Authors: Mark Roberts
‘I don’t know. But I do know Flint’s been resident in this country since his run-in with the Kenyans, and I know there are unsolved crimes in this country since he came home
that he’s got the inside track on. That’s why I want a result on his water bottle from the database.’
Bellwood’s mobile went off and she said to the caller, ‘Hi, Goldie, what’s up?’ She switched to speakerphone.
‘The DNA?’ Rosen said hopefully.
‘Carol, where are you?’ Gold’s voice echoed from her mobile.
‘On the way back to the station.’
‘You with the boss?’
‘Yeah, I’m here,’ confirmed Rosen.
‘David, great news maybe. We think we’ve got something on the CCTV from the British Library.’
‘Flint?’
‘Flint and A. N. Other. It might be something, it might be nothing. Two brief sequences, but there’s definitely a connection between them.’
‘We won’t be long!’ said Rosen, the speedo rising to fifty, fifty-five.
‘David, David, slow down, let’s get there alive, please.’
——
H
ARRISON WAS ON
the pavement, smoking his fifth of ten cigarettes that day, when Rosen’s phone rang. The display read ‘Sarah’, and
Harrison knew from what he’d heard that this was the bow-wow wife from the picture on Rosen’s desk. It rang for an awfully long time before she gave up.
As his cigarette burned down past the halfway stage, sending up a thin stream of smoke to the sky, the phone rang again briefly. This time, it was a voicemail message.
Harrison called it and listened.
‘Hi, David, it’s me. I’ve been back to the GP. Just to let you know, St Thomas’s Hospital clinical appointments are open and I’ve got an antenatal appointment with
the consultant gynaecologist, Mr Gilling-Smith, tomorrow morning at ten. I know, I know, I can hardly believe I’ve just said those words.’ She laughed. ‘Can you believe it, David?
You and me, parents? I know you’re busy but please try to make the appointment with me. I’ll tell you the rest when I see you. I love you, David. Bye.’
He listened again, and again, and again. He entered Sarah Rosen’s mobile number onto his own mobile, saved it under SR and deleted her voicemail message on Rosen’s mobile with the
same dexterous thumb.
He crushed the cigarette beneath the sole of his foot and hurried back to the incident room.
——
‘W
E’VE COME UP
with two interior sequences,’ said Gold, slipping the first of two ‘British Library’-stamped pen drives into
his laptop’s USB port. ‘You know when you said, look at how the priest acts in the John Ritblat Gallery . . . ?’
Gold and Feldman stood on either side of Bellwood and Rosen, their eyes on the laptop they’d been staring at for hours on end.
‘I’ll narrate,’ said Gold. ‘This is the entrance to the gents’ toilet on the first floor of the library. People come and go. Then, watch this. Five minutes before
the priest arrives, watch. We don’t see much of his face, but this guy with black hair goes into the toilet. People come and go, but the little guy stays inside, doesn’t come out. Here
comes the priest. He goes into the toilet. We catch a glimpse of Feldman who doesn’t enter the toilet but backs away from the door. Half a minute to a minute later, out comes the priest and
away he goes. Two minutes later, out comes the black-haired guy.’ Gold paused the image and pointed across the office at the sculpture on Rosen’s desk. ‘Scale-wise, colourwise,
Mason hit the nail on the head, if this is the guy.’
‘If this is Paul Dwyer . . .’ It was a clear, full-on shot of the man.
‘He’s crying,’ said Bellwood.
‘I wonder what’s upset him?’ said Gold.
Bellwood leaned in closer to the screen. ‘Go back.’ Gold obliged. ‘Pause.’ She drank in the image of Dwyer and said, ‘My God. He’s not upset. He’s
crying with absolute joy, as if he’s just had a religious experience.’
‘Take us to the Ritblat Gallery,’ said Rosen. ‘What have you got?’
As Feldman changed pen drives, Harrison breezed past. Rosen glanced across the room. Harrison was hanging around at Rosen’s desk, blocking the view of Mason’s clay bust of the
killer.
‘Do you need me, Robert?’ asked Rosen.
Harrison shook his head and headed slowly in Rosen’s direction.
‘Here he is, Father Sebastian entering the gallery, staring into the cases at the old books and such, then he pauses at this centrally placed display cabinet. It’s three-forty-three,
he doesn’t move. Around him, people are coming, going, glancing at the things of antiquity rather than really looking, most of them. Then in comes . . . shall we call him Herod?’
‘Let’s call him Paul,’ said Rosen.
‘Paul edges himself close to the case Flint’s staring into. See Feldman in the background, out of Flint’s eyeline?’ Gold paused the footage. ‘Watch this. I
apologize, I totally missed this on the day.’
Harrison joined the group at the laptop.
The paused onscreen image showed Flint’s back and Paul’s face peering at Flint through the glass cabinet from the opposite side.
‘Hi, Robert,’ said Bellwood.
‘Robert, I’ve got a job for you’ said Rosen smoothly. ‘Internet search, Church of the Living Light, early to mid-seventies, London.’
‘Church of the Living Light? No problem, sir.’
Harrison headed for his desk, the hint of a smile just lurking beneath the surface of his face, as persistent as it was irritating to Rosen.
‘Here’s Paul, now watch his face.’
Paul stared through the cabinet with a look of adoration directly at Flint. Paul’s lips moved.
‘It can’t be the Capaneusian Bible that they’re looking at, can it?’ Rosen wondered aloud.
‘What was that, David?’ asked Gold.
‘What’s in the glass case? What’s he looking at?’
‘I checked,’ said Feldman. ‘It’s an illuminated manuscript from the tenth century.’
‘Watch,’ said Gold. ‘Watch, watch this, watch Flint’s hand. He points at the door and Paul turns on his heels and walks out through the door like a little
robot.’
They watched the footage again and again. There were good, clear shots of Paul’s and Flint’s faces. And there were two clear points of connection between them.
Rosen felt in his jacket pocket for his phone. Seeing it sitting on his desk, he went over and collected it. He dialled St Mark’s but the line was dead. He tried again. It was an
unreachable number. A sickening fear grew within him.
‘St Mark’s near Faversham, Carol. We’re going to bring Father Sebastian in for questioning. Goldie, keep Interview Suite One clear approximately four hours from now.
We’re in for a long night.’
As Rosen and Bellwood made for the door, Harrison called from his desk, ‘Sir?’
Rosen stopped. ‘Yes?’
‘There’s acres of stuff on the internet about the Church of the Living Light.’
‘Well, good, keep looking.’
Harrison laughed. ‘It sure ain’t the kind of church my granny used to go to, I can tell you that right now.’
Harrison’s voice followed Rosen as he hurried out of the incident room.
——
T
WO MINUTES AFTER
Rosen and Bellwood left, Karen Jones, Rosen’s civilian IT contact, arrived in the incident room with a pen drive.
‘Feldman, where’s your boss?’
‘He’s gone to pull in a suspect for questioning. He’ll be a few hours.’
‘Can you give him this?’ She handed over a pen drive. ‘I need to see him asap, so can you tell him when you see him?’
Usually calm under all manner of fire, she seemed agitated and upset.
‘What is this, Karen?’
‘It’s not nice . . . It’s called
A
. It’s a book of sorts. Rosen called it the Capaneusian Bible.’
‘The boss just mentioned that.’
‘First thing, me and him, OK?’
‘Honest to God, Karen, I’ll pass your message on,’ said Feldman.
Feldman looked across the room and asked, ‘Something amusing you, Robert?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harrison. ‘The Church of the Living Light.’
A
s soon as he pulled up outside the main door of St Mark’s, Rosen knew for sure that something was wrong.
A sleek black BMW was parked at an angle to the wide-open main door.
‘A visitor, a somewhat important and unexpected visitor,’ said Rosen, indicating the car to Bellwood as they entered the building.
As they made their way towards room 11, Father Sebastian’s ascetic den, the sound of raised voices hurtled down the corridor towards them.
Just outside the closed doorway of Flint’s room stood three men: Brother Aidan in front of a tall man with a grey beard and, beside him, a young priest in black.
‘Look, he’s here!’ Aidan pointed at Rosen. ‘He’s here already!’ Aidan looked and sounded as if he was in the initial stages of mental collapse.
‘Come on, Aidan, come on now, Brother.’ The tall man behind him oozed authority and kindness. He placed his hands on Aidan’s shoulders but Aidan shrugged him off.
‘He’s gone!’ said Aidan. ‘If you’ve come to talk to Father Sebastian, you can’t, Rosen. He’s gone.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Rosen.
‘When he left for London yesterday morning.’
‘He did come back here last night. One of my officers drove him here from the station and watched him come in through the front door.’
‘Well, I didn’t see him, no one did, ask them if you like—’
‘Aidan, stop being so aggressive to the police officer. He’s only doing his job. Flint must have been here. Who else would have damaged the phone line to cut off all outside
communication?’
Aidan span around and looked up at the grey-bearded man.
‘I don’t want to go back to gaol, ever, ever, you understand?’
‘You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?’ responded the taller man.
‘Who are you?’ Rosen addressed the speaker.
‘I’m Cardinal Francis McPhee,’ the prelate replied to Rosen but holding Aidan’s gaze, his hands on both Aidan’s shoulders, not looking away.
‘If you’re going to search his room,’ Aidan erupted, ‘you’ll need a search warrant.’
‘No, they won’t,’ said Cardinal McPhee. ‘These are good people. We’re going to help them and they’re going to help us. Aidan, the buck stops with me. If
there’s a problem here, I promise you, it’s me not you who has to think on it.’
‘Aidan,’ said Rosen, ‘could you help right now by making us some coffee?’
‘Grand idea. What do you think, Aidan? Time out.’
Cardinal McPhee caught Rosen’s eye as he ushered Aidan away.
Me and you, talk later.
‘In the meantime, Detective Rosen, if there’s anything we can do to help your
investigation . . .’
Rosen turned the handle of Father Sebastian’s door.
Almost at once, a blast of cold air flew out of the room.
The window was wide open.
‘He told me the window couldn’t be opened, it was overpainted and jammed,’ said Rosen.
Looking around, he could see no other visible change except for a picture on the wall, just above the bed, the picture Flint had held in his hands during Rosen’s visit but hadn’t
allowed him to see.
‘That picture has his fingerprints all over it.’
It was hard to make out the detail from the corridor but the central figure was Jesus Christ seated against a green rectangle, in an image shaped in an arch.
Bellwood moved into the room and squinted at the inscription beneath.
‘It’s ‘The Mocking of Christ’ by Fra Angelico.’
It’s part blasphemy, part mockery
. Flint’s words about the Capaneusian Bible rang in Rosen’s head.
‘Fra Angelico was a Dominican monk and one of the finest painters of religious scenes of his era,’ continued Bellwood.
‘How do you know that?’ asked Rosen.
‘It says so in very small print along the bottom of the poster. Not for resale. Free gift with
The Sunday Times
.’
‘I’m declaring this a crime scene,’ said Rosen.
‘What crime took place here?’ asked Bellwood.
‘Conspiracy to murder,’ Rosen replied.
She looked at him.
‘I want every single item in this room removed as forensic evidence. Call in Parker and Willis from Scientific Support.’
Bellwood pulled out her mobile.
‘The books, the toothbrush, the glass, the toothpaste, the hand towel, the bedside cabinet, whatever’s in it, the closet, the clothes in it, the bed, the bedding. The one thing
we’re looking for will be the one thing we won’t find. A connection to the internet. He’s using the internet. He’s got a laptop.’
On the pillow, open and face down, lay a book. William Blake’s
Songs of Innocence and Experience
.
Rosen picked up the book. It was open at pages 22 and 25.
‘A missing page.’ All that remained of pages 23 and 24 was a jagged edge. He laid down the book.
On her mobile phone, Bellwood spoke to Eleanor Willis and told her where they were. ‘You’ll need a van to get all this stuff back to London and . . .’ – she looked around
the room and did a quick estimate – ‘twenty-five-metre roll of bubble wrap, no, be on the safe side, make it thirty-five. St Mark’s, it’s near Faversham. We’ve more or
less just got here ourselves.’
She ended the call and saw Rosen pointing to the Fra Angelico print.
Jesus Christ, his closed eyes just visible beneath a gauze mask that covered the upper half of his face, seated on a box and surrounded by four disembodied hands, one holding a rod close to his
face and head, ready to slap, poke and beat him. To the left, a disembodied head, a male in his mid-thirties, hat cocked in mock respect, almost within kissing distance, but with a thick stream of
white phlegm streaming out of his mouth in the direction of Jesus Christ’s face.
‘This is what Sebastian Flint must’ve stared at every night as he went to sleep. This must be the image he took into his dreams.’
The wind blew in through the open window and the clothes closet creaked ajar. A ragged jogging top and single pair of jogging bottoms were suspended from wire hangers like discarded skin. The
once-white T-shirt hung from a third hanger: a sorry array of clothes in the darkness that housed them.
On the floor of the closet were Father Sebastian’s odd trainers, two different makes, worn-out souvenirs of a life spent running, running, running.