Authors: Mark Roberts
‘I think he’s apologizing to the baby for inflicting his face on him, or her.’
‘I’m eighty percent sure it’s a boy,’ said the sonographer. ‘Silly question time. Would you care for a picture of your child? I’m afraid a small charge is
incurred.’
They asked for six. As the printer issued the images, Rosen picked up the first, looked at his son, and handed it to Sarah.
‘Is that a smile on his face?’ she asked.
‘They experience pleasure, the sound of mum’s voice, familiar music . . .’
And pain?
Rosen pushed the thought away but it pushed back harder.
The sonographer glanced at her watch and said, ‘You need to get back to your GP to make an appointment at Mr Gilling-Smith’s clinic.’
The sonographer took another furtive look at her watch as Sarah wiped the rest of the gel from her abdomen before sitting up and fixing her top. They thanked the sonographer who smiled, wished
them luck and held the door open for them to leave.
‘I’ll phone the surgery and make an appointment,’ said Sarah.
‘Do you want to come along?’
‘I want to come with you, Sarah.’
‘But you can’t?’
‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’
‘Going anywhere nice?’ she asked.
‘Charing Cross Station.’
‘What are you doing there?’
‘Meeting a suspected murderer.’
They passed a clock on the wall on the way to the lifts. He wasn’t desperately short of time for his scheduled appointment at the station, and wished he could stop feeling torn, forced
into two races at the same time.
‘Let me walk you to your car . . .’
‘Is it Herod?’ she asked.
‘It’s the priest, the ever-so helpful priest, Father Sebastian.’
‘Is he a murderer?’
They arrived at the lifts and, within a matter of moments, were joined by a very young and heavily pregnant woman with her mother.
David and Sarah Rosen exchanged a glance.
‘Could be – looks as if he could well be.’
F
ather Sebastian was sitting, drinking mineral water from a plastic bottle and watching the mating ritual of two pigeons when Rosen first spotted
him on the concourse at Charing Cross Station.
In the same few seconds, Rosen saw Carol Bellwood in the middle distance, eyeing the destination and arrivals board. She glanced back at Rosen as she turned her head, looking right through
him.
It was rush hour and the place had the feeling of a besieged city about to fall into enemy hands, with a continuous flow of single-minded commuters in flight.
‘Father?’
Rosen was struck by the stillness of the priest, the same stillness he’d observed that morning in the British Library. Did he have hearing problems? After Kenya? After they’d lynched
him?
‘Father Sebastian?’ This time a little louder.
‘Hello, David. Glad you could make it.’ The priest didn’t look up at the detective.
In a single moment, dozens of copies of the
Evening Standard
seemed to fly past Rosen, clutched by commuters, the headline pronouncing the discovery of Julia Caton’s body.
Father Sebastian looked up at Rosen and said, ‘Poor Julia. It’s a tragedy.’
‘What time’s your train?’
‘You’ve got me for about ten minutes.’
‘What are you doing in London, Father Sebastian?’
‘The connection between Herod and Alessio Capaneus woke me up in the middle of the night. To be honest with you, I’m more than a little disappointed in myself for not seeing it
sooner in the broad light of day, but in my own defence I have to confess that it’s not a hotbed of intellectual activity at St Mark’s, and I’ve become a somewhat dull shadow of
my former self. But you don’t want to know about me, do you? You want to know about Alessio Capaneus. He’s not on the internet, but I found him in some very interesting books
today.’
Rosen saw time dripping away on a digital clock.
‘Alessio Capaneus? What did you discover?’ asked Rosen.
‘Erzurum, it’s a rather beautiful city, ever heard of it? No. Why should you? It’s centuries old, at the foot of the Palandöken Mountains in the eastern Anatolian region
of modern-day Turkey. It’s the place where Capaneus had his Satanic visions, where he travelled to after he was banished from Florence. It’s where he wrote his book.’
‘Alessio Capaneus wrote a book? You said the book was hearsay, that it didn’t exist.’
‘I said at the time,
I think
it doesn’t exist,
I think
it was hearsay. Well, I did some digging today in an effort to help you and, guess what, I thought wrong.
There is a book. It’s made up of two distinct parts. An Old Testament and a New Testament, if you like. The first part’s an account of creation, the ascent of man, the war in heaven and
the creation of hell. Ever heard the expression, “History is written by the victors”?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Well, Capaneus’s book, you see, is history written by the so-called losers. It’s Satan’s reply to the Holy Bible. It’s Satan’s side of the story. Some of the
individual books that make up the whole piece even have the same names as the books in the Holy Bible. There’s a Book of Genesis, Exodus, Job – they’re all in there.’
‘The Capaneusian Bible, then,’ said Rosen.
‘Oh, very good,’ replied Flint, bringing his hands together in a single clap. ‘The Capaneusian Bible, what a neat title you’ve come up with, David.’
Rosen eyed the clock, ignored Flint’s patronizing tone and asked, ‘What about the second part?’
‘The New Testament of Capaneus? In part it’s a prophetic vision, in part a guidebook. The prophetic vision tells the future story of what will happen when Satan comes to earth in
spirit to take on human form. You look perplexed, David. Think Jesus Christ in first-century Judea, now flip it on its head and think Satan Morningstar in the twenty-first century, right here. The
guidebook’s there for anyone willing to conjure up the Satanic spirit and act as host. That’s where this killer comes in. He’s had access to the information in the Capaneusian
Bible. Your killer’s been out there gathering in carriers – that’s Capaneus’s specific term for pregnant mothers and souls, unborn babies not corrupted by original sin. In
Capaneus’s view, when the child is born it draws in original sin with its first breath, gets contaminated by the air around it at the moment it becomes an independent human. If it is taken
from the womb, the soul remains in the body untouched by original sin. It’s partly written in Latin, the language of the empire that subjugated Jesus and his people, and it’s partly
written in first-century Aramaic, the language that would have been spoken by the Messiah. It’s part mockery, part blasphemy.’
I want to go home
, thought Rosen.
I want to go away, far, far away
.
‘Are you all right, David?’
‘For the killer to know all this . . . is it a widely circulated book in occult circles?’
Father Sebastian laughed. ‘No. Not at all. I believe there’s only one copy in the whole world.’
‘And that’s in the British Library?’ Rosen spoke his thought aloud.
‘No. The Vatican.’
‘You had access to it when you were at the Vatican?’
‘No. The Holy Father’s the only human being allowed to look at it and, if the account I read today is accurate, Pope Pius XII was the last pope to do so. Besides, I had absolutely no
interest in Capaneus at that time. He was barely a footnote.’
‘Today, then, today you’ve found out all this information?’
‘Today, but not from the book itself, of course. Secondary sources – second-hand accounts if you like – in a whole range of antiquarian books. Some are in the British Library,
others will probably be in the Bodleian, the Carnegie, all the major libraries of the world. That’s why I went to the British Library today, to refresh my memory from a range of other
sources. You’ve got to understand, David, this book’s been buried by the Church, absolutely suppressed for centuries. Just as the Florentines suppressed the name of Alessio Capaneus,
and tried to wipe his memory from the face of the earth, so the Church has tried to wipe out his account of the dawn of time and this manifesto for the overturning of the universe.’
‘What if he succeeds?’
‘Who, David? What if who succeeds?’
‘Julia Caton’s killer.’
‘If he follows the Capaneusian Bible, there’ll be six dead mothers and six dead babies. I don’t need to tell you the religious significance of the number six. You don’t
strike me as a believer. You don’t believe, do you?’
‘No, I don’t believe in the possibility of a Satanic revolution.’
‘You know, for a clever man, that’s a rather dim point of view.’
‘I’m an equal-opportunities sceptic. I don’t believe in God, either.’
‘Sadistic rabbi, was it? Turned you against the Lord?’
‘No.’
‘Or are you the kind of atheist who thinks nothing so bad’s ever going to befall them so they don’t need a little heavenly help?’
‘I’m a policeman. I do evidence, hard evidence; stuff that will stand up in court.’
‘I see. This scepticism, did it come from your father?’
‘How’s the killer accessing this information if it’s so buried, if it’s so scattered?’
‘Time’s marching on, David. I shall miss my train if I don’t go now.’
‘Wait a minute, Father Sebastian. Let me get this straight. The killer thinks that by killing six women and hacking out their foetuses, he’s going to unleash a force of evil in the
universe and he’s going to come out as king in this newly Satanized world – ?’
Sebastian smiled. ‘Crazy, absolutely crazy. Right? You know it’s nuts. But he’s a believer and those beliefs, however you view them, have resulted in five dead women, five dead
foetuses, so far. Just as Hitler believed he could wipe out your tribe. Like emptying the sea with a thimble. A deluded and idiotic belief. However, the end result was the end result. If
you’ve got a problem computing this in terms of theology and Satanism, then think of what’s going on in London as a . . . as a mini Holocaust. I hope I’ve been of some help to
you, David. And I wish you well with the ongoing investigation.’
Sebastian placed the empty water bottle on the ground, smiled at Rosen and said, ‘I guess we’re done.’
‘How can an individual get access to a book that’s buried in the Vatican and is written in first-century Aramaic?’
‘The same way I saw much of it this afternoon. That’s where your visit to St Mark’s came in so handy. The Church can suppress a book until the College of Cardinals is
collectively blue in the face. The problem is that suppression of information’s a thing of the past. The internet, Detective Rosen. My guess is, your killer’s getting it all off the
World Wide Web. I checked the computers at the British Library this afternoon. I wish we had one at St Mark’s. The Capaneusian Bible is largely but not completely online.’
‘How can that be?’ asked Rosen. ‘We put his name into the search engine back at St Mark’s and nothing came up. We did an in-depth search at Isaac Street and nothing came
up there, either.’
‘The book isn’t really called the Capaneusian Bible or the Book of Alessio Capaneus,’ explained Flint. ‘It’s called something else entirely different.’ He
glanced up at the clock. ‘I need to board my train.’
‘What is it called? This book?’
‘Oh, it’s very simple. It’s called
A
. Does that speak of significance in your case, David? A for Alessio, maybe . . .’
Rosen pictured five dead women, their faces, their bodies, at the points where they were dropped off. An image formed of the map with those five places marked, and the shape that was
emerging.
‘A,’ said Flint. ‘Maybe an initial from a name or maybe A for alpha. Alpha, David: the first letter, the opening sound, the beginning, the brand-new beginning heralded by the
Satanic revolution. I have to tell you, there is no omega to this alpha. I’m convinced there is no concept of an end to the torments that this brand-new world promises. Alpha, it’s the
opening word of A’s Book of Genesis. Alpha, just that, just that. Goodbye, David. Brother Aidan awaits me.’
‘Body drop-off number six – it’ll be at the midpoint of Vauxhall Bridge Road. That’ll form a nice crooked bridge between body dropoffs two and three. I think you’re
right about the “A”; I think you’re right because I’ve seen a pattern.’
Rosen felt the satisfaction of having slapped someone in the face.
‘I don’t know what you mean, David.’
‘Next time you’re in London, buy a map and visit an internet café. Google the case. Check it out.’
Rosen fixed his gaze in neutral.
‘Maybe I should,’ said the priest.
You’re an arrogant bastard
, thought Rosen.
‘God bless you, David Rosen. You’ll need His blessing one day, even if you don’t believe in Him.’
Father Sebastian turned away and made for the barrier. Rosen kept his eyes clamped onto the priest’s back but also kept the water bottle firmly in his field of vision.
Bellwood, armed with a commuter’s briefcase and a copy of a glossy magazine, appeared and melted into the tide following the priest.
Father Sebastian walked past the barrier, blending into a stream of people heading for the same platform.
In the moment that Flint was no longer distinguishable from the flowing mass of humanity, a station cleaner stepped in front of David and stooped to pick up the bottle.
‘Stop! Don’t you touch that!’ The cleaner froze, shock and fear on his face at Rosen’s sharp command. ‘Don’t touch the bottle.’ Rosen flashed his
warrant card and picked up the bottle at the base, using his thumb and forefinger. The neck of the bottle had something on it that was of particular interest to him.
He returned the way he had come, careful to sidestep people coming the other way who might brush against his prize.
He was consumed with purpose, and grateful for the sense of direction that went with it. He would need to bring in civilian IT support.
In his car, he snatched an evidence bag from the glove compartment and secured the water bottle.
Taking out his mobile, he scrolled through his contacts and came to Karen Jones of ICT, a civilian computer specialist and the soul of discretion. He called her.