officers in view
wore Kevlar vests, some even had firearms. She found the sight of a
British Bobby with a semi-automatic gun in his hands unnerving;
jarring, as if she’d taken a step and turned a corner into another
world. Which is what had happened to them all, wasn’t it? She
reminded herself of the world that most people grew up in, where
they knew what guns looked like better than they knew a full plate
of food. She shook the nostalgia of the Cosy Old London out of her
thoughts and attended to the one in front of her.
Inspector Jennifer Barham was more than
happy to meet and talk privately with Maryam after the observation
that Maryam had texted her. Maryam could see that the woman was not
at all certain about the involvement of the Congregation, but had
agreed to it on some personal level. Otherwise the meeting would
not be taking place as it was, late at night with no records being
taken. When they settled down at an interview desk, with cups of
tea between them, Maryam opened up straight away.
‘I wanted to thank you for letting me speak
to you and for allowing the Office of the Arcane access to this.’
She indicated the folder that Atkins had given her.
Barham said nothing.
‘As you know, I wanted to talk about the
papers under the body. Most importantly, I want to talk about why
the reports allowed to be seen by the Congregation did not mention
them.’
‘We accepted your involvement in this case
as you have been helpful before. My supervisors advised me of how
good you were, how relations with the Church could be maintained by
allowing you in.’
‘But you felt you had to test me?’
Barham stared at her, then took the same
route to honesty that Maryam had; Maryam’s respect for her
increased.
‘No, not a test.’ She sighed. ‘It was just
so... contentious, I didn’t want it in the record you had, yet...
at least not until I’d met you. I was impressed you spotted the
papers, never mind worked out what they were.’
Maryam picked up one of the new photos that
Barham had brought in with her. The naked body of the boy after it
had been processed and washed. The writing cut into his body was
much clearer. She took a few moments to compare it to her earlier
translation.
‘I am very much afraid, Inspector, that
there is some fundamental religious aspect to this and you have
good reason to be worried. What is written on his body could be
read in many ways, but I’m afraid that the sheets of the Qur’an
under his body, cut and slashed with the knife that killed him,
further defiled by his blood, cannot be ignored. Someone wishes
conflict between this Church, and the Muslim communities. They want
it very badly. It is not good.’
Barham paled under her make-up. ‘Not what I
wanted to hear, not at all.’
‘No, I expect not. And that’s before we get
to the accusation that it’s a demon that killed him.’
‘I thought it was that the boy was a demon,
I mean, had held a Jinn?’
‘No, it’s very clear that the writing states
he has been sacrificed by a Jinn, not to one, or because he was
one.’ She pointed to the autopsy photos. ‘All Arabic has three root
letters and the letters aside them can change the meaning
significantly. The confusion is easy to see, but so is the meaning.
I’ll write up a thorough translation for you when I have the time.
Tell me, I’m presuming there were no cuts on his back?’
‘No.’
‘The blood on the sheets of the Qur’an, it’s
solely from the wounds?’
‘We think so. Analysis is still ongoing.’
Barham opened up the folder she’d taken the autopsy photos from and
handed over several photos of the body on the altar, it being
removed, the revealing of the leaves of paper underneath. Then the
photos of each sheet being lifted and sealed in an evidence bag.
The sequence showed that the body had lain on a cross constructed
of torn and slashed leaves of the Holy Book of Islam. The young
man’s body had been positioned as if crucified upon it. It was
sacrilege to destroy the word of Allah. What had occurred was
blasphemy; a deliberate desecration of both the Church and the
Qur’an.’