The Turin Shroud Secret

32

Beyond a thick grove of giant cedars, hidden in the shadows of the snow-covered slopes of Mount Lebanon, a kiln master performs a job passed down his family line for centuries.

His name is Ziad Keffy. He is forty years old, bald and fat. His skin has been roasted chestnut brown by the scorching sun. As he nears the opening of the blistering furnace his bare, sweat-glistened stomach looks like it is about to pop. Keffy’s decades of expertise tell him the kiln’s temperature is at the level he needs, and the clay inside begins to shimmer like molten gold. He stands in front of the fire and watches.

Periodically, he quenches the monstrous oven with water to produce the surface glaze that will protect the bricks. Each of them has been hand-crafted by his team of uniquely devoted workers, who have engraved their own personal marks on the precious blocks.

Keffy turns from the kiln to check on the labourers. It’s a brief escape from the broiling heat. Some are mixing clay with water and others are driving oxen over a fresh mix and trampling it into a thick slurry. Soon they’ll scoop it into wooden frames, then use wire-strung bows to cut the bricks before they’re moved to his kiln ready for firing.

It’s hot and dirty work. Toil that drains you and dries up your organs from the inside out. You’re never more than a few seconds from being desperately thirsty. Behind him Keffy hears his brother’s voice. ‘They are ready for you. They say it is time for you to come.’ Dany, younger than him y ten years, tall and slim, so unlike Ziad it is hard to believe they are related.

The kiln master uses a filthy cloth tied around his waist to wipe the sweat from his forehead. ‘Then they shall be obeyed,’ he says. ‘Don’t let anyone near the fire.’ He lives in fear of someone ruining his work or injuring themselves. If they did, there’d be hell to pay.

There’s no bounce in his stride as he ducks under a small brick archway and descends a steep set of cold, stone steps into the thousand-year-old building that dominates the grove. The hairs on his arms prickle. Partly because of the change in temperature. Mainly because of the task he’s about to carry out.

Just as Ziad is the only one entrusted with firing the bricks, so he is the only one ever called upon to supervise their use. His leather sandals make thin, echoing slaps as he walks the narrow slit of an underground passage, lit by fire torches on the walls. He shakes his head as he goes, unable to understand how people can spend any time down here, how they can live as they do.

The passage opens into a large subterranean square. The only light is from the candles placed around the central fountain. In the middle of the constantly pooling water is a statue. It’s a tall figure, with a stern face. The founding saint of the monastery. Ziad makes the sign of the cross and dips his head respectfully as two black-robed monks approach him. The older of the two holds a sledgehammer in his liver-spotted hands, the younger — a youth of no more than eighteen — three stone chisels. The kilnsman wonders why the teenager didn’t do the heavy lifting. Perhaps even here men are still keen to demonstrate their masculinity.

‘Is it the same one?’ he asks, fearfully.

The elder doesn’t speak but his eyes confirm it. The old man never speaks. That is to say, he hasn’t spoken for more than half a century. Ziad purses his lips and relieves the monk of the hammer. ‘Please lead the way, Brother.’

He follows behind them, his thoughts turning to the job in hand. How best to strike the first blow. How to do minimum damage to the tiny but sacred structure he only just erected. Most of all, how not to injure the beast of a man they so recently sealed inside it.

33

It’s 3 a.m. and Mitzi hasn’t slept. She’s sat bolt upright in Amber’s bed, her two daughters finally asleep in the twin bunk beside her.

The Smith and Wesson dangles from her strapped-up hand. Her legs and arms are still red and stinging from the strapping Alfie gave her and her hearing is clouded with a constant buzzing from the blow to the ear. But she is oblivious to the pain. Her eyes are fixed on the bedroom door she’s barricaded with a chest of drawers.

A while ago she heard a door slam, a car start and then squeal away. Hopefully it was him. Please God let it have been him. She still won’t put the gun down — not until she’s certain. In the darkness she’s been thinking about the girls — the fights they’ve seen — the damage that’s been done. Strange thing is, he’s not been a bad father. Far from it. He adores them and they adore him. He’s never raised a finger to them. Only her. For her own good. To teach her a lesson. Because he loves her and he’s scared she’ll leave him.

Mitzi’s heard all the excuses and made them all to the girls — even told them it’s normal, said that all parents fight from time to time. She remembers how, battered and bruised after a fight, she’d let him hug her while they’d both tell the kids how much they loved each other and loved them. The most sickening thing of all was they’d meant it. Really meant it.

Crazy. She’d been certifiably insane.

She creeps out of bed, slides the chest of drawers slowly away from the door, picks her gun back up and takes a deep breath. Very slowly she prises the door open and heads back towards the bedroom where they fought. Maybe she should have called the cops when she’d floored him. Put up with the inevitable humiliation, the wagging tongues at work — what the hell. Come to think of it, she should have called them a long time ago. Right after the second time he punched her and then turned into a cry baby and asked her to forgive him.

She swings her gun around the doorframe and takes a shooting stance.

Empty.

Even in the soft glow from the bedside lamp she can tell he’s gone. She backs out onto the landing and wonders now how she fell for all the old baloney he’s given her. Sure, love stretches a long way. Love and two adorable kids stretch even further. But she should have known better.

Mitzi walks tip-toe down the stairs, gun out in front, clutched in her professional but still slightly shaking hands. She doesn’t switch on a light until she gets to the kitchen. Then she wishes she hadn’t.

The brightness falls like Judgement Day. A bolt of lightning straight from the hand of God rocks her head. She sweeps the gun around to see if the monster in her life is lying like a whale on the sofa.

He isn’t.

Thank God for small mercies.

Five minutes later Mitzi is sure she and the girls are alone. She bolts the doors and sits at the kitchen table staring at the place where Alfie used to sit. Where he’ll never sit again. In front of her is a bottle of whisky, a glass, the gun and a whole scary future.

34

She’s cold now.

Colder than JJ thought human flesh to be. It fascinates him. Cops on TV call it the death chill, the stage of decomposition scientists know as algor mortis.

Poor Em.

Every hour her body temperature has been falling by one and a half degrees and right now it’s barely that of the unheated room she’s lying in. Her room. Her resting place. He strokes hair from her ghostly white face and tenderly wraps an arm around her. Strange noises surface. For a moment he thinks she’s breathing. Rising from the dead. He places an ear to her heart and listens for a beat. Nothing. He moves down her torso, hands on her slim hips, cheek against her smooth abdomen. Now he knows what it is.

Gasses and liquids inside her. She might be dead but there are things living inside her — organisms feeding in her intestines — little parts of Em that are still alive. Life after death. He wonders if there are thoughts still in her brain moving like the bacteria, twitching in their final throes. Do memories just vanish like a heartbeat or do they hang around after the final breath and putrefy over hours, days or months? He knows the brain can be kept alive when all other organs are dead. Perhaps that’s where the soul is.

He slides up alongside her and looks into the empty eyes and says something he’s never said before. ‘I love you.’

It feels good. Saying it. It’s what God wants. God is love. God has brought him Em. She is his. He puts his mouth close to her face. ‘I do, Em. I love you. I really do.’

35

Two Swiss Guards accompany the special advisor through the Cortile de Sisto V, the courtyard of Sixtus the Fifth, the former swineherd turned Pope. Their boots clatter as they briskly climb stone steps to the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. Since the seventeenth century the ten rooms in front of them, including a medical suite, have formed the appartamento nobile, the official winter residence of the Supreme Pontiff.

The papal secretary shows Andreas Pathykos through the vestibule and leaves him in the small study. The earnest Greek has known the Holy Father for thirty years. He is his eyes and ears in the outside world. Andreas paces until the doors open and his old friend enters.

‘Your Holiness.’ He bows, then adds, ‘I trust you are well.’

The old Pontiff smiles. ‘As much as a mere man of eighty ever will be. You told my secretary you had urgent news?’

‘I did.’ His demeanour changes. ‘It is not good, I am afraid.’

The Holy Father eases himself into a high-backed chair. ‘Urgent appointments seldom bring good tidings.’

‘The lady writer — she is dead.’

The Pontiff looks shaken. ‘God bless her.’ He makes the Sign of the Cross. ‘Under what circumstances did she pass?’

‘She was found in the sea close to where she lives in America. It was not an accident. We are reliably informed that the Los Angeles Police Department is treating her death as murder.’

The Pope lowers his head in solemn contemplation. Later he will pray for her soul. And he will pray that the worst of his imaginings is not true.

The advisor does not add any more details, certainly not the bloodier ones that he knows — the loss of an eye, the torture. His Holiness looks up. A pale blue gaze that has seen much sin and witnessed much wisdom falls upon his trusted servant. ‘Andreas Pathykos, if you have any information that can help the police catch this lady’s killer, you must inform the authorities.’

‘I understand, Your Holiness.’

‘The Church has done much to unite the factions, the modernists and the orthodox, but we cannot be the friends of extremists.’

‘Holy Father—’

The Pontiff stops him with a raised palm. ‘They mean well but are overzealous. History has taught us this much.’

‘Indeed, Your Eminence.’

‘And the other matter. Is the book now closed on that?’

Pathykos flinches. ‘I think not. I am afraid to speculate that it is just the opposite. This unfortunate death is most likely to keep the pages fixed open — for some time.’

36

At 5 a.m. Mitzi begins her new life.

She puts away the whisky, brews fresh coffee and sorts through bills that can’t be put off any longer. The soul-destroying sift reminds her that the girls are going skiing with the school at the weekend and the final payment for the trip is long overdue. She can’t afford it but she’ll find it somehow. It feels important that they’re away from home right now. A break down at Mount Baldy could be just what’s needed.

She opens up the household laptop and starts a trawl for a locksmith and a lawyer. All the barrels on the doors and windows have got to be changed. It won’t be cheap, but she can’t think about that. And she needs to make an appointment with someone who can take care of all the nasty official things — the divorce — and the inevitable battle to hang on to what little she’s got.

Alfie has taken her self-respect, she’s damned sure he’s not taking her home as well.

She goes upstairs and checks on the girls. They’re still sleeping. Good. Maybe the deep rest will erase some of the horror of the night. She pads barefooted to her bedroom and pulls down a dusty trunk from the top of the wardrobe.

Twenty minutes later she’s sat on it, squashing in as many of her husband’s clothes, shoes and personal belongings as she can. She’ll bag the rest and dump it in the garage for him to collect when she’s not there. One thing for certain, he’s never coming in the house again.

In the bathroom she sweeps his razor, foam, deodorant and clutter into a wicker bin and steps into the shower to wash off the dirt of her experience. A clean start. Never has there been a truer phrase. She towels dry and examines each of the fiery whip marks on her body. They’ll fade. Given time they’ll all go and so will the memories, the nagging doubts and the fear that right now are eating her.

She dresses for work. Bright colours today, nothing but bold statements and certain steps. A buttercup-yellow blouse, saturated blue trousers and matching jacket. Too strong, she knows. Too summery, too gaudy. No matter. She needs the power of the colours around her, a halo of energy to see her through the day. There are still a couple of hours before she needs to take the girls to school so she settles at the kitchen table and surfs the internet. First the headlines. Then the gossip. Bored with the same old same old, she finds herself entering ‘Turin Shroud’ into the search engine.

Half a million entries pop up in a ninth of a second. Impressive. If only they made men as efficient. Give a man a whole day and he can’t even find where he put his wallet, let alone four hundred and ninety-nine thousand other things. Search engines must be female.

There are numerous quasi-religious pages and the artefact has its own website, plus offerings from the usual suspects — Wikipedia, BBC and CNN. She opens Wiki and looks for the first time at the haunting image that so obsessed Tamara Jacobs.

From the accompanying text she learns the photographs were taken in 1898 by an Italian called Secondo Pia. She’s blown away by how much clearer the negative is than the sepia print. It’s hard to believe they’re the same image.

Mitzi goes to a kitchen drawer and finds a pen and spiral notepad. On a fresh page she makes bullet point jottings, jumping from site to site.

Shroud is a large linen cloth seemingly bearing marks of a crucified man.

Kept in special chapel at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin.

1978 a detailed examination was carried out by a team of American scientists called STURP (Shroud of Turin Research Project). They found no reliable evidence of forgery and said it was a mystery how the image had been formed.

1988 radiocarbon dating was performed by universities of Oxford and Arizona and the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology. All independently said the Shroud originated in the Middle Ages, between 1260 and 1390 — all concluded it couldn’t have been Christ’s burial cloth.

Mitzi sits back from the screen more certain than ever that the answers to her murder lie in Turin. She looks at her watch and realises she’s been so engrossed in the mystery of the Shroud that she’s lost track of time. It’s eight in the morning. Face the girls time. Time to tell them that last night wasn’t a dream. That she really has kicked their father out and is not having him back.

Not ever.

37

Andreas Pathykos leaves the Papal Palace and walks the five minutes to a café in the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio, off the southern curve of Piazza San Pietro. He’s been coming here for years. So has the man he’s about to meet.

He orders a large plate of pastries, espresso and water then watches the door for his guest. He doesn’t have to wait long. Father Nabih Hayek jangles the overhead bell of the front door as he walks in. His thin face lights up as he spots his old friend at a table.

Hayek is in his late fifties and Lebanese. He can trace his family back to the early days of the Maronite Syriac Church of Antioch, a unique Catholic order that retains its own liturgy, discipline and hierarchy. Antioch has a special place in Catholic hearts. It is here that followers of Jesus were first called Christians and after the destruction of Jerusalem in AD 70 it became a centre of the faith.

‘It is still cold,’ grumbles Hayek as a greeting. He embraces the papal adviser. ‘I long for spring.’

‘Have this coffee, I’ll order us some more.’

‘Grazie.’

The visitor warms his arthritic hands around the small cup as Pathykos signals to the barman to bring refills. He lifts a Pasticiotti from the mound of pastries and places it on Hayek’s plate. ‘This one I got just for you.’

‘What’s in it?’ Hayek pulls the plate towards him.

‘Vanilla and chocolate,’ he declares, almost sinfully. ‘Enjoy.’

Hayek bites into the tender pasta frolla pastry cup and relishes the rare indulgence.

The following ten minutes are spent talking food, drink and the frivolities of life. Then Pathykos cuts to the chase. ‘I have informed His Holiness of the difficulties that are unfolding in Los Angeles.’

‘And?’

‘He expressed his concern.’

‘Explicitly?’

The Greek takes a moment before answering. ‘He demands that if I have knowledge then I should share it with the authorities.’

‘How would His Holiness define “knowledge”?’

‘Justified true belief.’

‘Ah, the Plato definition.’ He licks cream from a finger. ‘The great man said, for someone to have knowledge of something, it must be true. It must be believed to be true and that belief must be justified.’

‘It is what most epistemologists accept, and according to such a definition then I have knowledge.’

Hayek is not so sure. ‘You have supposition, dear friend. You have supposition not unequivocal confirmation, and therefore, as a consequence of having only supposition, you do not have truth.’

‘I suppose you are correct.’

‘I know I am correct.’ Hayek looks pleased with himself.

‘Now Andreas, in accepting you do not have truth — in admitting that you do not irrefutably know what has happened, you must also accept that you do not have justified true belief and therefore you do not have knowledge.’

The papal adviser sips his espresso and absorbs the argument. He puts the tiny white cup down. ‘If asked, I will tell the Holy Father I have no knowledge in the truest sense of the word. If he instructs me to share more than knowledge, then I will tell you.’

Hayek nods in agreement. It is the most he could hope for. He returns to his pastry and considers how much more to tell the Greek. Until today it has been easy to be open about these somewhat delicate matters. Given the discussion of the last few minutes, that may no longer be the case. ‘You have a contact in Los Angeles. Perhaps it would be better if from now onwards I dealt directly with him?’

Pathykos understands the implication behind the offer. This way he can avoid any question of future knowledge. He can take action now to distance himself from things. But there is a price to pay for such a convenience. Loss of control. The Greek knows that once he hands the reins to Hayek, he will never be able to get them back again.

The two men sit in coffee-fuelled contemplation for several minutes, both weighing up the possible consequences of Hayek’s request, not just for their churches but for themselves.

Pathykos finally calls for the check. He settles in cash and writes a name and phone number on a napkin, then passes it hesitantly across the table. ‘You realise we must not meet again. Not for years. Perhaps not ever.’

Hayek takes the napkin. ‘I do.’

Both men stand. They embrace and kiss each other on the cheeks before leaving and going their separate ways. The Greek walks back to the Papal Palace knowing one day he will need to seek forgiveness for what he has just done.

38

Mitzi is red-eyed and so exhausted that she almost calls in sick.

Amber and Jade cry their hearts out over breakfast, then shout and blame her. Then they cry some more. Eventually everyone holds each other and says how sorry they are before falling silent with dark thoughts about life as a broken family.

Mitzi gets her shit together. ‘Life goes on,’ she tells them. ‘No one has cancer. No one is dead. And you’re still going skiing.’

The bribe works. But only for now. She drops her key with a neighbour so the locks can get changed, drives the girls to school and heads into work.

She’s trying to act like nothing has happened. Like it is a normal, boring everyday kind of day. Only it isn’t. It’s a terrifyingly different kind of day. It’s her first day as a single parent. Her first day as a woman who’s about to start divorce proceedings. She calls the number of the lawyer she found online and makes an appointment for next week. She’d prefer one sooner but he’s all booked up. For some reason her hand touches her gun, the Smith and Wesson she aimed at her husband last night.

Would she have shot him?

Damned right she would.

Tried to kill him or wound him?

A more difficult question.

Just struggling to answer it makes her realise that under all the layers of hate, all the scars, bruises and contusions of abuse, there’s still the gossamer of true love, a thin link back to the good times. She swigs from a large mug of black coffee, and starts up the computer. Some day she’ll cut down on the beans, maybe do a complete detox and drink the daily bucket of water that apparently all good girls do. Not today, though. Today Mitzi is already doing ninety in the outside lane on caffeine superhighway and that’s where she’s planning on staying.

Now she wishes she’d called Nic in rather than have him chase down Tamara’s family and friends. She could do with his energy around her, some positive momentum to keep her going. Then again, in a way, it’s a good job he’s not here. If she told him about Alfie, he’d probably go crazy and do something regrettable.

Her desk is a mess. Piled with paperwork and files. Surely not as she left it. She’s usually much tidier than this. She must be cracking up. Or else someone’s been rooting for something, and gave up part way through. The surface is covered with forensic reports, interview statements, bank accounts, bills and records pulled from Tamara Jacobs and her estranged husband Dylan. Plus all the goodies she finally shook out of Sarah Kenny — Tamara’s memos, notes and some USB sticks. From the storage devices she’s managed to print a paper tower of early scripts — numerous different versions, marked numerically and chronologically — ‘The Shroud Draft (1) Jan 10’, ‘The Shroud Draft (10) July 26’, etc.

She forgets the nagging worry that someone’s been prying and starts reading from the beginning. The first copy may be the roughest but may also be the most valuable. Later drafts might have things taken out, refined away, covered up. She swings her legs around and puts her heels up on the desk, then slides down a little in her chair with the manuscript until she’s comfortable. It’s a long time since she read anything other than a paper or magazine — that’s something else she’s going to put right in her new life. She leafs through the pages and tries to follow the layout and stylised flow of screen directions and plot development.

Mitzi studies the crossed-out lines and sees a handwritten notation a little lower: *too sensitive/rw

She guesses rw means rewrite. She pulls apart the tower of drafts and after some rooting finds the next version of the script. It reads:

Mitzi is wondering why Tamara changed the text. What was wrong with the original version? She compares the two. The only significant change seems to be the dropping of the first draft’s reference to ‘the type CSIs use to lift fingerprints’. She swings back and forth in her chair, almost in the hope that the motion will dislodge a jammed thought, a clogged intuition.

The cell phone on her desk rings. ‘Mitzi Fallon,’ she says, still staring at the script, still wondering about the changes.

‘It’s me.’

The words make her freeze.

Alfie.

Her heart pounds. She pulls the phone away from her ear and glares at it. He’s still talking as she cuts him off.

Somehow disconnecting the call is not enough. Mitzi makes sure the phone is completely turned off. She knows she’ll have to talk to him. But not now. Not until she’s really sure she’s strong enough.

39

Factory manager John James stands in the open doorway of the machinists’ workroom as the claxon sounds for the eleven o’clock tea break.

‘Wait! Wait!’

He has to shout loudly above the cacophony of chair legs scraping back over the wooden floor. ‘Hold on. You need to hear this before you go.’

The noise dies down to a grumble. The expectant faces of thirty women stare at him. Some are desperate to go to the washroom, others to get coffee, soda or cigarettes.

‘Emma Varley handed in her notice last night and isn’t coming in any more.’

The news raises a couple of whistles and even some bored clapping.

‘It means we have a vacancy for a machinist. If anyone knows someone who needs work, let me know. Applicants need to provide references. That’s it.’

The wave of noise rises again and the exodus resumes. JJ steps to one side and lets the tide of women flow past.

‘Good freakin’ riddance,’ says Jenny Harrison as she approaches him. The thirty-year-old’s brunette hair is tied back in a greasy bun and her face is heavily made-up. ‘Bitch was no good anyway, dragged the rest of us back.’

JJ feels compelled to defend her. ‘Em not being here is a big loss to this company.’

Harrison stops in front of him. ‘Em?’ Her voice crackles with excitement. ‘Was Em teacher’s pet, then?’

JJ says nothing. Inwardly, he’s already scalding himself for the slip of tongue.

‘Aw, you gonna miss her, Mr J?’ Harrison reaches out and grabs the arm of one of her passing cronies. ‘Hey Kim, you think the boss was soft on Blotchy?’

Kim Bass, a platinum blonde, not young but not old either, stares baldly into her manager’s face. ‘He looks embarrassed to me, Jen.’ She chews gum nonchalantly as she looks him over. ‘Yeah, maybe he was. Or maybe he wasn’t soft on her, he was hard on her.’

They erupt with laughter. Hold on to each other as though the joke was so funny they’d collapse if they didn’t.

‘Get out of here!’ JJ waves them through the door. ‘Take your break or get back to work.’

Harrison is too bold to be talked to like that. She’s eaten men twice the size of Fish Face for dinner and spat out their scales and bones before breakfast. She steps close to him, so close her breasts brush him and her cheap perfume makes him cough. ‘We could be your pets, now Mr J. Kim and I here could show you things you never even imagined.’

Bass follows her lead and leans against his shoulder, pressing her body up against him. ‘That’s right, boss. Treat us properly and we’ll really treat you.’

His temper snaps. He jams a hand across the blonde’s mouth. Anger surges through him. Images flash to mind. He has to fight to keep his other hand at his side, use all his willpower not to grab her throat and squeeze the life out of her.

‘Hey!’ Bass pulls away. ‘You just assaulted me.’

‘Get your stuff. You’re both fired. Get out of here.’

Bass no longer has a smart look in her eyes. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘I’ve done it.’ His heart is racing. ‘You’re both fired. Clear your things and get out of here. Now.’

The women look at each other uncertainly.

‘It was just a joke, Mr James.’ Harrison almost sounds apologetic. ‘We’re sorry if we wound you up.’

‘Get out.’

‘Please,’ begs Bass. ‘Dwayne will beat me stupid if I tell him I’ve lost this job.’

JJ couldn’t care less. ‘You’re stupid already. Get your things and leave or I’ll call the cops and have you thrown out.’

They can see he isn’t going to change his mind. Harrison’s face fills with fury. ‘You sexually assaulted her.’ She points at Bass. ‘I saw you. You felt her up.’ She turns to her friend. ‘Didn’t he, Kim? He grabbed at you, didn’t he?’

‘Yeah. You’re a sex maniac. You’ve been pestering me all the time. All the girls have seen ya.’

They see the smug look slip from his face. Poor bastard doesn’t know what to do now. Doesn’t have a clue. Harrison taps him on the cheek as she walks away. ‘We’re takin’ our break now.’ She glances at her wrist. ‘Only we’ll be a bit late coming back, cos you kept us talking for so long.’

40

Deke Matthews’ office chair creaks ominously as he rocks back and forth, weighing up Mitzi’s unexpected plea to send Karakandez to Turin.

If the beach corpse was only a street bum, he’d say no. He’d send her away with a flea in her ear for even suggesting such a thing. But a Hollywood writer is a different thing. Very different since this morning when he had the mayor riding him hard for progress reports and reminding him that elections are just round the corner.

He rights the chair and gives his verdict. ‘Okay, send him. Only do it cheap. Get him on a parcel plane or bucket airline. Strap him to a flock of pigeons or have him swim. No overtime, no fancy meals.’

‘Thanks, boss.’ She starts to leave.

‘And send him now. Today. Tonight at the latest. I need a result on this Fallon and I need it quick.’

‘You got it.’ She makes for the door.

‘Good. In fact, make it even quicker than quick.’

Mitzi dials Nic as she heads down to her car and out to her next appointment, a catholic scholar and expert on the Shroud.

‘Karakandez.’ There’s a lot of noise on his end of the line.

‘Where are you?’

‘Cruising coffee shops near the studio lot.’ He mimes a thank you to a young assistant he’s just finished interviewing. ‘Thought Tamara might hole up here for brunch — or whatever it is writers have.’

‘Any luck?’

He gazes across the dull faces he’s been showing his badge to. ‘Not so far.’

‘Then get yourself home and pack a case. Admin is booking you on a flight to Turin to go find Craxi.’

‘No way, Mitz. I’ve got one foot out of the door. It’s too late in the day for me to be crossing the Atlantic.’

‘It’s not a request, it’s an instruction — straight from Matthews.’

He doesn’t speak for a minute, just stews on the news. He knows Mitzi has two kids and a drunk to look after at home. There’s no way she can go and there’s no one else senior enough to send. ‘You owe me for this, big time.’

‘Remind me when you’re done sailing the seven seas.’

He ends the call as he heads out of the coffee shop.

Mitzi wishes she wasn’t landing the load on his desk. Not just because he deserves a soft landing as he jumps from the squad, but because if the case isn’t wrapped by the time he leaves, then she’s going to have brief someone new on everything Nic’s been doing.

Just after midday, she parks up and rides an elevator in an ugly concrete tower off West Temple Street. The office she enters is covered in old brown carpet tiles that long ago stopped being wipe-clean like the guarantee promised. A grey metal desk with three drawers and two moulded plastic chairs takes up half the room. The other half is dominated by a wall-mounted three-foot crucifix with a disturbingly lifelike figure of a bloodied Christ.

Rising from his seat to shake her hand is Father Patrick Majewski of the LA Archdiocese. The ruddy-faced cleric is the distilled product of spirited generations of Irish and Polish grandparents filtered through Gdansk and Belfast. His short but thick white hair fuses into a similarly short but thick white beard.

‘Please sit down,’ he settles back into his chair, ‘I hope you don’t mind — I’m still finishing lunch.’ He gestures at a shallow bowl of watery broth on an old wooden tray on the desk.

‘Not at all. Go ahead. Enjoy.’

‘Would you like some brought for you?’

Mitzi’s seen more appetising dishwater. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘Your loss.’ He gives her a benign smile and tucks a white napkin into the top of his black cassock. Each spoonful is slowly savoured. No greedy slurping. Nothing rushed. Not a drop wasted.

After what seems an eternity, the good father places the spoon noiselessly in the bowl, removes the napkin and pats his lips. ‘Absolutely delicious. You missed something of a treat.’

‘I’m told denial is good for the soul, Father.’

‘Not so good for the stomach, though.’ He laughs. ‘Now, you’ve not come here to talk soup. You said on the phone that you want to discuss the sacred Shroud of Turin.’

‘I do.’ She hitches forward on her chair. ‘The Diocese press office said it’s your area of expertise.’

‘It certainly is. I’ve spent my life fascinated by it. I’m told this is in connection with a criminal investigation. May I ask what kind?’

‘The ongoing kind. I don’t want to be rude, but I really can’t say anything more at the moment.’

‘I understand. What exactly do you want to know?’

‘If you believe the Shroud is authentic.’

‘I saw the Sacra Sindone when it was last exhibited in Turin. Just being in its presence made me realise it was our Lord’s.’

‘How so? How could you be so certain?’

His face brightens. ‘As a servant of Christ, I just knew.’

She opens her notebook. ‘Give me a second. I wrote some things down, stuff from the web.’ She flips a page and then another. ‘Here we go — scientists who carbon-dated the cloth insist it can’t be Christ’s because it’s from the Middle Ages. I’m quoting here, “undeniably between 1260 and 1390”.’

‘They’re wrong. They carried out that dating almost thirty years ago. Back then the process wasn’t nearly as accurate as it is now. It was somewhat flawed.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. You’ll find several examples of carbon dating being out by hundreds of years.’

‘Being out by more than a thousand is unlikely, though, isn’t it?’

‘Wrong is wrong, Lieutenant.’ He licks a taste of soup from his front teeth. ‘If in court you presented forensic evidence — DNA, blood-typing, fingerprinting — and that was even fractionally wrong, a judge would throw your case out, wouldn’t he?’

‘I guess he would. But even today the university scientists who tested the Shroud — all big kahunas from Oxford, Arizona and Zurich — they still say it was accurate.’

‘Of course they do. They’re protecting their reputations. Look, X-rays were invented in the nineteenth century, it was an incredible thing, an ability to see inside the human body and cure what was wrong. But those early machines are nowhere near as accurate as the ones we use now — they missed thousands of medical problems and illnesses. Carbon dating is just the same. It’s in its infancy and in this case it’s as innacurate as a nineteenth-century X-ray machine.’

Mitzi’s face says she still isn’t convinced.

‘There are other factors as well — many of them.’

‘Such as?’

‘For a start, they took the samples from the wrong area of the Shroud.’

‘How can there even be a wrong area?’

‘Easily. The cloth is large and old. Fourteen feet six inches by three feet nine inches. Over time it has become worn — damaged by folding, by water staining and, most notably, by a fire at Sainte Chapelle in Alpine Chambéry in France, where it used to be kept. So, over all those centuries, the scorched, stained and frayed fabric has been repaired — fresh weaves integrated into old weaves. The carbon testing, I am afraid, was done on a repaired area, not on the original cloth.’

‘The scientists didn’t pick up any of the old cloth in doing it?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘I’m sorry, I guess I’m just being stupid, but I don’t see how a mistake like that could have happened.’

Now he looks stumped. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Well, from what I’ve read, it was the Church that determined exactly where the samples should be taken from, not the scientists. And if the Church knew of these patched-up parts, why didn’t they have the samples taken from an area of original cloth?’

Majewski looks annoyed. ‘The Holy Shroud wasn’t patched up. It was expertly repaired using seamless and near invisible weaves of new yarn into old. The Church did not mislead anyone. It simply had not realised beforehand that these areas were those that had been repaired.’

Mitzi is intrigued. ‘You mean, there are no records to prove this repair was carried out in the Middle Ages?’

‘No.’

‘Aw, c’mon.’ She can’t hide her incredulity. ‘This is the most famous religious relic of all time and no one kept a note of what was done to it and when?’

‘If you’d kindly let me finish.’ He glares at her. ‘The lack of documentation is not strange at all. Over two thousand years, things get lost, they get destroyed. It is a sad fact that many records and testimonies that relate to the Shroud, and other important religious relics, have disappeared over the centuries.’

‘In my experience, Father, important records only go missing or get destroyed when people want them to.’

He sounds offended. ‘We are not common tax dodgers, or fraudsters, Lieutenant.’

Mitzi’s unimpressed by his show of indignation, ‘Forgers are forgers. Doesn’t matter if they’re presidents, politicians or priests.’

He lets out a weary sigh. ‘We know from reputable documented reports that after the French fire in 1532, four nuns from the Order of Poor Clare made sizeable repairs. And we can similarly prove further work was carried out in 1694.’

‘I don’t want to upset you, Father, but those sixteenth-and seventeenth-century tags are nothing to do with thirteenth-century work.’

He turns away from her and tugs open the top drawer of his desk. His fingers trip along the top of the hanging green folders inside and stop about halfway along. He plucks out a thick folder. ‘Have you seen any good-quality photographs of the cloth?’

‘Only what’s online.’

‘They’d be low definition.’ He opens the file. ‘Here.’ He hands over a set of prints. ‘These are high-definition prints made with Church approval. The one on the left shows the front of the Shroud, the one on the right, the back.’

Mitzi handles them as she would a deck of crime-scene stills. She takes a quick glance, then goes back to the first to examine each in detail.

He pulls his chair closer and runs his finger down the crossed arms of the corpse in the left-hand picture. ‘This mark on the wrist is where they hammered in one of the iron nails — not, as many thought, in the palm of our Lord, but between the bones under the ridge where the wrist meets the hand.’ The cleric’s finger moves to the torso. ‘These faint criss-cross marks are where the soldiers scourged him with their flagrums—’

‘Flagrums?’

‘Whips, leather tongues embedded and tipped with metal barbs.’

Mitzi clearly sees everything he’s talking about. The incredible detail is compelling.

Majewski can tell she’s being drawn into the mystery — the miracle. ‘It’s hard to explain, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ she concedes, shifting her focus to a new image, a close-up of the head and face. ‘It all looks chillingly real.’ She thinks hard but can’t remember ever seeing or hearing of a corpse transferring its features to any cloth or fabric.

The old priest leans close to his visitor. His breath is warm and still smells of soup. ‘Lieutenant, I have no idea what your investigation is about, but I urge you to run it with the greatest of care.’ He gently touches the photograph on her lap and speaks in the authoritative tone of the confessional booth. ‘Your eyes rest upon the face of Our Lord. Remember, one day His will rest upon you. I pray that He, in His mercy, will judge you then on how you judge Him now.’

41

JJ can’t look at the women as they file out of the factory at the end of the shift. Their noise disgusts him. The whole seething, heaving mass of them turns his stomach. At the heart of their stupid babble, he can hear Harrison and Bass calling him names, taunting him.

He wanders away from the machine room, back down the corridor to his office. It’s like being back at high school. He remembers the bigger, older boys, baiting and brutalising him. He feels the acid-sharp reminder in his stomach.

JJ settles behind his desk, closes his eyes and lowers his head. He knows what is going on. They are evil. Wicked. Sent to test his resolve. Put on earth to stand in his way and to destroy all he stands for, all he has to complete. Well, they won’t. He won’t let them.

There’s a rap on the window in his door. He looks up. Harrison’s face at the glass. Her foul, mocking mouth is open wide. Her right hand making obscene motions. After a few seconds of staring at him she laughs and walks away.

JJ is unable to move. She’s humiliated him again. Harrison and Bass are going to make his life hell. He just knows they are.

He gets up from the desk and heads back out to the floor. He turns off all the machines, then closes the windows, checks the taps are off in the washrooms and the kettles and appliances in the small kitchen area have all been disconnected. After switching off the lights, he returns to his office and opens an old metal filing cabinet buried under a dead computer and a stack of papers in the corner of the room. He sifts through the personnel files until he finds the two he’s looking for — Harrison and Bass.

Good news — they live close to each other. Not far from work. Not far at all. He makes notes of the addresses and home phone numbers, then returns the files. He turns off the last of the lights and locks up. His spirit lifts as he drives away into the dark of the night and the even darker plans he has for his troublesome employees.

42

The rest of Mitzi’s day gets chewed up fixing permissions for Nic’s Italian trip and dodging Matthews, who’s being hounded hourly by everyone from the mayor to the commissioner and back again. Poor guy looks like he’s going to blow a gasket.

Tonight she’s planning to treat the girls to a takeaway, whatever they want and some good ice cream. They can pig out together on comfort food. A girlie night in before they go skiing. God knows they all need it.

On her way home she calls Nic and braces herself for a torrent of abuse.

‘Hello?’ His voice crackles through the speaker in her car’s hands-free.

She clicks the volume up as she answers. ‘Shouldn’t you be saying bonjour or something like that?’

‘Very funny. I think the Italians say buongiorno.’

‘Guess you’re gonna find out soon enough. You all packed?’

‘Just loaded the car and I’m leaving in a minute. Thanks for this, Mitz. Just what I needed to see me out — a ball-breaking trip of several thousand miles to chase shadows.’

‘Hey, had there been someone else I would have sent them. Had I been able to go myself, I would have. Believe me you were my last resort.’

‘Last resory, eh? You sure know how to make a guy feel good.’

‘Enough of the complaining. Did you manage to make contact with the Carabinieri?’

‘Only just. They say they’ll have a liaison officer for me. I’ve got an FBI buddy reaching out to find me a friendly face too.’

‘Make sure we don’t have to pay for it. Matthews will have my badge if you run up anything more than a coffee bill.’

‘Great. A bitch of a trip and full radar on what I spend. How was your day?’

‘I’ve had better.’

‘How so?’

She almost tells him, then pulls back. What’s the point of passing on the poison? He’s minutes from heading out to LAX and has a murder case to run. ‘Been driving myself crazy reading those damned scripts you left behind. I ended up over at the Catholic Diocese this afternoon consulting a so-called Shroud expert.’

‘God bless you. Make you any the wiser?’

‘Some.’ She beeps her horn as an asshole in a Tahoe cuts her up. ‘Forensically, there doesn’t seem any proof this Shroud is really Christ’s, and that might have been what Tamara Jacobs was driving at. I’m gonna call Amy tomorrow and get her opinion as a pathologist. Maybe she could tell if the markings on the cloth match those of someone who’s been crucified.’

‘You know what, I’m not sure Amy’s ever worked a crucifixion.’

‘Weird shit goes down in LA, dumbass, you never know. You should try to see the cloth while you’re over there. I checked out some HD photographs today. It’s certainly amazing.’

‘In what kind of way?’

‘In the way that you just can’t explain how the whole body image got there. I mean, I just don’t understand it. From what I’ve read and heard, there’s no evidence to say it was painted or rubbed on. The one thing that’s real is that it’s a mystery.’

Nic looks at his watch. ‘Mitz, I got to run, that’s if you want me to make check-in?’

‘Go. I just called to wish you luck. Mail me an update when you can.’

‘Sure. I’ll touch base as soon as I’m settled, okay?’

‘Fine.’ She pauses. ‘Take care.’

‘You too.’

He’s gone in a click. She switches on the radio but doesn’t really listen. She drives the rest of the way on autopilot, wondering what kind of day the kids have had, whether they’ve done their homework, how they’re going to be with her when she gets in.

She turns into her driveway and steps hard on the brakes.

Alfie’s car. Smack bang in its usual place in the carport.

She unbuckles the seatbelt, her heart hammering, then gets out and slams the car door. She’s so angry she almost kicks her own front door in rather than opens it.

‘Hi,’ he says, bold as brass, sat with his daughters at the family table around a big bucket of KFC. ‘I brought chicken, so you don’t have to cook.’

43

It says Boyle Heights on the map but locals call it Paredon Blanco — ‘White Bluffs’ — a hilly neighbourhood on the eastern banks of the Los Angeles River. It’s a main gateway to the city for new arrivals. The place where an Irish immigrant called Andrew Boyle settled, back in the days when California was more Mexican than American. He went on to become mayor and built much of the infrastructure that led to the place becoming a modern-day melting pot for Latinos, East Europeans, Japanese and white minority Americans.

JJ is parked up just south of St Mary’s Church and west of Promise Hospital watching the front of a big five-bedroom home that was once a highly desirable residence and no doubt housed a good, God-fearing family. Now it’s old and rundown and is staggering to the end of its life as a cheap stack of one-room rentals. This is Jenny Harrison’s address, though from where he’s staked out, he has no idea in which part of the building she rests her sorry butt in.

A glance at the clock on the Explorer’s dash says he’s been here for more than four hours, painstakingly watching a whole army of people troop in and out. Harrison’s friend Kim Bass arrived about three hours ago and hasn’t come out since. Maybe she’s staying over. If not, she has a walk of less than a mile to her own place. A farewell walk.

It took JJ a while to figure out what was going on. At first he guessed there was a party in the offing, then he realised none of the male visitors stayed for long and none brought any bottles or gifts with them. It’s a whorehouse. He should have expected it. Harrison and Bass are low-life. That’s why God pointed them out to him, that and the fact they made Em’s life hell. And hell is exactly where he’s going to send them.

An S-Class Merc pulls up and two muscular Hispanics get out and disappear inside the house. Twenty minutes later they strut onto the decking near the screen door, blowing cigars and counting cash. They half-jog down the front steps and then out of the gate to the sleek limousine.

Lights start to go off in the house. The girls are calling it quits for the night. They’ve earned enough.

JJ wonders what it’s like in their darkness, to lie at the bottom of their private swamp and move in on them.

Easy meat.

He pictures the layout of the house. How to enter and exit. Which way to drive off when it’s over. When Harrison and Bass are dead.

44

Mitzi drops her bag and jacket in the hall. Tells herself to stay calm but her heart is trying to kick a hole in her ribcage.

She walks back to the front room and looks at her daughters. Jade offers the explanation before her mom even asks. ‘I let him in.’ She sees the anger and adds, ‘He’s still my dad.’

Amber backs away a little from her father and sister. She wants to be close to her mom if things kick off.

Mitzi glares at her husband. She can’t believe this is the man she gave eighteen years of her life to. The man she once thought she wanted to spend every breathing second of her existence with. ‘We eat this then you go.’

‘We need to talk, Mitzi. You know we do.’ He says it like he’s the smart one, the reasonable one, the one showing them the safe path across the crazy dangerous ground facing them. He picks up the chicken tub. ‘How about you get some plates and I dish out the good stuff?’

She feels rage rising. How dare he breeze back in here like last night never happened — as though it was nothing out of the ordinary.

‘I’ll get them.’ Jade jumps to her feet and heads to the kitchen. She knows her mom is close to breaking point.

‘We’re done talking, Alfie. I’ve hired a solicitor and I’m divorcing you.’ Mitzi says it with cold determination but part-way through feels a stab of regret, a sting of sadness that her dream of love has turned into a nightmare.

‘Don’t do that, Mitzi.’ His voice is soft and reasonable. ‘I know I screwed up. I screw up a lot, eh? But you know I love you. I love you and the girls more than anything in the world.’ He gets up from his chair and creeps around the table towards her.

‘Don’t!’ She raises a hand. ‘Don’t even think about coming near me, Alfie.’

He stops beside her chair, stranded, lost.

She looks away from him. Her eyes pass from Jade in the kitchen doorway, a second away from tears, to Amber at her side, gripping her hand and shaking with fear. ‘Sit back down, Alfie. Sit down or leave.’ She can barely breathe as she speaks.

He stays where he is. Still hoping to close the gap between them. ‘I’m asking for you to forgive me. Give me another chance to fix things, to make us all a family again.’

He’s been drinking. She hadn’t noticed it at first but she smells it now — yeasty and stale. When Alfie drinks, anything can happen. Suddenly she stops fumbling around like a scared wife and mother and starts thinking like a cop. He could get violent. The girls could get hurt. Mentally and physically.

She has to take control. Mitzi smiles across at her daughter. ‘Come on, Jade, don’t just stand there — get those plates sorted or we’re all going to starve to death.’ She looks up at Alfie and tries to sound submissive. ‘Sure we’ll talk, Alfie, but not until we’ve eaten, okay? I’ve had a hard day and the girls are tired and hungry. Please, sit down.’

He doesn’t move for a second, then edges back to his seat — his usual place at the family table.

‘Anyone want a drink?’ She looks towards her husband, her soon to be ex-husband. ‘You bring any soda?’

He shakes his head. ‘No.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Thought not. I’ll get some. What do you want, Amber?’

‘Coke.’

‘Coke what?’

‘Coke please, mom.’

‘That’s better.’ She heads to the kitchen. ‘You want coke or beer, Alfie.’

‘Beer.’ His tone is as sour as his breath.

Mitzi takes cans from the fridge as Jade heads back to the table with four white plates. There used to be six but Alfie broke two along with a dozen other pots when he lost his temper one night. She puts the drinks down on the table. ‘You girls washed your hands?’ Their faces confirm they haven’t. ‘I didn’t think so. Go get scrubbed.’ She pushes the bucket of chicken towards her husband. ‘Dish it up, will you?’

‘Sure.’

‘I need to wash as well.’ She shows him the palms of her hands and drifts into the hall. ‘Come on, kids, hurry up, food’s going cold.’ She says it loud enough for him to hear, loud enough to disguise the fact that she’s already dialling 911 on her cell phone.

Damn the humiliation. She’s going to get the no-good son-of-a-bitch locked up once and for all.

45

A glint of light draws his eyes.

The door is open. Two people are there. Someone’s leaving.

He can see more clearly now. Jenny Harrison is out front, in a short skirt, boob tube and high heels. An amber bottle of Bud dangles in one hand as she waves goodnight to someone. Kim Bass’s big blonde hair blows back as she picks her way down the decking and out onto the worn pathway. JJ hesitates for a moment. He’d imagined he would kill Harrison first. God knows, she deserves it. But now he feels directed towards Bass. The woman is out on the street. Alone. Vulnerable. There for the taking. There to be punished.

He starts his engine and drives with the lights off. Her home is a fifteen-minute walk — if that — down past Hollenbeck Park across East 4th Street then right past the garage at the corner of South Cummings. He can make it in less than five.

A thought hits him as he pulls a right onto South Chicago. She might cut through the park. It would be the perfect place to take her. Twenty acres of rolling grassland. And a lake. He turns again and takes South Saint Louis along the edge of the green sprawl. It’s too busy. Skater boys jerking around the kerbside. Falling about and laughing, slugging beer. Further down he sees stoners hanging out in the entrance to the Recreation Centre, weird music pounding out from some boombox.

A voice inside his head tells him to stick to what he does best. Stay on plan. Do things the way he’s done them before. He parks on the forecourt of a disused gas station, right opposite the Subway sandwich franchise, the kind of place he wouldn’t be seen dead in. He looks around for cameras as he zaps the car closed. There aren’t any.

Thank you, God.

Bass’s building is a three-storey brown stucco block behind a small chainlink fence and a couple of token patches of rubbed grass. He walks calmly to the entrance door and is pleased to see it has been wedged open. The interior lights come on as he steps inside. An empty boxy corridor, blue-painted walls, blue polished floor. No central mailbox unit, no way of knowing who lives where. Just three doors. There are numbers on the doors but no names. He walks back outside to look for a bell box. There isn’t one. So he comes in and looks around. The apartment doors are old style, British, with mail slots cut into the wood — a lot of places have started using them because it cuts down on crime, especially identity theft and card fraud. Next to each door is a vertical strip of frosted glass, a vain attempt to let in a little light.

The stairwell is narrow and too open for him to hide anywhere. She’ll be here in a minute. There isn’t long.

He considers just knocking on the door to his left and asking where she lives. As he looks at it he notices it’s wider than the one to his right. It’s been altered for wheelchair access. He examines the other one. It has flowers painted around the door handle. A stencil. Bass wouldn’t do that. She doesn’t have an artistic or cultured bone in her. There’s a light glowing behind the third door. He steps close and listens. Deep male voices laughing, a TV playing.

JJ moves upstairs. The first landing has another three doors. All in darkness. He walks up to the top level. Three more apartments, two with lights on. He kneels in front of the darkened door and opens the mail slot. It smells musty inside. Earthy, like no one lives there.

It’s the second floor. He’s sure it is. Kim Bass lives on the second floor. He can feel it. God is telling him that’s where she will go. He unbuckles his belt and makes a noose out of it. Sits like a shadow on the top step of the block’s stairwell. Waits motionless. Listens in the darkness and tunes into the noises.

Clunk. The gate being closed on the small metal fence.

Click, click. Click, click. Heels on the concrete path.

Cough. A throaty female hack, sign of a smoker, signs of someone coming up the stairs.

He stands and stretches the looped belt between his hands.

46

It looks like old times. The best of times. Happy times. Four plates of picked-clean chicken bones, kids licking spicy fingers.

Only this is the new time. An unforgettably bad time. Mitzi wipes her mouth with a KFC napkin. ‘Help me clear the table, girls.’

The twins are glad to. Anything other than see mom and dad fight. They push back their chairs and sweep up the takeaway tubs and plates.

Only Mitzi hears noise outside. Only she has been expecting it. She follows the girls, closes the kitchen door behind her and leans against it. Her daughters dump mess in the trash and don’t see the look on her face. Right about now uniformed cops are piling through the front door she left open.

She hears Alfie shout, ‘What the fuck?’ Her heart jumps.

Amber’s running hot water in the sink and can’t hear a thing. Jade wipes her hands on a tea towel and sees her mom with her back to the door. She knows something’s wrong. ‘Mom, what’s happening?’

Mitzi’s face offers no comfort. ‘Something that has to happen, baby.’

It has to be her dad. He’s in the front on his own. Jade tries to push past.

‘Leave it, honey, leave it.’

Amber’s backed up against the sink, staring at them both.

Mitzi wants to hug her and hold her. Tell her baby that it’s all okay. Everything will soon be all right.

There’s a meaty thump on the wood behind her head.

‘Ma’am, we need to speak with you.’ The voice is male, full of street grit and a West Coast drawl.

Mitzi swallows and opens up. Jade flies past her. There are two cops in the room. Big black guys who could play offense for the Lakers.

No Alfie.

The furthest cop grabs Jade. ‘Slow up, Princess. Hang on there.’

Mitzi is with her in a flash. She holds her by the shoulders, looks her straight in the eyes. ‘Take your sister and go to your room. Don’t argue with me.’ The instruction is more cop than mother. The teenager does as she’s told.

Mitzi stands in the room with the cops and the consequences of her actions. It’s for the best. If things had turned nasty tonight, it could have been her being hauled away with her hands behind her back — and Alfie being carried out the back door in a body bag.

‘You going to be okay, ma’am?’ The question comes from Officer Logan Connor, six-three and two-twenty pounds of raw LAPD uniformed muscle.

‘I’m fine,’ she lies. ‘Just fine. Thanks for your help.’

‘You’re welcome.’ He gives her a respectful head tilt and follows his partner to the front door. ‘We’ll sure take good care of your husband, ma’am.’

‘Hey! I don’t want anyone going Tyson on him. Please just get him downtown and book him. You’ve got my statement. I’ll be in Homicide in the morning if anyone needs anything else.’

‘Understood.’ He looks at the swelling to her ear. ‘Might be worth having if you had the doctor examine you and photograph any injuries.’ He sees her open her mouth and prepare to bawl him out. ‘I know you know your job, ma’am, and I’m not trying to be smart. It’s just if we are to press charges, every bit of evidence helps.’

She knows he’s right. These cases are messy. ‘Thanks. I’ll think about it. She eases him outside. ‘Please don’t let anyone cut up rough on him.’

‘You got it.’ He nods and heads to the squad car.

Mitzi shuts the door. Whatever Alfie’s done in the past she doesn’t want him roughed up now. She needs a clean conscience over whatever’s going to happen next.

Prosecution.

If she goes through with things, he’s going to get processed, land a criminal record and have what remains of his life ripped up. Can she really do that to him?

She climbs the stairs and goes into the kids’ room.

Jade is red-eyed and angry.

‘Honey—’

‘Leave me alone.’

Mitzi’s heart sinks. The kid needs space. The apple of her father’s eye, she’s going to take some time to get used to things. It’ll take everyone some time. This certainly isn’t the moment to bawl her out about letting Alfie in the house. Amber is sat silent on the end of her bed, looking blitzed by the whole affair. Mitzi sits down and puts an arm around her. ‘We’ll be okay, baby. Everything will be fine in the end. We just have to get through this bit.’

The thirteen-year-old snuggles tight and relaxes a little as her mom finger-brushes hair from her face.

‘I love you, sweetheart.’ She kisses the girl’s forehead. ‘And I’m always going to be there for you and your sister, you know that, don’t you?’

‘I know, Mom — I know.’

47

Kim Bass has drunk too much vodka and smoked too much weed. But hell, a girl has to have some fun. She’s thinking about the laughs she’s had and the extra money she’s made, as she fishes for the apartment door key in her purse. She wants to get inside, take a leak, shower and sleep. Grab a little rest before life starts all over again.

She pushes open the front door then stumbles over the mat as she steps inside. The door slams behind her and she sprawls face down in the dark. A sharp pain erupts in the back of her head. Her hair is yanked violently and a terrific force presses painfully into the middle of her back and bends her upwards. If she could scream, she would bring the place down. But something tight is around her throat choking her. She grabs at her neck. Her head smashes into the floor. An even more horrific weight crushes her back. She can’t breathe now, let alone scream.

Blood pounds in her heart. Someone is choking her. Panic churns in her chest. For a split second the agony stops. She can breathe. Cool air fills her lungs. Whatever is around her neck has gone slack.

Unseen hands turn her over. She pants for breath. He’s above her, in the darkness of her own home, she can sense him. A heavy weight hits her chest. His knees are on her. She can smell him now.

Fish Face.

The boss at work who always smells of his fish lunches.

‘Em sends her love.’

One of his hands is tight around her throat. The other is across her mouth. He bends low and whispers so close his breath mists her skin. He says, ‘Dominus vobiscum.’