The Turin Shroud Secret

48

No one knows how old he is. Not even the man himself. All he is certain of is the name he’s been given. His parents didn’t choose it. It was passed down from generations of monks. A name men have grown to fear.

Ephrem has never celebrated a birthday. Ephrem has never celebrated anything. He has no social security number, mortgage, bank loan, or any manner of insurance, assurance or medical or legal agreements. As far as the world is concerned, he doesn’t exist.

A doctor or dentist would look at his skin, eyes, bones and teeth, and hazard educated guesses that he’s in his forties. But Ephrem has never been to a doctor or dentist and never will. Nor has he ever been to school, university or any other institution that might have entangled him in the mechanical record-keeping of growing up. No official papers bear his name despite his four decades on earth.

It is for all these reasons that the tall, youthful and Arabic-looking man is a little anxious as he presents the passport at border control, then from an ATM in the airport terminal withdraws three hundred euros from an international bank account set up to serve his purposes.

Ephrem’s true vocation is even stranger than the mysteries surrounding him. He is an anchorite. A hermit. Part of an orthodox sect, withdrawn from secular society. He lives without trace in a monastery hidden on the slopes of Mount Lebanon. Isolated. Barely consuming anything.

Ephrem is the most trusted member of a highly secretive and revered order inside the Maronite Church and is the one devotee who the Patriarch and esteemed advisers like Nabih Hayek can trust.

It’s on Hayek’s orders that he has come to Turin. Mixing in society is painful for him. He would rather be bricked in his cell in the Lebanon, his only link to life the hagioscope, the shuttered slot through which he receives his food. But this is a necessary sacrifice. As night falls he sits cross-legged on the floor of the cheap room he has rented near Turin and thinks about who he is, where he came from and what his duties are.

His DNA is half-monk, half-warrior. His blood courses with that of the Brothers slain by the Monophysites of Antioch and with that of the Crusaders who slaughtered the sons of Islam on the borders of the Byzantine Empire. He remembers well standing in the crowds when the Holy Father visited his homeland and declared, ‘Lebanon is more than a country, it is a message.’

Ephrem has learned he is more than a man, he is the hand of God.

A hand that is clenched.

One that will deliver divine retribution.

49

It’s something o’clock.

An indeterminate time in the dead of night when you should be asleep but you’re not. A time so horrible it doesn’t deserve digits. Mitzi hasn’t been to sleep. She’s been lying in the dark for hours churning things over in her head. The bed is big and cold and empty. Alfie was a pig and a bully but he was a warm one. She’s been reminding herself that despite the tears of Jade and Amber, she’s done the right thing — should have done it years ago. He didn’t hit her until the second year of their marriage. A backhand slap when they’d both been drinking and she’d been busting his balls because he’d lost his job. The next morning she got round to thinking it had been her fault. Maybe she’d been too physically confrontational and had pushed him into it. She’d grown so used to fighting hard-asses in the street that a scrap at home didn’t seem so off the scale to her.

Then he hit her when he was sober. A full-blooded blow in the stomach that knocked the wind right out of her. She left for a week after that. Made him crawl through broken glass to get her back.

The beatings stopped when the babies were born. Or at least they did for a while. Then, because she was too tired to do anything but sleep at night, rows over sex, or more accurately the lack of it, often ended with fists flying. Then they made up. Made up and swore it would never happen again. Made up like the world was going to end and only the greatest sex ever might save the planet.

She knows now how foolish she’s been.

At way past something o’clock she climbs out of bed, finds her robe and checks on the girls. They’re sleeping like angels. Maybe they’ll get through this all okay. Maybe she will too.

50

JJ sits in the chilled dark of his bedroom trying to compose himself. The kill is only an hour old and his adrenalin is still pumping.

He breathes in slowly, the sweet smoky smell of burning candles a balm for his raw emotions. This one felt different. Less spiritual. More visceral. More human than divine.

He looks at his hands. Marvels at them and their power of life and death. Until tonight God had always controlled them, guided them to the mouths and throats of the unkilled. But not tonight. Tonight he made the choices. He was God. The thought troubles him. A tiny speck of doubt, like a tear in the corner of a baby angel’s eye. Perfect, but somehow wrong.

The sight of Em lying before him, just as he left her, shakes him out of his reflective moment. She looks so beautiful. Lovingly covered from head to toe in the long, clean sheet of expensive linen he stole from work. He touches the cool, soft cloth. Em’s shroud. He unwraps it, like an archaeologist discovering an Egyptian queen.

Queen Em.

He kneels alongside and whispers proudly in her ear, ‘One of them is dead, my sweetheart. That piece of trash Kim Bass — her Day of Judgement came and went.’ He moves the candles on the floor around her. There are odd smudges on the inside of the shroud. Marks so clear that he can see the outline of her face. Maybe the smudges have come from the last of her make-up, sweat, or even speckles of blood.

Darker stains follow — leakage of urine and faeces. He’s not shocked. Nor revolted. No more so than a parent in the first days of handling a newborn.

JJ leaves her on the floor and wets a flannel in the bathroom. He wipes her gently then pats the skin with a towel. Just like a baby. Now he’s done they’ll sit together and hold each other in the first light of a new day. He and his love. His queen. Together for ever.

51

Lock-up is not the place you want to have spent the night.

From a whole corridor away Mitzi can smell the drunks and the down-and-outs who’ve passed the hours of darkness sweating off their addictions and stewing in the fear-soaked, overheated, overcrowded bullpens. There’s no denying it, she’s feeling guilty as hell as she heads into the hole to see what kind of hell Alfie Fallon endured following his arrest.

‘Morning, Bobby,’ Mitzi’s smile masks her embarrassment. ‘Guess you know why I’m here?’

‘Whole station knows, Mitz. Come here.’ Custody Sergeant Bobby Sheen opens his big arms to hug her.

Mitzi gladly gives herself up to the bear hug. ‘Thanks.’

He answers her unasked question. ‘Been a model lodger. Not a peep out of him since they shut the cage door.’

‘Was he …’ She just can’t say it. ‘I mean, you know … did any of the guys …’

‘No. They would have liked to, but none of them laid a finger on him. Logan Connor put out the word — wasn’t gonna be anyone crossing him on that.’

She nods as she remembers the big black beefcake who turned out to her house.

Sheen reaches over the reception desk and presses a button. ‘Look at screen four.’

A black-and-white feed of Alfie’s cell fizzes up on one of six video surveillance monitors. It breaks her heart. Despite everything he’s done and said, the sight of him bent forward on the edge of a bolted-down bunk with his head in his hands rips her apart.

‘Hey, now don’t you dare go feeling sorry for him,’ says Sheen, putting a hand on her shoulder. He’s close to retirement and has seen every drama of life acted out in his cell blocks. ‘A night in the pokey never harmed no one.’

‘Jeez, Bobby, just look at him.’

He clicks off the monitor so she can’t. ‘You want a cup of Joe?’

She nods. ‘Just black.’

‘You got it. Watch the shop for me.’ He pads down the corridor, keys on his belt jangling until he turns a corner to find the hotplate where the coffee bubbles all day.

Mitzi wonders what happened to her life. How come she let things slip so much that Alfie ended up in the bullpen?

Sheen returns with coffee in mugs so chipped and dirty they’d get a restaurant closed down.

‘Thanks.’

He clunks his pot against hers and gives a reassuring wink, as he’s done a hundred times before when they’ve worked together. ‘So what do you want to do?’

Mitzi puts her hands around the mug and is comforted by its warmth. ‘You didn’t charge him yet?’

‘He thinks we did, but no.’ The custody sergeant points to the admin book on the countertop and the ugly black pen dangling on a steel chain. ‘Logan and I didn’t write him up. Far as we’re concerned, there was a call-out but your man ain’t never been in here.’

‘Appreciate that.’ She knows the risks they’ve taken. If there’d been an incident — if Alfie had got physical, hurt himself or someone else, then the proverbial shit and fan would have come together.

‘If you want him in court, I need to get someone go through your statement with you and have you examined and photographed.’ He stares into her eyes. It’s the concerned look of a friend as much as a colleague. ‘Did he mark you, Mitzi? Have you still got bruises that’ll show?’

She feels ashamed. It’s not her fault but she feels like crying because of what she’s let him do to her. Their dirty secret. ‘Yeah. I got stuff to show.’

He nods. This isn’t the time to push it. One word from this angel and he’ll personally see the bum behind bars gets every one of his no-good bones broken.

She sips her coffee and weighs up the dilemma. Alfie gets charged then he sure as hell stays away from her and the girls. If she cuts him a break, he could get the wrong idea and think their marriage is still alive.

‘I don’t know what to do, Bobby.’

He wants to help but knows the dangers. ‘Got to be your decision, Mitz. Way I see it, you’re damned whatever you do. We process this guy, he gets a record, then, shit, you know how hard it is to get a job after that.’

She nods.

‘We don’t put him through the system, then he’s coming right back at you.’

The old-timer bangs a fist against his heart. ‘Go with this, Mitz. If your brain’s run out on you, then go with whatever you feel in here.’

‘Emptiness, Bobby. That’s all I feel right now. Emptiness.’

52

It’s worth it just for the look on her face.

JJ has to fight back a smile as all of the women settle at their machines and Jenny Harrison looks around for her friend. He can see her glancing repeatedly at the empty seat, wondering if the absence is due to oversleeping, overindulgence or overdosing.

‘Anyone seen Kim?’

She’s asking the silly bitches either side of her. How sweet. How nice to be concerned about her co-worker — her co-bully. What a shock she’s going to get when she finds out the truth.

Harrison puts a hand in her jeans and pulls out a pink cell phone.

‘No phones,’ he shouts across the room, walking towards her. ‘You should have left that in your locker.’

‘I won’t be a minute.’

‘You won’t even be that. You know the rules — no phones in the machine room. Give it to me. You can have it at the end of the day.’

Her mouth is open. A white worm of chewing gum lies on a pink floor. ‘Did Kim call in, Mr James?’

Mr James. How quickly they learn. Amazing what the fear of God can do to mannerless little whores like this one. ‘No, she didn’t. Phone, please.’ He holds out his hand.

She gives it to him. ‘I think she’s sick. She was coming down with something last night. Said she thought she had a dose of flu.’

Liar. She’s just covering for her. ‘No show, no pay. You all know that.’ He’s only said what they’d expect him to say. No reason for him to treat Bass’s absence with anything but annoyance. He’s one down. Productivity is falling.

JJ takes the phone to his office. Sits at his desk with the door shut and scrolls through her messages. Most are to Bass. The ones that aren’t are to a guy called Marlon. Probably her pimp. They’re short and not at all sweet.

Seems that given time Marlon might well carry out JJ’s wishes for him. But he has no intention of waiting. He turns off the phone and puts it on the edge of the desk.

Jenny Harrison won’t be missing her friend for long.

53

Alfie Fallon sits alone in the holding cage like an abandoned mongrel dog. Life as he knew it is over. That much he gets. The motley mob he’s spent the night with have all been processed through the system and like an unwanted stray he’s the last one waiting for his name to be called.

The air is sharp with the sting of industrial-strength disinfectant, the floor freshly mopped after hours of people vomiting and relieving themselves. He’d give anything for a hot shower, a walk outside and a decent breakfast.

A distant noise makes him look up. When you’re in the pen you know someone is coming long before you see them. The lack of carpets, curtains or anything soft for that matter, means sounds from far away skim down the hard corridors until they hit your ears. After an hour or so you’re an expert on identifying everything from a lock opening to a van of new arrivals backing up in the yard outside.

Someone’s coming. And they can only be coming for him.

Buzzers sound. Metal doors slide open then clunk closed again. Feet slap on hard floors. His time is up. Alfie puts his hands on his knees and rolls his head side to side until it cracks the stiffness out of his neck.

The outer gates of the pen slide open. Mitzi. His hopes rise. The little old guy who scowled at him last night is with her as well. They’ve both got blank faces — hard faces — cop faces. Mitzi rests her hands on the inner gate, ‘They’re going to charge you with assault, Alfie. Most likely you’ll be in court in a couple of hours. I’ve talked to my lawyer and he’ll be serving you with divorce papers as soon as they cut you loose.’

‘Mitzi, listen—’

‘No, Alfie. You listen.’ Her voice is calm and without a hint of the fear and dread racing inside her. ‘I’ve got to do what I’ve told every other woman over the years to do. You have to be dealt with properly, then life goes on. Whatever it is, whatever mess is left, life goes on.’ She turns to Bobby Sheen and touches his arm. ‘Thanks for looking out for me. I’m gonna go.’

‘Mitzi!’ Alfie is at the bars now. ‘Wait.’

Mother of two, wife of a decade and a half, LAPD hard-ass Mitzi Fallon is four steps away from moving on with her life. No looking back. No regrets.

‘Mitzi!’

She stops and turns.

‘I still love you.’ His face says he does. Really does. He’d give anything for this not to be happening, for his life not to have disintegrated like this.

‘And I still love you.’ Her feet are glued to the spot. ‘But not as much as I did. And I love the girls too much for this to go on any longer.’

Now she goes. Walks head held high. Heart beating like the drum at the front of the Macy’s Day Parade. With any luck she’ll make it to the washroom before she breaks down and wonders how she’s going to cope for the rest of the day, let alone the rest of her life.

54

It’s the middle of the night in Turin. The bed in the rented room is still made, pristine. The monk hasn’t sat on it, let alone slept there.

Ephrem is naked as he kneels and prays inside the single wardrobe. The door is closed tight and he feels comforted in the claustrophobic and airless space. He longs to be returned to the seclusion of the monastery where the unblinking kiln master will watch bemused as he bricks him into the sanctuary.

The hands that are joined together have taken many lives. Not so many that he can’t remember each and every one but too many for all but a soldier — a crusader — to live with.

He prays, first in Aramaic, then in French and finally in Latin. He prays for God’s strength and guidance for what he is about to do. Just before twilight he opens the wardrobe and spends half an hour stretching away the pain of motionless devotion. He focuses his mind. Then he clenches his fists and adopts the press-up position. His knuckles glow white with the weight of his body as he lowers and raises himself so slowly that the movement is imperceptible. Each press-up takes more than five minutes to complete. By the end of the hour his naked body is bathed in sweat. His abdomen, thighs and shoulders are muscular coils of writhing, sinewy snakes. He wants to collapse and rest on the floor, wants to rest and recover, but he knows it would be a personal indulgence and personal indulgences are sinful.

Ephrem takes a freezing cold shower, towels dry, then drinks a litre of bottled water. It’s all that will pass his lips. He eats only every other day and today is the fast. He dresses in black, the traditional colour of his order, in T-shirt, sweater, trousers, socks and long wool overcoat, and pulls on a tight, black hat that covers his dark, close-cropped hair. He touches the hidden tools concealed about him within the layers of clothing — two knives, a garrotte, a spike and a coil of razor-thread no more conspicuous than a dental floss container.

The first pink light of dawn breaks over the rooftops. In the shadowy, night-frosted street he walks quietly from his hotel, clears the windshield of the rental car and patiently begins his day’s work.

55

The call takes Amy Chang by surprise.

It’s been a long day and she’s just scrubbed up after dealing with a fatal RTA. Her secretary says Mitzi Fallon is waiting in her office. She glances at her watch — it’s almost six-thirty. She wonders what her friend wants so late in the day and why she didn’t call to say she was coming over. The two women go back a long way. Mitzi was on the first case Amy dealt with and since then they’ve grown close. A friendship born out of professional respect and common values.

The detective is sat on a moulded black chair, busy frowning at her phone when Amy walks in pulling a small jacket over her shoulders. ‘So, Lieutenant Fallon, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

Mitzi looks up. Seems her bad news hasn’t reached the morgue yet. ‘Passing through. The girls are staying over at a friend’s after soccer — I just found out they won two-nil. I hoped maybe you had time for a drink or some dinner?’

Amy’s face brightens. ‘Both sound good.’

‘Both it is, then. My treat.’

She nods to her glass-walled office. ‘Give me a minute. I need to grab some work.’

A few minutes later they walk out arm-in-arm and even while they’re making small talk she knows something’s wrong. But she says nothing. Mitzi will tell her in her own good time. They drive separately to Amy’s favourite Asian-Cuban place. It’s more bistro than full-on starched-cloth restaurant. It has warm woods on the floor and walls and they both like the fact the waitresses are real waitresses not would-be actresses.

After a couple of margaritas and a starter of Tunapica with cucumber salad, Mitzi downs her fork and unburdens herself. ‘Alfie and I had a fight. A big physical one.’ She turns her face so Amy can detect the bruise beneath the concealer.

The pathologist stops eating.

‘I threw him out. When he came back I called the cops and got him processed.’ Mitzi downs the rest of her cocktail. ‘I think I’m going to need more of those.’

Amy’s in shock. ‘How long’s this been going on?’

‘Jeez. How long hasn’t it?’ She catches the eye of the waitress. ‘Two more peach margaritas please — the big ones.’ She waits until she’s gone. ‘On and off he’s been beating on me for something like a decade.’ Shame rises like backwash.

‘Oh, Mitz, I’m so sorry.’ Amy reaches across the table and touches her arm tenderly. ‘You did the right thing.’

‘I know. Should have done it years ago.’

‘It’s never that simple, though — what with the girls and everything.’

‘Nope. Funny, you hear about domestic violence and say that’ll never happen to me. No man would dare lay a hand on me. But it’s different when he does. You get so screwed up in your head you blame yourself. You kid yourself that it wasn’t deliberate, it was a mistake. Life’s full of mistakes, eh?’

‘Tell me.’

The new drinks arrive and Mitzi dives in straight away. ‘I may get wasted tonight.’

‘Go for it.’

They clink glasses and the lieutenant smiles for the first time in days.

56

The disused church is exactly where they told Ephrem it would be. At the end of a windy little street, behind a broken fence, hiding a small, cramped graveyard overrun by grass and weeds. The headstones are mould-green and long-forgotten. Like ancient teeth that have decayed, they lie at twisted angles in soft, subsiding plots.

The monk walks the perimeter. Church stone that was originally the colour of honey has been blackened by time and dirt. Someone has smashed most of the handcrafted stained-glass windows that bore the Stations of the Cross. Gang graffiti has been spray-painted over the rusted metal, symbols and names that he doesn’t understand and doesn’t give much thought to as he levers off the panels that bar the ancient front doors through which centuries of worshippers walked.

The inside is dark. Hardly any light penetrates the boarded-up windows and time-weathered holes in the unrepaired roof. Most people would struggle to see more than a few feet. But Ephrem has spent most of his life in total darkness and sees right into the furthest corner. The smell is of damp, rotting timbers and the faeces of rodents that have made this place their sanctuary. But the monk, as no one else could, can still smell candle wax, the incense of High Mass, the fresh soap on the skins of those who washed themselves knowing they would come and kneel in the presence of their Lord.

He moves past the broken pews and the empty space where the altar once stood. He turns to his left and finds what he came for. With a little work it will be perfect.

Just perfect.

57

‘Kim? Hey Kim, you in there?’

Jenny Harrison shouts and squints through the mail slot of Kim Bass’s apartment. Her friend can be such an idiot sometimes. If she does too many pills or hits on a half-decent guy, Jen doesn’t hear from her for ages. Over Christmas she went on a binge with a cabbie and disappeared until New Year.

Odd for her not to turn up for work, though. She’s broke and needs every dime right at the moment. ‘Kim, if you’re in there, stop messing around. It’s Jen, I need to talk to you.’

Harrison lets the slot snap shut and bangs the flat of her hand on the door. Goddamn it. She spends half her freakin’ life chasing after this girl. She walks away, calling her friend’s cell phone as she does. It rings for a long time before going to the answerphone. ‘Okay, Kimmy, if you don’t get your sorry ass to call me, this best friend is soon going to be an ex-friend. It’s Thursday night and we’re supposed to be meeting those delivery guys. Call me or else.’

She stomps down the stairs, turns the corner and almost bowls over an old man levering himself up by the handrail.

‘Shi-it! Mr Dobbs you nearly give me a heart attack.’

The bald-headed seventy-year-old is Kim’s next door neighbour. Leroy Dobbs looks as shocked as she does. He keeps himself to himself and as far as seniors go he’s okay. The girls even bummed cream and coffee off him one Sunday when they had hangovers so bad they couldn’t crawl to the store to buy any.

He puts his hand to his bony chest. ‘I’m the one should be cursing. You shouldn’t come flying round the corner like that.’

‘Sorry, Mr D. Hey, you haven’t seen Kim, have you? She didn’t make work today. Have you heard her knocking about?’

He looks cross. ‘I mind my own business, I do. I don’t go spying like some people around here. I ain’t seen her.’

‘I didn’t say you were spying.’ Harrison nods to the apartment upstairs and behind her. ‘It’s just the walls are thin and Kim says you like banging on them if she watches TV in her bedroom.’

‘That’s because it’s so loud. I might be old but I’m not deaf.’

‘Did you hear her?’

‘Not last night, I didn’t. I didn’t hear no TV at all last night.’

Harrison thinks back to standing in her own doorway and waving goodbye to her friend. Kim was pretty wasted when she went. Both of them were. Crazy bitch had done too much blow.

‘Can I get past now?’ Dobbs is staring up from two steps down, frail fingers clutching the rail.

She weaves her way round him and over the remaining steps. Outside she lights a cigarette and walks the rest of the way home. Something’s wrong. She feels it deep inside.

By the time she reaches her own porch, Jenny Harrison is sure she knows what it is.

58

Tonight Mitzi’s only answer is drink. Drink to forget. Drink to lose consciousness if necessary. Drink to wipe out the memory that she pulled a gun on her husband and almost shot him.

She and Amy leave their cars at the restaurant and catch a cab back to the pathologist’s place, where a bottle of cold white is uncorked before they do anything else. After shuffling the iPod into oblivion, Amy grabs blankets and pillows and makes up the sofa. One day she’ll buy a two-bed place but not for a while — probably not until she gets herself a long-term man, a stayer. ‘So where’s Tricky Nicky?” she asks her friend.

Mitzi grins drunkenly from a chair she’s slumped into. ‘Italy. Turin.’ Her wine glass wobbles. She wisely decides to hold it by the bowl rather than its elegant stem. ‘Poor schmuck has been flying almost all day.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh? That all you were thinking when you mentioned him?’

Amy smiles.

‘Or maybe you were thinking, I wish I was in Italy with Nic. Quite a romantic country, Italy. Poetry. Violins. All that stuff.’ She raises her glass. ‘And really great wine.’

‘It crossed my mind.’

‘Course it did, sister. And so it should.’

‘He’s a bit uptight, though, Mitz. I know he’s been through a lot but it seems his head is still a mess.’

‘Probably is. Give the boy time.’

Amy remembers their afternoon at the boatyard together. ‘I think he’s going to need months — maybe years.’

‘Could be.’ Mitzi slugs a jolt of the cold, crisp Sauvignon. ‘Worth waiting for though. He’s a good guy.’ She tries to blot out thoughts of her husband. Damn him. Alfie had been a good guy once. Damn the hell out of him for going from good guy to bum so easily.

‘Why is Nic in Italy?’

‘Long story. To do with Tamara Jacobs, that writer you had on your slab.’ Mitzi sits up out of her slouch. ‘Seems she’s involved somehow with the Shroud. That’s why Nic’s there.’

The pathologist is left frowning at the sudden switch in conversation. ‘Shroud? As in Shroud of Turin?’

‘’Less you know of another? Anyways, what do you think? Real or not?’

Amy suddenly feels exhausted. ‘Mind if we do the brainteasers tomorrow? I’m feeling beat and really need to turn in.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

Amy gets up and switches off several lamps. ‘Do you want me to fetch you some water before I go?’

Mitzi raises her glass of wine in one hand and the open bottle in the other.

‘Okay, I get the message. Take it easy, though.’ The medic walks over, leans into the chair and hugs her friend. ‘Hope you get some sleep.’

‘Me too.’

She heads to her room. If Mitzi had been sober, Amy would have asked her. Asked if there’d ever been anything between her and Nic. There’d been rumours, but then of course there are always rumours when men and women work closely together. But she still wonders.

59

The morning sky over what was once Italy’s first capital city is a magnificent mural of kingly gold and cardinal red.

Nic Karakandez stands hypnotised at the bedroom window of the cheap hotel he’s booked into. He watches the dark chrysalis of night turn into the exotic butterfly of day. Somewhere out there, among the mysterious shapes, beneath the rows of red-tiled rooftops and within the swollen domes of ancient churches, lies the reason he’s travelled thousands of miles. He showers in a bathroom so small it could make an ant claustrophobic, then dresses in black jeans, white shirt and a purple wool V-neck that somehow still smells of the deck oil from his boat. He sits on the saggy bed and takes a minute to go over the main lead Mitzi has him chasing.

Money.

To be more specific, a series of international bank transfer payments Sarah Kenny made on Tamara Jacobs’s request to a man they know to be Roberto Craxi. The pieces of paper spread out before him show deposits of $5000 a month for eleven months, plus two lump sums of $25,000. Close to $100k in total. That’s a nice amount. The kind of cash for which many people would be willing to break the law.

The next leads come from the writer’s visits to Turin. Receipts found in her home show she made four trips in the past two years. Two in the last six months. One six weeks before she was killed. Nic is hoping the hotel bills, and restaurant and taxi tickets will help him retrace her steps. Then there are the last quarter’s cell phone records showing more than thirty calls made to different Turin numbers. As he looks at the digits he has a bad feeling. She may well have had security on her mind. If that’s the case, the numbers may well be street phones and untraceable calls.

He takes breakfast in a damp and draughty room that’s being warmed by fan heaters at the foot of peeling cream walls. He hand-wipes condensation from the window by his table and looks out across frosted lawns to a paved courtyard, bordered by flowerbeds and potted Cypress trees. In summer this place might well change identities and pass itself off as quaint and delightful.

A young waitress, maybe the daughter of the owner, brings him cappuccino, a near-perfect brew of strong roasted beans topped by a thick, sweet creamy froth that you could stand a spoon in. He collects OJ from the small buffet table and takes a couple of homemade pastries.

Full and happy he goes to his room, scrubs his teeth, grabs a loose black leather jacket and walks back downstairs to wait for his allocated Carabinieri contact. He sits on an old couch in the tiny reception and tries to make sense of a copy of today’s Corriere della Serra newspaper. Bad idea. Beyond Chianti, Quattro Formaggio and a few curses from The Sopranos, he can’t make out a word.

An elegant woman in a navy blue jacket and matching knee-length skirt hesitantly interrupts his stilted reading. ‘Signore Carry-can-diss?’

He looks up. ‘Ka-ra-kan-dez. Yes, that’s me.’

She’s a couple of years younger than him, has short dark hair and intense blue eyes. ‘Luogotenente Cappelini. Carlotta.’ She confidently offers her hand.

He’s surprised. Even annoyed with himself, for automatically expecting the liaison officer to be a man. ‘Nic — very pleased to meet you.’

‘Welcome to Torino, Nic.’ She can tell that he expected her to be male — most people do. ‘Are you ready to go?’

‘I am.’ He refolds the newspaper and places it on a well-worn wooden table.

Carlotta leads the way out. ‘First we go to my office, we can talk confidentially there. Then we go wherever you need. My capitano says you have phone numbers and a man called Craxi you wish to have traced. I have people ready to help with that.’

‘Music to my ears.’

She doesn’t understand. ‘Scusi?’

‘Sorry, just an expression. That would be great.’

The streets are wide and cobbled, blocks of stone intercut with steel channels for trams. Overhead a black cobweb of cable wires sag beneath the now dull grey sky. As they walk Nic spots the butt of a gun belted discreetly under her jacket. ‘Do you always carry a weapon?’

‘Si. Always. I am a soldier, I have to.’ She touches it. ‘But I like to, also.’ She smiles. ‘I like shooting.’

‘What do you like shooting — things or people?’

‘No.’ She laughs. ‘Shooting people is not what I like.’

‘Not even the bad guys?’

She can tell he’s teasing. ‘No, this I have never done. But shooting on the range, then yes, that I like very much.’ She makes a pistol out of her fingers and lets off a pretend round. ‘I am very good at the shooting.’

He’s sure she is. Probably much better at the shooting than at the English. Not that he should judge — he can’t read an Italian newspaper, let alone speak a sentence.

‘And you, Nic, you shoot the bad guys?’

‘Sometimes,’ he says. ‘But not as many as I’d like to.’

60

As a small child, Ephrem learned to be silent. The monks would scourge the backs of his hands if they could even hear him breathe during their lessons. They educated him in the fine art of listening — how to concentrate first on what others said and only then respond.

When he was growing up they taught him about pain. How to endure it. How to turn off his thoughts while the white heat of a branding iron sizzled his skin. And he was schooled in how to inflict pain. How to use it as an instrument. How to use the threat of physical agony to do God’s work.

As a man, he has learned transparency. How to walk among the ignorant as one of them. How to look at them and smile at them in ways that don’t attract attention, create affection or leave any kind of memory. He learned the art of being instantly forgettable.

All those years of training and discipline surface in Ephrem as he parks the rental car about a mile from where he’s been told the target will be. Jacket turned up against the wind and showers, he walks head down along the roadside, certain motorists flashing past in the rush-hour traffic will never remember him.

The monk is doing what he does best. He is becoming a sleight of hand. An illusion. Someone no one ever saw.

61

There is a stench inside the house. One like nothing else on earth. An odour few have ever been exposed to. He should have bathed her last night instead of just cleaning her with a flannel. He’d been too tired to do it. Too exhausted after vanquishing the tormentor Kim Bass.

Now Em needs him. He kneels on the boards of the bedroom floor and is shocked by what he sees. She is changing. Her eyes are covered in a thick milky veil, her flesh is discolouring. Even in the low light he can see the greenish tinge to her skin.

JJ reaches out to her face and strokes the dark birthmark, the sign from God that drew him to her.

Gravity has taken its course. Blood has drained from her heart and pooled in her buttocks, back and legs creating a layer of putrid purple and red. Bacteria is spreading through the body and it is beginning to marble. Hair is coming away and gasses and fluid ooze from her orifices into the fetid air of the room. He stands and backs away. He may have to give her up. Find a separate resting place for her. But not yet. Not until he absolutely has to.

62

Through the top-floor window of Carlotta Cappelini’s city centre office, Nic can see the strange soaring spire of the city’s famous Mole Antonelliana, originally a Jewish temple built in the 1800s, now a national cinema museum.

His attention has wandered because for the last ten minutes the Carabinieri lieutenant has been jabbering away in bullet-fast Italian on the phone. What’s also distracting him is the realisation that the more progress he makes here, the less chance there is of him setting sail for a new life in just a couple of weeks. Trace a killer and the district attorney heaps a hill of paperwork on your head. Trace one on another continent and he drops a mountain on your skull.

Carlotta finishes the call and sees he’s troubled. ‘Is everything with you okay?’

Her mangled language helps him shake off the depression. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. Everything with me is very much okay.’ He reaches inside his jacket and produces a folded sheet of paper. ‘These are the numbers we mentioned to your boss. Once we’ve got a trace, I want to meet the phone owner immediately. I’m guessing that Craxi is at least one of them. I don’t want anyone asking questions until I’m face to face with him.’

‘I understand. You are afraid he may run.’

‘Very.’

She points a slim finger tipped in a very light shade of pink nail polish. ‘These numbers here is — how you say …’ She struggles. ‘… cellulare o cell?’

‘Cell phone?’

‘Ah, yes.’ She points again. ‘And this here — they are public phones, ones in the street.’ Her eyes move down the lines. ‘But one or two numbers are private lines. Craxi is a common name — like your Smith or Jones.’

She pulls over the keypad of her computer terminal and expertly touch-types an instruction into the command terminal. ‘Finito. They will be traced very shortly.’

‘Grazie.’

She smiles. ‘You speak any Italian?’

He smiles back. ‘Si. I’m fluent in grazie and prego. Oh, and parmigiano and pesto.’

‘Va bene. These are good words to know.’ She glances at her monitor. ‘Your victim, I read she was a famous writer.’

‘Scriptwriter not author. No books to her name. I’d never heard of her before, but apparently she was big in Hollywood circles.’

Carlotta frowns. ‘Do you have idea why she was killed?’

‘We’re working on it. Maybe something to do with the project she was writing.’

She puts a hand on a two-page document. ‘I read the briefing you sent — you mean the movie about our Shroud?’

‘Seems that way. Has anything particularly unusual happened to it recently?’

‘Nothing ever happens to it. It is in a sealed case in the Duomo di San Giovanni in the darkness.’

‘But it does come out regularly, right?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Last time the Church exhibited it was in 2010.’

‘In the cathedral?’

‘Si, but with big protection.’ She draws a huge square in the air with both hands. ‘They build a giant box of bulletproof glass. In it they put the Shroud — a sealed case filled with nitrogen.’

‘And a lot of people came to view this?’

Carlotta laughs. ‘More than one hundred thousand people a day — every day. For five weeks they queue.’ She pauses while she tries to remember more about the last exposition. ‘I read that in those weeks, three and a half million people come. This is more in weeks than visit the grave of your John F. Kennedy every year.’

Nic is amused by the comparison. ‘I wasn’t aware the two were in competition.’

‘It is good they were not. The Shroud would have won. Easily. Catholics will always win these kinds of things. Death and religion are very important to us.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind. So I guess it is no longer on display?’

‘No. Displays are very rare. It is kept in a permanent case, closed within an alcove of the Duomo, where visitors can come to pray. The church has some private security — they do not tell us exactly — and of course we have our own people watching the cathedral all the time.’

‘So it could never be stolen or damaged?’

She shrugs. ‘This you cannot say. In 1997 there was arson. Firemen had to break into the cabinet. They use their axes and sledgehammers to smash through the glass, thick bulletproof glass — then they had to pull it from the flames.’

‘Was it damaged?’

‘No, not that time, but before, yes. A long time ago, in the sixteenth century there was another fire — again arson — and, yes, that did damage it.’

‘In the same church?’

‘No. Back then it was in France, in the Saint Chapelle Chapel in Chambéry.’

‘What was it doing there?’

‘I believe it was in possession of the House of Savoy. In those days there was much theft and looting. Today, here, security is very good.’ She says it with confidence and reassurance. ‘These days you cannot get anywhere near the Holy Shroud.’

‘Really?’ He nods to the computer. ‘While we’re waiting for those telephone traces, why don’t we give it a try?’

63

He tests the water with his wrist — like a parent does for a baby.

Not too hot. Not too cold. Blood temperature. He squeezes washing-up liquid into the water and stirs it until a layer of bubbles covers the surface.

JJ puts down the plastic bottle and returns to the bedroom. His knees crack as he crouches. Carefully he scoops Em’s naked corpse into his arms and carries her across the room. In a mirror he glimpses himself with her. It’s a powerful sight. Heroic. Like a firefighter carrying a woman from a blazing building. Like an angel of God saving a sinner from the fires of hell.

He carries her to the bathroom and lowers the love of his life into the soapy tub. Water sloshes over the side. It pools around his bare feet and sinks into the wooden boards. There are candles around the bathroom, on the floor, shelves and window ledge. Diamonds of golden light dance in the water. It makes him think of a baptism font.

She looks heavier somehow. Almost as though death has been good to her. Fattened her up. Fed her well. And peaceful too. He’s never seen anyone look more at rest than Em does.

JJ strips and steps into the lukewarm water. He grimaces as suds splash over the side. He wants this to be perfect. Nothing must be wrong. They have so little time together.

He lowers himself further. Manoeuvres his body under hers. Wraps his arms around her breasts and holds her close for one final time.

64

A gust of wind irreverently shoves Carlotta and Nic down the hallowed and brutally open approach to the Duomo di Torino e Cappella della Sacra Sindone.

The cathedral has a near-white Renaissance frontage, newly cleaned, and is itself incongruously dwarfed by the spiral sprouting dome of Guarini’s Chapel of the Holy Shroud.

‘Buongiorno’ calls Carlotta to the small thin man clad in black robes waiting in the shelter of the front entrance. ‘This is Lieutenant Karakandez, from the Los Angeles Police Department.’

The robed man politely dips his head of steely grey hair as he shakes hands with the big detective. ‘Dino di Rossi — I am, what I think you say, is the verger.’ He glances sideward. ‘Luogotenente Cappelini wishes that I accompany you and answer any questions about the building and the Shroud.’

‘Good to meet you. Thanks for doing this at short notice.’

Nic follows Carlotta and the verger up the cathedral steps and through giant eighteenth-century wooden doors. Above his head he sees a copy of Leonardo’s Last Supper and to his left — much to his surprise — a stall selling books, postcards, DVDs and cheap prints of the Shroud. A long nave spills out in front of them and down the side are two giant wall-mounted TV screens showing footage of the Shroud. The commodifying of the relic extends to plastic, electrically operated offertories, where pilgrims are encouraged to drop euros through a slot in return for the right to say a prayer and light a plastic candle. Far ahead is the more impressive transept and sacristy.

‘This architecture — it touches your soul, no?’ says di Rossi, in a hushed voice, as they walk the marble-tiled floor. ‘It conveys to the devoted, the experience of entering death and of reaching the light of divine glory.’

Nic wouldn’t go that far; but the altar, flanked by massive marble statues and a startling central crucifixion scene, is certainly something.

‘The sculptures are of Saint Theresa and Saint Christina.’ Di Rossi gestures to them. ‘Made in Rome in 1715 by the Parisian sculptor Pietro Legros. The great wooden statue of the crucifix was carved by Francesco Borelli.’

‘And the Shroud?’ asks Nic, almost impatiently. ‘Where is that kept?’

Di Rossi sighs as he leads him through the pews and past a stack of hard, brown metal chairs. ‘Here,’ the verger points to a strange roped-off area in the far corner of the cathedral.

To Nic’s untrained eye the chapel looks like a couple of theatre boxes stacked on top of each other. The upper one has wide, gold columns, a gold balcony and above it a giant ornate centrepiece of what looks like golden angels plus a huge crown and a red shield with a white cross on it.

‘That is the Royal Tribune.’ Di Rossi’s fingers flutter skywards. ‘Carved by Ignazio Perucca in 1777. The Kings of Piedmont and Sardinia stood there. It has been graced by Carlo Emmanuele III, Carlo Alberto of the Savoy-Carignano line and the first King of Italy, Vittorio Emmanuele II.’

Nic’s eyes drop to the lesser looking box under it. One with stone pillars and a bulletproof glass window.

‘The lower tribune is where the royal pages sat. This is now the home of the Shroud — the cloth in which the body of our Lord Jesus Christ was wrapped after his death on Calvary.’

65

JJ curls his toes around the metal chain and pulls the plug. He lies there savouring the final moments as the soapy water drains off him and his queen. The noise of the bath emptying is irritating. Inappropriate.

He stays motionless. Plays dead. Doesn’t blink or twitch a muscle as he concentrates on lowering his heartbeat and slowing his breathing. Water trapped between their bodies slowly pours away, creating the sensation that Em is touching him. The bathroom grows cold. The chilly air and metal of the old tub rapidly cool his flesh. He knows that if he stays as he is, his body temperature will soon match hers. They will become as one. United in death. Together for ever.

‘One day, my love.’ He kisses the back of her neck. ‘One day I will join you.’

She is difficult to move without the buoyancy of the water. The wetness of their bodies seems to glue them together. Finally, he stands outside the tub, shivering in the candlelight. His feet make prints on the boards as he takes a towel from an old wooden rail and dries himself warm.

Warm — the difference between him and his love. The difference between life and death. He leans over the tub and pats her dry as best he can. Getting her out is harder than he imagined. The old-fashioned bath is too deep for him to be able to lift her without falling forward. In the end he stands opposite the taps, grips her beneath the armpits and pulls. Her skin feels like it’s moving. Slackening and shifting as he touches it.

He lowers her to the floor and dries the parts he missed. She smells clean. Clean and fresh. He’s too tired now to move her further. Too emotionally drained and distressed by the thought that his time with her is running out. He takes talc from a recessed shelf behind the bath and shakes the scented powder over her body. Smooths it out. Covers every inch. Until Em is as white as an angel.

Now he does the same to himself. Makes sure he is dusted from head to toe. Shrouded in white. He lies next to her. Two ghosts in the twilight. He pulls towels over them to keep warm. Snuggles up. Presses close and shares his warmth with her.

66

Behind protective glass the casket sits covered by a dull cloth bearing a central red stripe and a crucifix. Above it is a bizarre tangle of giant thorns. Over the brambles, a cheap digital blow-up of the face of what Nic calls Shroudman hangs on a dark and dusty curtain. The unlikely home of the world’s most famous religious relic.

‘The Holy Shroud, like the Veil of Veronica, is a unique scientific, historical and religious artefact.’ Di Rossi points as he explains. ‘We now believe it was also shown far across the Middle East. History records it once being given to Abgar, the King of the ancient city of Edessa, and it is said to have cured him of illness. The Orthodox Greeks hold the image in the highest respect. They call it Acheiropoieton — an Icon Not Made by Hands.’

Nic feels he’s being whitewashed. Just as surely as if he’d caught a spaced-out Westmont gangbanger trawling on Sunset. ‘You said Veronica. Who was she and what’s special about her veil?’

Di Rossi puts his hands to his face and mimes drying it with a towel. ‘As Christ carried the cross on the way to Calvary, he wiped his face on a cloth given him by a woman called Veronica from Jerusalem — now Saint Veronica. After he had gone, the image of his face appeared on the cloth. The Church has venerated this event by marking it as one of the Stations of the Cross.’

‘I’m going to burn in hell for asking, but the Stations of the Cross?’

Di Rossi’s face registers shock and disappointment. ‘They are the fourteen key historical Christian moments, marked usually in paintings or statues or stained glass. They show the stages of Christ’s journey from when he was condemned to death to when his body was taken from the cross on Mount Calvary and sealed in the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea. The incident with the sudarium — the sweat cloth — is the sixth Station.’

The verger glances at his wristwatch. ‘I realise, Signore, that you have many questions — and many doubts — but I am afraid I am now late and must go.’

‘I’m very grateful for your help,’ says Nic, aware he’s being brushed off. ‘One thing before you leave.’ He nods to the glass and the cloth-covered casket. ‘I’d like to see the Shroud, the actual cloth.’

‘I am sorry, that is not possible. The Holy Shroud is locked and sealed in a metal and glass container.’

‘Seals can be broken. I’d like it opened please.’

‘I am sure you would but it is not possible. Only the Pontiff himself can order an exposition of the Holy Shroud.’

Nic’s face reddens. ‘You mean only the Pope can break the seals and open up the container?’

Di Rossi tries to keep anger out of his reply. ‘No. The Holy Father is not the custodian of the keys. That is not what I told you. But he is the only one who can command any viewing of the Sacra Sindone.’

Nic looks to Carlotta. ‘I guess that’s not true — the Carabinieri could order the Shroud to be opened up for inspection, couldn’t they?’

She looks nervous at being put on the spot. ‘I think this is not even something I could request. It would have to come from our Generale.’

Without asking, Nic knows that would be a drawn-out route. He turns back to the verger. ‘So if the Pope isn’t the keeper of the keys, who is?’

‘This I cannot tell you.’

‘Cannot or will not?’

‘Signore.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘Security is of utmost importance to us. I act under instruction from the Archbishop, and he in turn from the Pontiff himself.’

‘Then I need to see him.’

‘His Eminence is not in Turin at the present. I will pass your request to his secretariat.’

Nic’s had enough of being jerked about. ‘Then I’d like to speak to him on the phone. Today. Now if possible.’

The verger’s eyes turn as cold as the statues around him. ‘I regret this meeting is now over. I have tried to be of assistance. Give your details to the Luogotenente. I will pass your request to His Eminence.’ Di Rossi’s black cloak swirls as he turns and walks away, leaving Nic staring at the bulletproof glass separating him from one of the biggest mysteries of modern times and maybe the answer to his homicide case.

67

Beneath the leaden sky of Piedmont’s capital, eighteen kilometres of arcades cover the sidewalks and shelter innumerable cafés. The sit-and-watch-the-world culture is a legacy from the time Turin was ruled by the House of Savoy and established as one of the arts capitals of the world.

In a bar populated more by locals than tourists, Ephrem realises the target he’s been following since the man parked an hour ago is about to make his first mistake.

He’s heading to the restroom.

The monk could take him there. It would be messy but possible. His hand finds the dental floss container in his pocket and he imagines the thin wire it conceals being stretched around the throat of the man he’s hunting. Too risky. Too impetuous. Too public.

He dismisses the thought. Patience is a virtue. He must wait.

After a few minutes the man emerges. Ephrem slips from the cover of the arcade entrance directly opposite where he’s been pretending to make a phone call. The target moves cautiously, like he senses he’s being watched, like he knows this is the time anyone tracking him would have to break cover and fall in behind in order to pick up his trail. Ephrem is impressed by the caution — the confidence — the casual and controlled way the man walks about, looking around without any discernible effort, taking in all three hundred and sixty degrees of his environment without being obvious. He too shows no sign of hurry or nerves. They are worthy enemies.

The monk varies the distance he tracks from, sometimes coming within touching distance, often hanging so far back the target is just a dot in the distance. He swaps his black woollen hat for a green baseball cap, reverses his coat to change from black to green.

Over the course of an hour Ephrem becomes at least four different people, each with their own different way of walking and holding themselves. He is tourist, businessman, shopper, late-for-a-date boyfriend. Anyone other than who he really is.

A trained assassin closing in on his prey.

68

Nic and Carlotta take a table at the rear of the Baratti and Milano café with a view into the grand marble-floored atrium of a high-class shopping gallery. She hands him a menu across a table topped with fresh flowers and a crisp cotton cloth of burned orange. ‘Di Rossi — he is only following instructions. It is best to remember the Catholic Church is a law unto itself.’

He takes the menu. ‘No, it isn’t. Nothing anywhere in the world is a law unto itself. This guy is not even going to talk to the Bishop and ask for me to see the Shroud, is he?’

‘Archbishop,’ she corrects him. ‘Why is this so important for you?’

He lowers the menu. ‘Where I come from making cases means finding out what people don’t want to show you. When someone snow-blinds me like your verger did, I know there is some kind of a cover-up going on.’

A waitress arrives and Carlotta talks in Italian, occasionally pointing at Nic. The girl gives him a studied look and then slips away.

He realises Carlotta just ordered for him.

She smiles almost mischievously. ‘This place, it is famous for espresso and hot chocolate. I also order their tramezzini — small sandwiches of ham, mozzarella, salmon, tuna and vegetables. And the Torta barattina.’

‘Tart of the House?’

‘Very good.’ She laughs at him. Another time, another place, he might even be fun to be with. ‘Thick chocolate tart, with cream and raspberries.’

‘You think I have a sweet tooth?’

‘There must be something sweet about you. I am hoping the food will change your mood. In Italy when men are sour-tempered, we feed them things to make them sweet.’

‘I think I have good reason to be sour-tempered.’

‘Perhaps.’ She notices he’s playing with the wedding band on his finger, twisting it round and round. It’s a chance to change the subject. ‘You and your wife have any children?’ She nods at the ring.

Nic stares through her. He heard the question but at the back of his mind he’s still processing information about the verger. The guy’s behaviour was odd. Not quite right in some way, but he doesn’t yet know exactly why.

‘Children,’ repeats Carlotta, wondering if she mispronounced the word. ‘Bambini — do you have any babies?’

‘No. I had a son, only a few months old. He was killed with his mother.’

‘Oh.’ She can see pain in his eyes. ‘I am sorry. I feel stupid for asking.’

He twists the wedding band again. ‘I can’t bring myself to take this off. Probably never will.’

The waitress arrives with their food but Carlotta can tell that for once the sweetness on the plate isn’t going to alter the mood of the man opposite her. ‘Turin,’ she says, changing the subject, ‘is divided into two cities. The place where the Shroud is kept we know as the Holy City. Not far away, under the Palazzo Madama is what we call the Satanic City.’

‘Sounds like tourist claptrap.’ He picks a dainty sandwich from the fine china plate. ‘From my experience, true evil doesn’t advertise itself. It stays hidden and moves like a criminal on the run.’

‘It is not an invention to part foreigners from their money, it is a piece of our heritage. Beneath the ground are the Alchemist Caves in which during the first century Apollonio of Tyana, a great occult wizard, hid a powerful talisman. The scientists of Savoy thought it was the Philosopher’s Stone and even Nostradamus came looking for it.’

Nic stops eating. ‘And apparently didn’t find anything. What’s your point?’

She sips her hot chocolate. ‘Turin likes to keep its secrets. We have a long history of it. Just be aware that your search may be as fruitless as theirs.’

69

Amy Chang yawns as she opens the curtains. She pads across the living room in her short white robe and takes a prod at the heap on the floor by the couch.

Mitzi groans.

‘Morning. Just checking you’re alive. So many of the bodies I find on a floor aren’t.’

‘I aren’t.’

‘Then stay dead a while longer. I’ll make coffee.’

Mitzi willingly does as she’s told. Just thinking about moving her head is a terrible proposition. She closes her eyes and runs a mental replay to see if she needs to apologise for anything. Save finishing a bottle of wine on her own, she thinks she’s in the clear.

‘You want some water too? Maybe breakfast?’ Amy turns on the coffee machine. The sound of the beans grinding is enough to make Mitzi pull the covers over her head.

‘Just coffee. Quiet coffee.’

‘Anything in the quiet coffee?’

‘Just black.’ Mitzi sits up and pulls the covers back. ‘What time is it?’ Blood floods her head and she feels like she’s on fire.

‘Seven-fifteen. I’m afraid I’m an early riser.’

Mitzi struggles to her feet and staggers to the bathroom in her bra and knickers.

She uses the loo, then swears at the sink, an elegant designer bowl with a mixer tap and no obvious way of turning it on. She twists the tall gold tube, feeling like she’s strangling a chicken. It suddenly spurts cold water so forcefully into the basin it splashes over her bare stomach.

She pulls a towel off the edge of the bath and dries herself. In the mirror she sees her sorry reflection. Beneath tired eyes and alcohol-flushed cheeks are the scars of her marriage — marks from Alfie’s belt. Shameful purples, browns and reds spread across her stomach, arms and legs. Hands dangling by her side, she stares at herself. ‘Shit, girl, how did you let all this happen?’ She examines a couple of welts in close-up, turning one way and then another. No wonder she nearly killed him. She’d kill someone who treated a dog like this, let alone another person.

She straightens up. Cautiously fills the basin and washes her hands and face. Towels dry and avoids the mirror. She’ll sort her hair out later. Amy’s busy in the kitchen area when Mitzi reappears. ‘Coffee and chopped fruit on the table. Be good if you eat something.’

‘Yes, Doctor. Thanks.’ She pulls on her clothes so her friend doesn’t see the bruises. ‘How about I eat some Ibuprofen with this?’

‘Not on an empty stomach.’

‘I need it.’ Mitzi holds out a hand.

‘Pathetic. You get any sleep?’

‘First straight six hours I’ve had for a while.’

‘Good.’ Amy passes over a foil strip of tablets and a glass of water. ‘Here you go.’

Mitzi pops two pills and swills them down with water. ‘Thanks for being there last night.’

‘No problem. I’ll always be there.’

‘I know. Me too — should you ever need me. Not for this kind of shit, though. I’ll kick your ass if you let any guy mess with you like I did with that jerk.’

‘You’re going to move on, right?’

‘You bet. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.’

The pathologist smiles. ‘An oldie but goldie.’

‘You gotta believe it.’ Mitzi takes a sip of newly poured coffee. ‘Did I mention the Turin Shroud to you last night?’

‘Sort of. You said it was why Nic was in Italy but you didn’t make much sense after that.’

‘Okay. Here’s the thing — we think the Shroud has something to do with the Tamara Jacobs case and we can’t yet figure out what.’

‘So how can I help?’

‘Not sure. We’re just opening every door and seeing what’s behind them. One thing that keeps coming up is whether the Shroud really was Christ’s. If I send you some high-def pics, could you tell me whether you think the marks on the linen are consistent with crucifixion injuries?’

‘Wow.’ The request takes Amy totally by surprise. ‘You want me to PM the Son of God?’

If Mitzi’s head didn’t hurt so much, she’d laugh. ‘Sort of. You’re bigging up your part a little.’

‘I know. But I still get to file a report marked “Jesus Christ”. How many medics can say that?’

70

The desk jockeys in Carlotta’s office link one of Nic’s numbers to the apartment of a Roberto Craxi in a block off Piazza Castello near the Quadrilatero. It’s in the historic heart of the city, inside the perimeter of the ancient Roman Castrum, and bears the same address as several restaurants he found receipts for in Tamara’s apartment. It takes a junior lieutenant called Fredo Battisti five minutes to drive them to the place and twice as long to find a parking spot on the busy cobbled streets.

They may as well not have bothered. Not only is Nic’s main lead not there, but according to neighbours, he and his wife haven’t been around for more than a month. Apparently they just vanished. Never said goodbye to anyone. Simply disappeared.

Carlotta and Fredo question neighbours on other floors while the landlord, Paolo Llorente, shows Nic around the empty apartment. Llorente, who is almost eighty-five, is dressed in unironed black trousers that hang four inches short of his shoes and a crumpled white shirt and saggy blue cardigan. Hip and knee replacements mean he shuffles more than walks but despite his appearance, his mind is still sprightly. ‘In my youth, I had many American girls,’ he says, flashing a nostalgic grin. ‘I worked in Venice as a gondolier.’ He mimes a punting motion. ‘American girls drink a lot and they teach me bad words and good times.’

‘I’m sure they did. Lucky you.’ Nic pushes open the door to the living room.

The place is empty. Not a stick of furniture but spick and span. Polished oak floors, clean white walls and large patio windows lead to a neat balcony filled with terracotta pots and plants. Two bedrooms are similarly denuded and sparkling clean.

In a small but spotless kitchen Nic opens cupboards and finds them bare. No pots, pans, cutlery or crockery. It’s like no one has ever lived here. All trace of the Craxis has been wiped away.

‘Signore Llorente, do you rent the properties furnished or unfurnished?’

The former gondolier leans on a worktop to take the weight off his strained legs. ‘Unfurnished, but if a tenant asks for beds and things, then I buy.’ He grins again. ‘I buy and put a little extra on top.’

‘So the Craxis took everything with them when they went?’

‘Si.’

‘They didn’t leave anything behind at all?’

The old man shakes his head. ‘No, nothing.’

‘Did you see them go?’ Nic gestures to the empty rooms. ‘I mean, it looks like they cleared the whole place out, so they must have hired a van and I guess workmen to carry furniture downstairs.’

‘This I did not see.’ Llorente touches a discreet hearing aid, a small transparent curl of plastic tucked behind his left ear. ‘I am old and sleep a lot. At night I would not hear a bomb.’

‘What about the rent?’

‘They pay in advance. By the bank.’

‘And they didn’t default? They paid the last payment okay?’

‘Si, they pay. They were good couple.’

Nic smells something. Something sharp and clean. White spirits? Paint? His eyes roam over the walls and woodwork. He gets it now. The place has been redecorated, ceiling to floor. Not a doorframe or window ledge isn’t freshly glossed.

‘How long have your other tenants on this floor been here, Mr Llorente?’

The landlord needs time to think. ‘The Tombolini family three years. Then the Mancinis, only six months, I think. Luca Balotelli moved in five years ago — he divorced from his wife, and—’

Nic cuts him off. ‘Could I trouble you to look at the Mancini place? Is it like this one?’

The old man frowns. ‘Si. It is just the same as this.’ He realises that’s not exactly true. ‘Except their living room faces the opposite side.’

‘I understand.’ Nic follows him out of the Craxi place.

Llorente rings Mancini’s bell and knocks on the door. When he’s sure the family isn’t in, he opens up and stands to one side to let the detective in.

Nic opens every door and scans the place from top to bottom. It’s exactly as he thought it would be. Feared it would be. It bears all the wear and tear of a place the landlord should have decorated two years back. ‘Thanks,’ he says, stepping back outside. ‘I’m done in there.’

71

The tram journey is unexpected.

Ephrem berates himself for not being more alert. He knew Turin had more than a hundred miles of overground network and should have anticipated the target would use it at some point. The man he’s following has jumped on board and he’s been forced to slip onto the tram at the last moment.

Just a carriage away.

In a confined space like this it’s too close for comfort. Much too close. The monk consoles himself with the fact that three other people climbed on when he did. There’s a reasonable chance they masked his movements. Ephrem doesn’t look up from his seat and doesn’t stare intently towards the target’s carriage as he is itching to do. He’s made a mistake and what happens next is going to be a gamble. At the next stop he has to be first off. He has to disembark like he’s late for a meeting and then walk confidently in one direction. If he hangs back, his cover will be blown.

The bell rings and the old tram hisses to a halt. Ephrem jumps off and walks slowly away. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t even think about it. It could be that the target is still on board and he lost him, but he doesn’t think so. Crowds of people block his way. They’re squeezing into the biggest open-air market in Europe in the Piazza della Repubblica. Ephrem sees the signs to a metro station.

His heart thumps. If the target goes down there, he could easily lose him.

The Porta Palazzo Market or the metro?

He gambles on the metro. It’s where he would head. Maximum distance in minimum time. It makes perfect sense. To the best of his knowledge there are more than twenty stations but only one main line, running east to west between Turin and Collegno.

He trots quickly down the stone steps. He doesn’t have a ticket and the target might well have. At the cashier’s window he asks for a biglietto. As he pushes the money through the slit he turns and sees his man descending into the darkness below.

‘Rapidamente per favore!’

The old man doling out change and tickets isn’t bothered by the cry of urgency.

By the time the monk reaches the bottom of the escalator he can hear a train thundering away, eastbound.

The platform is empty.

72

Mitzi takes a long shower, more painkillers, fresh coffee and a short walk before a queasy cab ride to collect her car. It’ll be a while before she hits the bottle like that again. It was worth it, though. Six hours of glorious sleep and for a brief passage of time no thought of Alfie, the girls or what a mess her life was becoming.

Was — past tense.

In the future — starting right now — it’s going to be fine. She’s going to finish this case, book a holiday for her, Jade and Amber, sell the house and start anew. Somewhere with no memories. Everything will be just fine.

Mitzi is parking in the station house when her cell phone rings. ‘Fallon,’ she answers, closing the car door and walking away.

‘Logan Connor, Lieutenant.’ There is a pause on the end of the line, then he adds, ‘Sergeant Sheen gave me your number, said I had to call.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’ve just come from the courthouse, ma’am. They processed your husband’s file.’

The comment stops her in her tracks. She had no idea his case was being heard so quickly. Someone must have pulled strings for her. ‘Appreciate you reaching out. Tell me.’

‘He plead to battery and his attorney cut a deal with the DA to avoid a full trial. He got thirty days.’

Mitzi feels numb. She can’t work out whether it’s good news or bad. Most cases land the minimum thirty. For what he did, he should go to the pokey for a year or more. Despite the lenient sentence, she also knows the die has been cast now. He’s a jailbird. You can never get that particular tattoo lasered off. He’s a convict. ‘So he’s being processed now, already in the system?’ It’s a rhetorical question, she knows what’s going down.

‘Yes, ma’am. Judge also set release conditions, prohibiting him from coming within a hundred yards of you, the family home or any family member without supervision and spousal consent.’ Connor clears his throat. ‘If you ask me, I think the court should have—’

‘I didn’t, Officer, and I really don’t want to know what you think.’ She’s about to cut him off when she remembers her manners. ‘I appreciate your call and how you’ve handled all this. Your discretion is duly noted. You ever need a favour in Homicide, one’s waiting on my desk.’

‘No need, ma’am. I’m just glad to have helped.’

She shuts down the phone. Thirty days. How the hell is she going to tell the girls?

73

JJ spends most of the day closeted in his office. But his mind is elsewhere.

It’s with Em. She’s all he can think about. He wants to be with her for ever. Even wishes she was still alive. But that was never going to be possible. He’d been sworn to secrecy. And he’s obeyed. Always has. Always will.

He knows he has to move her. Let her go. But where should she rest? He’s never disposed of a body before. Never done anything so unkind in his life. All those he has helped into the next world he has left in their homes.

Home. That’s it. He must return Em to her home. It is where she will be at rest. It is the right thing to do. Unconsciously he puts a hand to his stomach and rubs an itch, one caused by the fresh cuts he made before coming to work. He undoes the buttons of his white shirt and looks at the livid criss-cross wounds opened by the razor blade. He lowers his chin to his chest and blows on the skin to soothe it.

A knock lifts his head. The sound of the door opening makes him close his shirt quickly. Jenny Harrison stares at him. Only she doesn’t look as bold as usual. Hasn’t done since her friend disappeared.

‘Can I have a minute?’

‘It’s not convenient.’ He finishes straightening his clothes.

She comes in anyway. ‘It’s Kim. Did she call you today? To say she was sick or anything?’

He wishes now he’d dealt with them both. If he’d gone back for Harrison after he’d finished Bass, this wouldn’t be happening. ‘I haven’t heard from her. If she’s not in by Monday, I’m giving her job to someone else.’

Harrison flinches. ‘I think I know what’s happened to her.’

JJ doubts it. ‘What?’

She hesitates. What she’s about to say could cost her friend her job. ‘A year back Kim got pulled by the cops for making out in a car with a guy. They got it all wrong and charged her with prostitution. She did five days in prison, with a warning that if she got caught again, she’d go down for longer.’

‘Prostitution?’ He tries to sound shocked.

‘Yeah. Like I say, it was a mistake. A misunderstanding. But Kim’s always got lots of admirers and I figure there might have been another misunderstanding — do you know what I mean?’

‘You think she’s been arrested?’

‘Yeah.’ Harrison moves to the edge of the desk and puts on a helpless look. ‘Mr James, could you ring the cops and find out if they’ve got her somewhere? I called the local station and they said check with Hollenbeck but they’d never heard of her. Maybe they’d do more if you called.’

The last people in the world that JJ wants to ring are the police. ‘Leave it with me, Jenny. I’ll see what I can find out.’

74

What disturbs Nic almost as much as the fact that Roberto Craxi and his wife have disappeared is that Carlotta and Fredo don’t seem that bothered. Policing in Italy is a whole different ballgame to that in the States. Too laid back and far too sloppy for his liking.

He’s still biting his tongue as Fredo drives them to Craxi’s bank at the south-eastern end of Via Po, near the giant Piazza Vittorio Veneto. While it’s not that unusual for people to change homes five or ten times in a lifetime, they seldom switch banks on more than a couple of occasions. The manager should be able to give them a new address.

Carlotta is sat in the back with Nic and can tell that he’s churning things over in his mind. ‘Something is troubling you?’

‘Yeah, it is. Don’t you think it strange that none of the neighbours back there saw the Craxis leave and none of them were friendly enough to have a forwarding address?’

She shrugs. ‘It happens. In apartment blocks like that, you come, you go, you don’t see many people. I live in one very like it.’

He’s looking out the window as he talks. ‘Those stairs were tight. You couldn’t get furniture out without making a noise, scraping walls, being noticed.’

‘The landlord, Signore Llorente, did you ask him about the relocation? Maybe he knows?’

‘I asked. He doesn’t.’ He turns to face her. ‘Something is wrong, and I get the impression that because this is an out-of-town case, you and the Carabinieri don’t really care that much.’

‘Scusi?’ She reddens a little. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Come on. We get the brush-off from that verger friend of yours, then the Craxis have vanished and their apartment — well, their apartment is the only one to have been freshly painted — and you don’t seem to be the least bit interested in that.’

She’s offended by his tone. ‘Maybe it was painted to attract new renters.’

‘Maybe you’re not trying hard enough. I bet if you sent a forensic team into that apartment back there, you wouldn’t find so much as a fingerprint from Craxi or his wife.’

‘He has left,’ she throws up her hands in annoyance, a flash of Latin temper. ‘The landlord says he has paid his rent, so for us there is no crime here in Italy to investigate.’

‘Maybe not for you, but in LA we have a mutilated dead woman and she’s directly linked to your missing Italian.’

‘He’s not missing. He just left. He just moved house.’

‘We are here.’ Fredo pulls the Alfa to the kerb.

‘Thanks,’ snaps Nic, pushing open the back door and getting out.

Carlotta stomps past him and into the bank. She walks by a queue of customers and shows her ID at a window. A senior clerk eventually materialises and lets them through an electronically locked door into a passageway and then upstairs to the first floor to an office at the back in the corner. Seems big guys the world over always want the corner space, the one with double windows and the best street views.

Fabrizio Gatusso comes out and shakes Carlotta’s hand. The silver-haired fifty-year-old looks every inch a bank manager — blue pin-stripe suit, white shirt and tightly knotted blue tie.

‘He says to come in,’ explains Carlotta, her voice showing she’s still mad with Nic. ‘He does not speak English but I will translate.’

Nic takes a seat beside her on the brown corner sofa, the kind that comes in movable sections. Gatusso settles on another square piece of it opposite them, behind a glass table stacked with paper and leaflets. The banker hands a file to Carlotta and she in turn passes it to Nic with an explanation. ‘These are copies of Craxi’s accounts for all the time he was a customer. Also his wife’s.’

‘Was? Was his customer.’

‘Si. They closed their accounts a month ago.’

Nic feels his anger bubbling up again. Precious time is being wasted. ‘So who do they bank with now?’ His tone becomes almost derisory. ‘Usually when customers move banks, the old bank and the new one work together to switch standing orders and exchange debit orders and things. Please don’t tell me it doesn’t work like that in Italy or that I need special permission from the President or the Pope or someone.’

She stares angrily at him. ‘I ask for you.’

As she does, Nic opens the file and scans the statements. They show the sequence of payments from Tamara Jacobs — sums of €3600, the equivalent at the time of $5000. He flicks through and sees the bigger amounts as well — two deposits via international bank transfer of €18,179 — twenty-five grand.

Carlotta turns back to him. ‘Signore Gatusso has no idea what bank the Craxis are now with.’ She reaches across him into the file and searches for a moment. She finds a copy of a final statement. ‘This is the bank’s last link. When the Craxis closed their accounts, they took all their money in cash.’

75

Sergeant Bobby Sheen has been expecting the call. He just hopes Mitzi isn’t mad at him. He’d prayed Alfie Fallon would get prison time but it was always going to be a long shot. With a spiralling state deficit, first-time offenders are pretty much given a telling off and a free ride home these days. ‘Hiya, Mitzi, how you doin’?’

She’s stood in the ladies’ restroom at work. ‘I’m holding up, Bobby. Holding up. Connor rang me — said you told him to.’

‘I did. Look, I’m sorry they were so chicken-assed. I hoped the judge would have been a bit tougher, you know?’

She leans in the corner against the cold white tiles near the hand dryers, ‘No need to say sorry. Who was it?’

‘Kent. Justice Joe Kent. Should have retired the useless bastard ten years ago.’

‘Should have been a woman.’

‘Kent is a woman. He certainly doesn’t have any balls.’

Mitzi smiles. Bobby’s always been a hardliner, ever since she first met him. ‘What was Alfie charged under? Two-seven-three or two-four-three?’

‘Seven-three. The photographs we took of you were sufficient to prove physical injury.’

She has an embarrassing flashback of Bobby leading her down to the doctor after she’d seen her husband in the bullpen and all her injuries being noted and snapped.

‘You okay, hon?’

‘Not yet, but I will be when all this is over.’

‘Soon. At least this is out of the way now.’

‘I know. Bobby, thanks for pushing things through. I realise you were looking out for me. Don’t go feeling bad about the sentence.’

‘You’re a star, Mitzi. Rise above this crap and shine again. Call me if I can help with anything.’

‘Will do.’ She clicks off the phone and glances in the rest-room mirror as she heads to her desk. ‘You’re a star, Mitzi — just you remember that.’

76

Confession is good for the soul.

Admitting your mistakes. Repenting. It’s how Ephrem has been raised. And right now he fully accepts his failings and is trying to make up for them. He was vain and conceited. Thought he had the better of the man he had been following — and he hadn’t.

Pride before a fall.

He knows the teachings, the proverbs — when pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom.

Ephrem looks at the empty train platform and mentally chastises himself. When his mission is complete he will inflict agonising pain on his vain body to ensure today’s lesson is learned and never forgotten. The only thing comforting him is the knowledge that no matter how frail and fallible he is, his opponent will have inadequacies at least equal to his own. Right now he is sure the man he is tracking will be feeling confident, safe, sure of his actions.

Pride before destruction. The monk abandons the chase and returns to the target’s car. There’s a chance that his enemy has abandoned it but that would be a big sacrifice for someone in his position, especially as this man has others to protect. No, Ephrem feels sure he’ll come back here. All he has to do is wait.

Before his downfall a man’s heart is proud.

77

Amy Chang spends the morning working a routine overdose case. A seventy-five-year-old woman living on her own decided to take a month’s worth of anti-depressants and check out of Hotel California once and for all. Who can blame her? The City of Angels is hell on earth for anyone who isn’t young, beautiful and hooked up with someone who loves them.

She scrubs her hands and arms, changes from morgue greens into a brown Peter Pan tunic top over comfortable black Jersey skinny trousers. Back at her office desk she opens up mail from Mitzi containing high-def pics of the Shroud of Turin. She’s seen some of the photographs before but never really paid much attention to them. The big close-up of the face is the most recognisable of all. Even through the grey-black haze it’s unmistakably an image of Christ that people recognise the world over — beard, long hair and the crown of thorns. She flicks through them until she finds a larger and more interesting body shot.

There’s something about the image that instinctively feels wrong to the ME. Her eyes are drawn to the hands, especially the right one and its fingers. In proportion to the rest of the body they just seem too big. She types out a memo, attaches the print and sends it to Gunter Quentell at the FBI. He’s a world expert in photogrammetry — the forensic practice of determining the geometric properties of objects from photographic images.

Before Amy makes her own scientific evaluations she seeks some artful insight into the mysteries. She searches the online databases and the best she can come up with is the sixteenth-century oil by Giovanni Battista depicting how the body could have been wrapped. It shows the linen loosely looped over the head with the open end at the feet.

She glances again at the body print made on the Shroud and the two don’t seem to tally. To leave such definite marks around all areas on the corpse would be impossible unless it had been bound tightly, not covered flimsily as painted by Battista.

Amy hits zoom on her monitor and examines the Shroud section by section, top to bottom. It takes an hour. Her findings are fascinating and frustrating. The body parts seem out of proportion to each other. They seem more like they’ve been drawn than traced. And the more she stares at the face the more she is both enchanted and confused.

The forehead looks too short for the rest of the skull. Remembering that the victim was supposed to be lying on his back, his hair should also be hanging away from, not over his head and face. She looks again at the full-length shot of the corpse. The man has no neck. At least she can’t see one in the print. She searches for signs of the cloth having been cut and reattached, so possibly excluding part of the neck, but can’t find any.

Another aspect of the Shroud worries her. Wrap linen around a corpse and it gets creased — deeply creased. But not in this case. There’s no evidence of any twists in the cloth, only the lines where it’s been folded for storage.

Amy searches police files and forensic image banks on wounds and torture marks. There’s nothing comparable. A case in Canada in which a serial killer crucified his victims looks promising but it turns out he used execution methods totally unlike those performed by the ancient Romans. She turns her attention once again to the Shroud’s positive and negative plates. The difference between the two is astonishing. In the positive plate the body image is virtually invisible. In the negative one, it jumps right out at you. It’s like spraying Luminol at a scene that looks wiped clean only to see blood appear in all its glorious chemiluminescence.

The phone rings and makes her jump. ‘Doctor Chang.’

‘Guten tag, schöner mediziner.’

‘Gunter!’ She’s genuinely delighted he’s called her. ‘Fantastic to hear your voice. How are you?’

‘Me? I am very happy because you send me a note. Even if it is only to pick my giant German brain.’

She laughs. ‘If I picked anything else, your giant German wife would have me roasted for dinner in her very fine restaurant.’

He sighs. ‘She would indeed. But in another life we will be lovers, of this I am sure. Now why are you looking at the Turin Shroud and asking crazy questions?’

‘Are they crazy?’

‘Of course they are. You ask are the hands and head proportionate to the body. The answer is no. Nor is the length of the corpse appropriate. This man would have been way over six feet tall — nearer seven feet. Jesus may have been the son of God but he wasn’t a giant. Or if he was, no one ever bothered to comment on it.’

Amy inspects one of the shots that Mitzi sent her. She sees what he means. ‘How do you know all this, Gunter? Did you do your own studies?’

‘No need. There has already been a lot of work done. There are no external coordinates to compare the corpse with but the dimensions of the Shroud itself are good baselines. Another thing, if you measure the length of the image on the back of the cloth, it is two inches longer than on the front.’

‘Maybe it stretched and distorted the image? That would also explain the over-large hands.’

‘Good to see you are still so open-minded. There is an English professor you should talk to. I will go through my files and ask that he call you.’

‘Is he an open-minded believer or non-believer?’

‘Believer. Very big believer. Even though I am not, it is important that you talk to him and also to STURP, the Shroud of Turin Research Project. Speak to them, then use your own intelligence to decide that it’s a fake — a fakety-fake-fake.’

She laughs. ‘So I guess what you’re saying is that you think it’s a fake, then?’

‘I have no doubts. No questions at all. I can even tell you who the faker was.’

‘Go on.’

‘Not so quickly. It will cost you dinner next time I am in LA.’

‘Sure — but I get to call Astrid and tell her where I’m taking her husband.’ ‘An unnecessary offer.’ ‘So who faked it?’ ‘Open your email. I just sent you a document.’

78

By 6 p.m. Nic’s had it. He’s done with Carabinieri inefficiency. With struggling around a foreign city where it’s impossible to park. With the whole damned Tamara Jacobs case.

For the past two hours he’s chased down addresses linked to Craxi’s logged calls and all he’s got for his troubles are a pounding headache and enough dead ends to fill a road atlas. Fredo drives them back to the station house parking lot in Via Beato Sebastian Valfré. From there, Carlotta walks Nic to the hotel and tries to make peace. ‘I am sorry things didn’t work out — that we didn’t find Craxi.’

He’s too angry to respond.

‘I will make some more enquiries when I go back to the office. You should get some rest, you look tired. Tomorrow we will find Roberto Craxi, I am sure.’

He seriously doubts she could find milk in her own fridge.

‘I pick you up at nine again in the morning, okay?’

‘Fine.’ He tries to be nice. ‘I hoped for more — something quick, a strong lead to build on. I’m sorry if I’ve been gnarly. I know you’ve been trying to help. Grazie.’

She smiles at his first stab at Italian, ‘Prego. You have my numbers. Don’t forget, if you want anything, call me.’ She waits a beat then adds, ‘If you feel better a little later and want to see some of Torino, I will be in the office. Like I said to you, I still have other crimes on my desk.’

‘Thanks again.’ He turns away, feeling a little guilty. He knows what a pain it is to babysit a cop from another country and do all the ferrying around and legwork on a case that isn’t yours.

Nic collects his room key at reception and heads upstairs to sink into his swampy bed. No sooner has he kicked off his shoes than his cell rings and flashes up Mitzi’s desk number.

‘Pronto,’ he tries to mimic Carlotta’s accent. ‘Signore Carry-can-diss here.’

She laughs. It’s reassuring to hear him cracking jokes. ‘Glad you’ve still got your sense of humour, Signore. So how’s it going?’

‘You mean aside from the jet lag, crappy weather and major runaround I’m being given?’

‘Yeah, aside from all those exotic treats, how’s it going?’

‘Just great.’ He pushes the pillows back and leans against them. ‘I went to Roberto Craxi’s apartment. He wasn’t there but I tell you Mitz, that place was so clean — fresh paint everywhere, new units in the kitchen, the works — it was like someone wanted to erase any trace that Craxi or his wife had ever set foot in the place.’

She toys with the phone cable and wishes he was back in the office with her. ‘Sounds like a professional wipe-down — maybe after a shooting or at least some kind of bloodshed.’

‘I thought the same, but there are no signs of a crime. No signs of anything. The Craxis just vanished — poof, gone!’ He jams the phone between his neck and ear as he pours water from a bottle on the bedside table. ‘I went to his bank as well. Account’s been closed — all the money withdrawn in cash.’

‘How much?’

‘In euros, about a hundred and fifty thou’. What’s that — about two hundred thousand dollars?’

‘Guess so. However much it is, it sounds like he and his wife ain’t coming back.’

‘Yeah, sounds like it. But why?’

She sips coffee. ‘Usual reasons — avoiding something or somebody. I’ll check emigration, they might have left the country. Or maybe you can have the Carabinieri do that?’

‘Ha, some hope. I’ve been assigned a beauty queen who couldn’t investigate a crime in her own house.’

‘You being a little sexist?’

‘I don’t know, Mitz. She’s a loo-geo-ten-ente or whatever the heck they call it out here. So she certainly ranks big enough to know the ropes. It’s just that everything takes an age in Italy and she really doesn’t seem so bright.’ He wonders for a second if he’s being fair or whether his irritation is just the product of not understanding the unhurried pace of the culture. ‘I went to see the Shroud — that was a waste of time as well.’

‘How so?’

‘I got more BS from the cathedral’s verger than you got from Matthews last time you asked for a raise. The relic is locked in boxes inside boxes and only the Pope can fix for anyone to see it.’

‘Do you think we’re chasing down blind alleys, Nic?’

‘If it wasn’t for the money, I might think that. But Jacobs paid out more than a hundred K to this Craxi guy for some kind of information about the Shroud. What was the info and why was it worth so much? It’s important, I’m sure it is.’

She trusts his instinct. It’s one of the things that have made him such a good cop. Instinct. That’s something she’s certainly been lacking in her personal life. God knows she screwed things up with Alfie.

Nic thinks he’s lost the connection. ‘Mitz, you still there?’

‘Yeah, I’m here. Just …’

‘What’s wrong?’ He can tell from her voice that something is wrong. Can tell from that one lonely word hung out on its own.

Just.

‘Nothing. Well, something, but it’s only personal shit that I have to sort out.’

‘Personal shit called Alfie?’

She nearly laughs — that instinct of his really is good. ‘Yeah, but hey, what the hell, we all have to deal with our own crap, don’t we?’

He shifts position on the bed. ‘You want to talk about it?’

‘Nah, get some sleep, and solve this case for me. I don’t want you hanging around at work longer than need be, you’ve got a boat to sail. Bye.’

Nic smiles at the disconnected phone. His boss is a class act. Deserves better than that bum of a husband she’s stuck with.

79

The iMac cursor glides over the Adobe PDF icon and clicks it open. Amy Chang’s jaw drops in astonishment. ‘You are kidding me.’ In front of her are more than four hundred pages from Gunter Quentell suggesting the Shroud of Turin was faked by one of the world’s most talented artists, sculptors, writers, mathematicians and inventors.

Leonardo da Vinci.

Ridiculous. Then again, he was also a scientist and intellectual prankster. He conceptualised tanks, helicopters and solar power, and created the most reproduced religious painting of all time, the Last Supper, in which he inserted Mary Magdalene as the companion of Christ. Maybe not so ridiculous an idea after all.

Gunter’s document claims that just as Leonardo allegedly modelled the Mona Lisa on his own face, he did the same with the Turin Shroud. Amy studies three shots — the Shroud print, a portrait of da Vinci and the Mona Lisa. There are similarities — in the eyes and even nose — but she struggles to be completely convinced. For a start, the great painter was born a hundred years after the disputed carbon dating. And multiple scientific examinations have recorded no sign of any oil or watercolours on the linen cloth. Could Leonardo really have invented some form of photography hundreds of years before others claimed more widespread recognition for the technique? Not impossible.

At the bottom of the electronic document are copies of newspaper articles from 2011, detailing claims from an Italian art expert called Luciano Buso that the Shroud was created not by Leonardo but by Giotto di Bondone, who lived in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.

Amy scans them. It seems Giotto was a master of painting figures — especially Christ — and was allegedly chosen by the Church to create a replica of the cloth because the original was in such a poor state. He is said to have concealed the number ‘15’ in the painting to denote the year he completed the work.

Further down the PDF there are several other articles completely dismissing Buso’s claims as totally without foundation. Amy turns back to the images of the Shroud. Fresh questions arise. The cloth appears to show markings made by blood, sweat and tissue. Contrary to popular belief, bodies can still bleed after death, after the heart has stopped pumping, but it would be extraordinary for one to have done so in a way that left such vivid marks.

Another thing is disturbing her. Putrefaction. A corpse left for days, even inside a closed cave, would undoubtedly putrefy. If blood were visible on the linen, then other bodily excretions should be too. They aren’t.

Her telephone rings. It’s her secretary. She just missed a call from a professor in England. He left a message saying he wants to speak to her about the crucifixion of Christ and why he’s convinced the Shroud of Turin is genuine.

80

It’s 9 p.m. when Nic finally gets the phone call he’d been waiting for all day.

‘Are you alone?’ The voice is male and Italian. A voice he has heard only once before.

‘Just me and a TV that doesn’t work properly.’ He drops the remote on the quilt and sits on the edge of the bed.

‘Leave your hotel and cross the road. At the corner turn left and you will see a Fiat Bravo. I will leave the side lights on.’

Nic wriggles his swollen feet into shoes that have somehow shrunk since he kicked them off. ‘You have some good news?’

‘I have news.’

The line goes dead.

Nic locks his phone, ties his laces, gets up and grabs his jacket and keys.

It’s dark and raining softly as he leaves the stuffy heat of the old hotel for the crispness of the November night. There’s a drizzle falling, the kind of rain you can’t really see but can feel all the time — an icy mist that surreptitiously soaks you and leaches your body heat. He turns the corner and within a couple of steps sees the parked Fiat.

He’s never met Fabio Goria but the guy has come strongly recommended. He works for a premier private investigations company and came courtesy of a friend in the FBI.

He slips into the PI’s Fiat Bravo, shuts the door and offers a hand. ‘Nic Karakandez, good to meet you.’

‘Fabio.’ Goria is gravelly-voiced, unshaven, in his mid-thirties, broad-shouldered and smells of cigarettes.

‘So what have you got?’

Passing car lights play on the investigator’s stubbly face as he talks, his pinched blue eyes focused on either the windshield or rear-view mirror. ‘You asked me to find Roberto Craxi for you and to keep a trace on him until you came to Torino. This I have done.’

Nic is more impressed than he is about to admit. ‘Where is he?’

Goria doesn’t answer immediately. He glances from the mirror into the detective’s eyes. He has to be able to trust this man. There are things he needs to know — things he has to be certain about — before he tells him anything. ‘I spoke to Special Agent Burge. He told me you are a good policeman, so I help you. But before we speak about Craxi and where he is hiding, tell me what you know about him.’

Hiding. The word makes Nic’s heart quicken. ‘I don’t know much. He’s Italian and the recipient of a sizeable income from a murder victim in LA. Oh, and the Carabinieri couldn’t find him.’

Goria’s smile is barely visible in the half-light.

‘Craxi worked for the Carabinieri until only a few years ago.’

‘What?’

‘He was a member of the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale — the ROS. You know what this is?’

‘Special operations group?’

‘Exactly. One of their main bases is here in Turin. It is the arm of the Carabinieri that deals with organised crime and terrorism. It reports directly to the Carabinieri general command. Not much is known about it.’

Nic starts to put the pieces together and it doesn’t make for a pretty picture. In none of his calls from LA or the meetings today did any of his Carabinieri contacts mention that Craxi had been one of their own, let alone a special operative.

Goria can tell what’s on his mind. ‘Your pretty lieutenant wasn’t of much help, was she?’

‘No,’ says Nic, ‘And now I know why.’

The Italian lights a cigarette and winds down an inch of window to blow out the blue-grey smoke. ‘Craxi wasn’t only ROS, he was un’ombra — a shadow. He was part of a black ops team.’

‘You mean she might not have known Craxi was part of her own force?’

‘It is possible. The Carabinieri is a big organisation, with both military and policing functions. They overlap at times and are entirely separate when it suits them. The executives will know. They probably figure you are here for two or three days at most and will then have to go back to Los Angeles, so they assign someone to show you around a little and frustrate you.’

‘They’re certainly doing that.’

Goria grips the cigarette between his lips and digs inside his jacket. ‘Take a look at this.’ He hands over several long lens photographs of a man in a raincoat crossing a street.

‘Dino di Rossi. This is the verger of the cathedral. I saw him earlier.’

‘I know you did. We took these straight afterwards. One of my team has been watching you all day.’ He takes the photographs back. ‘But this man you met, he is not the verger of the Duomo.’

‘Then who is he?’

‘His name is Pausini. He is also from ROS, an undercover specialist. He is good, no?’

‘I guess he is.’

‘I don’t know all of the details of your case, Nic, but I do know a little about the ROS. You don’t want to upset these people. They are trained to kill. If they are involved in your inquiry, then I advise you to leave. Go home to America. Burge told me that you like to sail. Good. You should do that. Go home, sail as far away as you can from all this.’

Nic shakes his head. ‘I can’t do that. Much as I’d like to. There’s been a murder and—’

‘And there will be more — if you don’t leave.’ The statement hangs as unpleasantly as the fug of smoke around him. ‘I can only help you so much, Nic. Only so much, then I am gone. Understand?’

81

Being called to Matthews’ office is never good news.

Especially on a Friday afternoon. Mitzi thinks over the cold hard facts as she heads down his corridor. There are two times a week a boss will most likely lay you off, fire you or bust your balls. If he’s a nice guy, he does it first-thing Monday morning. That way you’ve already had your weekend in blissful ignorance and most likely you’re in for an extra week’s pay if he takes your badge. If he’s an asshole — or the timing’s just plain bad — you catch it Friday afternoon. This way he gets the weight off his mind and the weekend ahead is a nice one for him but not for you.

She knocks on the upper glass part of his door, twists the dull brass knob and edges it open enough to stick her head through, ‘You called for me, sir.’

‘I did.’ He’s behind his desk in blue-checked shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled to his elbows, feet resting on the edge of a chair and a pile of financial papers spread over the vast curvature of an ample midriff restrained by black braces. ‘Sit down and adopt a mood of joyous opportunity and stoic professionalism.’

She takes a seat the other side of the desk. ‘I’d try to do that if I had a clue what stoic was.’

He takes his feet off the chair, spins round and drops his meaty forearms on the desk. ‘Stoic: noun. A person who can endure pain or hardship without showing their feelings or complaining.’

‘Ah, now I get it. Doesn’t sound much like me, Captain.’

Matthews smiles. ‘LA’s most abused liver just checked itself into rehab and has taken Homicide Detective Jordan Lynch with it.’

Mitzi gives him her best so-what’s-that-got-to-do-with-me look.

‘Meaning Tyler Carter needs a number-two on his serial case.’

She drops her head into her hands. ‘Boss, I’ve got Nic Karakandez in Italy on the Tamara Jacobs killing and he’s only a week away from sailing off to God knows where. And—’ She stops herself. No. She’s not going to say she has personal problems, he probably knows already.

‘And what?’

From the look on his face he doesn’t know. Even Matthews isn’t so mean as to make fun out of the mess she’s in. ‘And nothing, sir. I was just having trouble transitioning from pissed and rightfully letting-off steam to professionally stoic.’

He slaps his hands on the table and smiles. ‘No problem. You did it real well. Get Carter to give you an extra pair of hands to cover the Jacobs case until you crack it or it falls down. We’ll run another week and then review. This way you can work both, okay?’

Her face says it’s not but her mouth has learned to be compliant. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s all.’ He swings his feet back up on the spare seat and reaches for the financial papers he had been worrying over when she came in. ‘Stoicism suits you, Fallon.’

‘Thank you, sir. Would you like your door slammed hard enough to come off its hinges or just sufficient to break the glass?’

82

Fabio Goria chain-smokes as he drives. ‘We are not going far. Across the river, about six kilometres south-east, into the forest. Craxi and his wife own a holiday lodge — a place to hide. They put it under her maiden name.’

It’s raining heavily now. As he looks out of the window, Nic can’t see much beyond the edge of the highway. ‘You said they were hiding. What or who are they hiding from?’

Goria looks his way. ‘I hoped you could tell me that.’

‘The Carabinieri?’

‘Possible but unlikely.’ The PI takes a last draw of his cigarette and flicks it through the window slit, a tumbling red firefly crashing and bouncing in the blackness. ‘If I were hiding from the Carabinieri, I would not do it on my own doorstep at a place they could easily trace.’

‘Then I don’t know. Things don’t add up at the moment. But my instinct tells me Craxi is connected to my case and to the Shroud.’

‘The Sacra Sindone has more than its fair share of mysteries. You have learned a little about it?’

‘Only from a fake verger. So I have a trust problem.’

‘Ill seldom comes from trusting strangers too little.’

‘Is that a wise old Italian saying?’

‘My father’s.’

‘And is he wise and old?’

Goria laughs. ‘Not really. He died in his forties of alcoholism, but he left his impressions, like most parents do.’

Nic looks out of the window at the flat fields rushing past. The last of the city lights have gone. The car is picking up speed down a dual carriageway heading into the countryside. ‘Given what you said about Craxi and his service record, is it a good idea to go surprising him in the dead of night?’

‘You are right, even though Craxi is almost sixty, he could snap your neck and bury you in the dirt like a dog does a bone. So we will not be alone and not giving him that opportunity.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Five minutes later the Fiat turns off the Corso Chieri and down a tight, winding road heading to the Strada Communale di Valpiana. Goria kills the headlights as he slows almost to a halt and then eases the car onto a bumpy stone track running off to the right. ‘We stop here and walk.’

Nic unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out in the misty rain and closes the door as quietly as possible.

As they trudge into the woods, the Italian takes out a cell phone and sends a short pre-written SMS to one of his team. A minute later the phone vibrates in his hand. He stops and turns to Nic. ‘Now I make a call. The person who answers will be Roberto Craxi.’

Nic looks surprised.

‘One of my men slipped a phone through a window vent when Craxi went out in his car this evening. When he finds it he will not touch it. Only when he is sure that it is not an explosive, will he pick up.’ Goria makes the call.

As expected it rings out without any answer.

‘The tone is distinctive,’ says the PI, almost mischievously, as he calls again. ‘You know the Pink Panther?’

‘Of course. Henry Mancini — you picked it because he’s an Italian composer?’

‘No.’ The call fails once more and he dials for a third time. ‘No, not Italian — Mancini was American. His family, though, come from Abruzzo, as do Roberto’s.’ Suddenly he pulls the phone from his ear and thrusts it at Nic. ‘It’s him.’

Nic grabs the handset. ‘Mr Craxi, please don’t hang up, I’m—’

The line is already dead.

‘He’s gone.’

‘Keep trying. Press redial.’

Nic tries again and listens to the call connect.

He’s picked up.

‘Mr Craxi, my name is Nic Karakandez.’ He tries to cram in as much as possible to stop him hanging up again. ‘I’m from the LAPD and I have to talk to you.’

This time the line doesn’t go dead. Nic can tell the connection is still live. There’s an eerie silence broken by the crackle of electronic static. ‘I need your help. I have to talk to you about Tamara Jacobs and your relationship with her.’

There is still no answer.

Nic ploughs on. ‘Please. I know you are there. I know you are listening. I’ve come all the way from Los Angeles to talk to you and I’d like to meet with you and ask a few questions.’

Still nothing.

‘Mr Craxi — Signore — will you see me? Can we meet somewhere?’

Just the hiss of cyber-silence.

Nic looks worried. He glances at Goria. ‘I’m not sure he’s there.’

‘Keep the line open,’ says the Italian. ‘We walk down here and in a few minutes you will see his lodge and my men.’

Nic keeps talking as they weave their way through the trees and down a soft, slippy embankment of wet soil and rotted leaves. Through the wood comes the sight of yellow boxes of light. Windows. Goria reaches for his belt and unclips a military-standard walkie-talkie, the type that scrambles signals and allows you to talk to people up to five miles away.

Nic watches as he whispers in Italian. Watches as he repeats the message and waits. Watches as his face gradually changes.

‘There’s something wrong,’ says Goria. ‘Very wrong.’

83

Tyler Carter is either a wizard or an asshole. The Homicide Unit seems divided on the issue. A year-on-year record of turning in the best clean-up rate in the state means the smart money is on him hitting captain within the next few years. What’s beyond doubt is that the thirty-three-year-old is arrogant, introverted and disrespects almost everything and everyone.

Carter comes from banker wealth and can’t help but stand out from the crowd. He was supposed to tread the gold road like his daddy and his granddaddy before him. Only he had other ideas. He wanted a badge and a gun, not a briefcase and diversified share portfolio. Even Daddy and his millions couldn’t stand in the way. Wall Street’s loss turned out to be the LAPD’s gain. Everything is going well. Or at least it was — until eight months ago.

Until the Creeper.

The Creeper is the name of the serial killer he’s hunting, a moniker the cops hope the press never get hold of. To date, the perp has ten kills notched on his bedpost and there isn’t anyone on the task force who would be surprised to find at least another ten down to him.

Mitzi Fallon sits at Carter’s desk learning what she’s let herself in for.

‘The nickname comes from the fact the guy’s never been seen—’

‘Never?’

Carter flashes her a steely look. ‘I don’t like interruptions. If you need clarification, wait and ask at the end.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Let me finish and you won’t need to ask unnecessary questions. The perp has never been seen. He creeps into the homes of women living alone and kills them in their sleep.’

Mitzi’s about to ask how but decides to save it.

‘Always the same MO. He pulls a bed sheet or quilt tight around their arms and legs so they can’t struggle. He kneels on them and chokes them manually.’ Tyler guesses what’s in her mind. ‘Left-handed, always only one hand. ME says there’s evidence in some cases he put his right hand over their mouths.’

Mitzi wonders if the victims bit him, if there was a chance of DNA.

‘We got genetic fingerprints from the first and third victims — first and third we know of, that is. I’ll give you files. First was hair and saliva. Shin hairs and wool sock fluff — caught on the side of the bed when he climbed up on the vic. Third was flesh and blood from a bite when he put his right hand over her mouth. Before you ask, yes, we ran database searches. The guy has no record and the FBI drew blanks as well. I even checked with Canadian police. You can ask questions now.’

She looks across and takes him in — the chiselled, well-shaven face, clear blue eyes, immaculately cut short, dark and grey-free hair, beautiful black suit and crisp white shirt. Perfect. Too perfect. ‘Do you ever laugh, get drunk, jerk off or have any vices?’

‘No.’ His voice is as cold as his eyes.

‘Good. Only I’d hate to think there was anything normal about you.’ She gets up from her seat.

‘Where you going? I’m not finished.’

‘Tampon. I have a particularly heavy period at the moment and I need to change my sanitary product as quickly as possible. I’m using the super-strength version — maximum protection it says on the box — to absorb as much of the menstrual flow as possible for as long as possible. You can ask more when I’m done.’

His perfect jaw drops.

Mitzi turns and smiles pleasantly as she opens the door. ‘I’ll bring us both coffee on the way back. Then maybe we can round off with a summary of exactly what you want me to do and I can tell you exactly how I need to be treated in order for you to get me to do it.’

84

The two men hurry to the bottom of the steep embankment. Nic drops back as Goria jerks the black butt of a gun out of his belt.

In the soft earth and rotting leaves in front of them is the body of a man. Motionless.

Then slowly moving. Alive not dead, but certainly injured. Goria drops to one knee beside the prone figure. He points his gun into the half-light spilling from the lodge twenty metres away. Then he shines a torch into the injured man’s face. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Someone hit me.’ The man’s fingers go to the back of his head. ‘I’m sorry.’ He struggles to his feet and looks dizzy.

The private detective steadies him, gives him time before pressing him for more information on the attack. Nic moves towards the log cabin. He hears a sudden sound. A rustle in the open, over to one side of the building. Like an animal caught in bushes trying to shake free. He steps closer, stands off about five metres.

‘Fabio,’ he whispers.

The Italian looks round and slides away from his injured colleague.

Nic points towards the thick shrub and says, ‘In there.’

Goria takes a breath, swings over his light and gun. The beam picks out a scratched and bleeding face. A human face. A woman’s face.

85

Mitzi puts two mugs of black coffee on Tyler Carter’s desk. ‘I figured you didn’t do cream or sugar.’

‘You figured right.’ He takes the drink nearest him. ‘Matthews said good things about you.’

She takes it as a thawing of the ice. ‘Nice to know. He mention anything about a raise, promotion or early retirement?’

Carter almost smiles. ‘Not that I heard. Jordan’s illness has come at a bad time.’

‘For him or for you?’

‘Both. I’m not as cold as I look. He may be a drunk but he was a better cop than most. Jay gave a hundred per cent effort a hundred per cent of the time. Point is, our killer is due. Overdue for that matter.’

‘You know I’m still working the Tamara Jacobs case?’

‘Matthews said. Out-of-town hit by the sound of it. Help me out on this — really help me out — and I’ll give you men and brains to clear up your file.’

‘Deal.’

Carter reaches behind and grabs two handfuls of manila files. ‘Forensics, psych profiles and crime pattern analysis on the Creeper. Read and digest.’

‘You said he was overdue.’

‘Kill pattern shrank from nine months to six, then to three. Held at twelve weeks for two kills, then we had another last month and one more just twelve days ago.’

‘He’s escalating.’

‘Probably doesn’t know it, probably thinks he’s got everything under control and is feeling at his most powerful.’

‘But he’s not?’

‘You worked a serial before?’

She shakes her head. ‘A double murder, but both killed at the same time. Two serial rapes. One with more than a dozen attacks to the bastard’s name.’

‘Similar and not similar. Rape is usually about power and sexuality, the offender often goes to excess to control — ropes, bindings, verbal threats and there can be signs of rage on the victim’s body. Serial murder can be a host of things. Our perp isn’t sexual and there isn’t rage.’

‘Attacking a woman in her own bed at night isn’t sexual?’

Carter nods at the files he’s just given her. ‘No point to this conversation right now — you’re not properly informed. Read the profiles, then we’ll talk more.’

A knowing smile starts to crease her lips. ‘C’mon, you’re holding back. If you need a hundred per cent effort, you’ve got to give me a hundred per cent information.’

He weighs her up. Seems every bit as smart as Matthews said. ‘Okay, but listen, this isn’t public knowledge. When the Creeper kills his victims he strips them, puts them on the floor and covers them.’

‘With what?’

‘He takes a sheet off the bed. Drapes them head to toe. Tucks it behind the back of the skull and lifts their feet. They look just like they’ve been wrapped in a shroud.’

86

Erica Craxi is still shaking. And with good reason.

Goria leaves the fifty-four-year-old with his colleague Dario, while he talks to Nic. ‘Her husband is not here.’

The American looks worried. ‘The phone call, did I—’

‘No. It wasn’t that. He’d gone before you called. His wife says he heard something and went outside with his gun to investigate. He told her to go out the back door and hide in the woods until he came back.’

Nic nods towards Goria’s colleague. ‘What did Craxi hear, your man moving around?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, not him. Dario heard something too but didn’t want to break cover. He saw Craxi come outside and he went to follow him. Someone cracked him over the head and stuck a sedative in his neck. Now he thinks I will sack him for being useless.’

‘And will you?’

‘Probably, but not tonight. Tonight there is still much work to do.’

‘So where’s Craxi now?’

‘The wife doesn’t know.’

‘And your men — your team — they didn’t see anything?’

‘Doesn’t seem that way.’ Goria falls silent. He’s been outwitted. Made to look foolish. Now the LAPD officer with powerful FBI friends will start questioning his value. ‘Let’s go inside and speak to the signora. Maybe she can help us.’

Nic wonders who answered his call, who was listening to him when he thought Craxi was on the line. Goria uses his walkie-talkie to call the rest of his team out of their surveillance positions. The lodge is small and basic. Bare board walls and scatter rugs are warmed by a wood-burning stove that cradles the last charcoal embers of what an hour ago was a blazing fire. Two sofas covered with thick red blankets face off across a low, junk wood table covered in tabloid magazines and old paperbacks.

Erica Craxi settles in a dent on a sofa and Nic can tell this is her usual place. A lipstick-marked mug of almost-finished coffee on the floor by her feet confirms it. Goria sits next to her. She wraps a blanket protectively around her knees and tries to control the shaking as he talks softly in Italian. Right now she looks much older than her fifty-four years. Grey hair is clumped and matted with soil and shredded leaves. Her eyes are darkened by tears and smudged mascara. Dario appears from the kitchen with a glass of water and a wet hand towel to clean the scratches on her face.

Goria keeps his voice low as he briefs Nic. ‘The signora says Roberto was convinced there were people closing in on them. He thought he saw something moving outside, took his gun and went to look. He told Erica to hide in the woods until he returned because he knew she’d be a sitting duck if anyone entered the lodge. Anyway, after he’d gone she hesitated.’ Goria half-laughs then whispers even more quietly, ‘She wanted to go to the toilet first. While she was in there, she heard a phone ringing. The one we’d dropped through a window. It frightened her, especially when it went for the second time and she heard someone’s footsteps inside the lodge. The phone rang again. She stayed tight and listened to the intruder walking with it through to where we are now. That’s when she made a break for the woods and when we arrived.’

‘So we just missed whoever was here?’

‘Sounds like it.’

Nic turns his attention to the wife of the man he’s tracked thousands of miles. ‘Signora, I came here to speak to your husband about a Hollywood writer called Tamara Jacobs — do you know who I mean?’

She doesn’t speak, just looks at him with frightened eyes and nods. It’s a small gesture, but Nic feels a wave of relief wash over him. ‘Mrs Jacobs is dead,’ he says. ‘She was murdered.’

Erica Craxi holds a tissue to her nose. Her trembling fingers close around the Saint Christopher locket hanging from her neck.

‘Your husband Roberto received a series of substantial wire payments from Mrs Jacobs. Do you know what she was paying him for?

Erica dips her eyes. ‘I know exactly what he was being paid for.’

Nic’s heart thumps. ‘What was it?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not with these people here. Ask them to leave and I will tell you.’

Nic nods to Goria and the Italian ushers his men outside. Erica takes a deep breath and looks trustingly to the American. ‘My husband was on special assignment, part of a detail to protect the Holy Shroud, when it was last exhibited in public.’

‘Back in 2010?’

‘Si.’ She needs a beat to compose herself. ‘Roberto was persuaded by a scientist he knows …’ She gives a sad laugh. ‘… A so-called friend, to scrape blood and fibre from the cloth.’ She hangs her head in shame. ‘He did this — he damaged the cloth and passed on samples to be tested.’

Nic waits until she looks up and faces him. ‘I need to know who that scientist is, Signora — why he wanted to test the Shroud and what he did with the results.’

Her face crumples. ‘I am afraid.’ She reaches behind her neck and unclips the chain holding the locket. She puts it to her mouth, closes her eyes and begins to pray.

87

JJ isn’t surprised to find Jenny Harrison hanging around the factory floor after the rest of the mob have headed out into the Friday night blackness to begin their weekends.

She walks between the machines and gives him a hopeful look. ‘Did you manage to find out anything about Kim?’

His face says he hasn’t. ‘It was like you said, Jenny. No one in the station has any record of her being arrested.’

She bites nervously on a fingernail. ‘Who did you talk to?’

The question throws him. He hasn’t talked to anyone and has no intention of doing so. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember their names. There was the woman who answered the phone, someone in custody and then someone else in the investigations unit. They’re not very friendly or helpful, are they?’

She huffs out a sarcastic laugh. ‘No cops ever are. Did you call East First Street? Was it an Officer Reed?’

‘Might have been. I didn’t make a note of his name. Didn’t want to ask too much in case I got your friend into trouble.’

The comment silences her. Kim Bass has piles of trouble stacked in every corner of her life. She sure doesn’t need anyone like Fish Face tipping them over by asking the wrong questions to the wrong people. Harrison slings her bag over her shoulder and zips her jacket. ‘Thanks.’

He watches her head to the door. She’s going to cause problems. He knows it. It’s what women like her do. ‘Jenny, wait.’

She turns around.

‘I’ll make some more calls tonight. Give me your cell number. If I can find anything out, I’ll call you.’

She hesitates. ‘Like you say, maybe it’s best not to dig around too much.’

‘Okay, but give me your number in case anyone calls me back and says she’s in a lock-up somewhere.’

She swings her bag round, finds a pen and scrawls the number on the end of a cigarette pack. ‘Call me at any time. I don’t care how late.’

‘I will.’ He almost leaves it at that, then remembers it’s not how he should act. ‘Take my number too. Let me know if you hear anything.’ He reaches into his back pocket and produces a business card.

‘Thanks.’ She looks at it, then wanders off again.

This time he lets her go. God has helped him. Having her phone number is a blessed surprise. If he rings it when he’s inside that big old house of hers, he’ll know exactly where she is. One call — that’s all it will take to stop Jenny Harrison being a problem.

88

Roberto Craxi is feeling all of his fifty-nine years and it’s annoying the hell out of him. He’s gathering his thoughts as he regains consciousness, piecing together how he’s been attacked and so easily beaten.

There was a time when no man was his match. In his prime, he could outsmart, outmanoeuvre or outmuscle the biggest, quickest and most savage of opponents. But things have changed. The metal garrotte someone pulled tight around his neck had been a sure sign those days are over. He never even saw his enemy.

Right from the start he suspected the sounds outside the cabin were a trap — but what choice did he have? Sit there in the dark with his guns cocked hoping his wife didn’t get caught in the crossfire? No chance. And what fears had the night held for Roberto? None. Darkness was his friend, an old companion with whom he’d shared long battles and much bloodshed. It was in the darkness where he felt most alive.

Until tonight. Until he met his match.

The man holding him captive had known exactly what he’d do. How he’d slip out low and silent from the cabin and circle it clockwise — unhurried, meticulously, ensuring his wife was safe before disappearing into the undergrowth parallel to the main approach.

At first he thought he’d just brushed against a hanging branch, at worst a wild, straggling rose growing in the thicket. Then it had snapped around his neck. As soon as the high-tensile wire gripped his windpipe he realised he was in trouble. One swift pull and he was dead.

‘Don’t move and I let you live.’

He’ll never forget the man’s first words. It’s what he would have said. What he has said, more than a dozen times. A clear, professional instruction from someone who is already in control and knows it.

But of course Roberto had moved. He’d tried to grab his attacker but the garrotte was unlike any he’d ever known. Instead of the wire being tethered to two small wooden handles, it was more like a lasso attached to the end of a long metal rod. Roberto couldn’t even get near his attacker, let alone fight him off.

The man in the shadows had simply held tight at the other end, hauled him choking to the floor and jammed a sedative in his neck.

The painful memory of the attack races through Roberto’s mind as he lies on his side in a small, black, cramped space. He doesn’t know where his enemy is, but he’s damned sure he knows what he wants and what he’s prepared to do to get it.

89

JJ understands what he has to do the minute he opens his front door. The smell of the decomposing corpse can’t be allowed to get any worse. It’s going to attract attention.

He doesn’t even take his coat off and hang it on the round post at the foot of the stairs like he normally does. He goes straight to the bedroom. The smell up here is stomach-churning. JJ has created death. Seen death. Handled death. But he’s never smelled death. Not the brutal rotting stench that only death can bring.

He steps gingerly across the floor and covers his mouth as he gets close to the white linen sheet in which he’s wrapped his precious Em. A part of him aches to look at her but he’s frightened of what he might see. Best perhaps to remember her as she was that first night when he brought her home.

He sits on the edge of the bed and considers what to do and how to do it. Her home is overlooked. Even with the keys from her purse, returning her to the house is going to be risky. But she’s worth it. She deserves it. She must be put to rest.

90

Erica Craxi tells Nic everything she knows about Tamara Jacobs, why the payments were made to her husband and who he was working with.

The revelation shocks him. He goes over the details several times. It’s the kind of information you have to double-check. You do everything you can to make sure you’re not going to make a dreadful mistake. Finally, after repeated assurances, she agrees to allow Goria in the room so Nic can make sure he has not misunderstood anything.

He hasn’t. By the time she’s done she feels exhausted and anxious — very, very anxious. ‘What will happen to me now?’

Nic watches her bite on a nail as she waits for his reply. He looks towards Goria and the Italian’s eyes give him the answer he’s looking for. ‘We can protect you. We being the LAPD, along with this man’s men. I told you I trust him, and I do. We will make sure you are kept safe.’

‘No Carabinieri.’ She looks frightened.

‘No — no Carabinieri. I promise. Fabio and his team will keep you safe until we find your husband.’

The PI crouches, takes her hand and says something in Italian that makes her smile briefly. She glances down at her cell phone then at Nic. ‘Can I call Roberto again?’

‘Of course.’

He watches as she speed-dials her husband and nervously paces the room while her call goes unanswered. She dials again. Nic knows the chances of Craxi returning safely have all but disappeared. His wife of twenty years closes the phone and walks to Nic. Tears are rolling down her cheeks as she takes both his hands and looks into his eyes. ‘Please find him — don’t let Roberto die.’

He squeezes her hand. ‘We’ll do our best.’

She puts something in the palm of his left hand and whispers, ‘It is Saint Christopher, the patron saint of all travellers. May he guide you to my husband and all that you’ve come for.’

91

Ephrem works quickly. Methodically. He knows his task is far from complete. Under the pale moonlight and falling temperature he busies himself hiding the car he moved his captive in. He’s covering his tracks. Laying traps for anyone who might be on his trail.

The untraceable cell phone in his pocket vibrates. ‘Hello.’

‘Do you have him? Is he still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Molto buono. You have served the Lord well. You know what to do — what is expected of you?’

‘I am in no doubt.’

‘Good. The Americans have sent a lieutenant from the Los Angeles police force to find Craxi. He is called Karakandez. When this call is finished I will send you a photograph and details about him. Be careful. He is very experienced and determined.’

‘The man will not be a problem.’

‘Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him. He is from Homicide and has crossed continents to be here. He will not want to go home without a result.’

‘Is that all?’

‘It is.’

The monk finishes the call and waits patiently for an image to materialise on the screen of the phone.

Moments later, the face of Lt. Nic Karakandez appears. Ephrem takes a long look at it. It is the face of the man who called the cell phone in Craxi’s lodge — the face of his enemy. He closes his eyes and imagines the man in front of him. Visualises what must be done to complete his mission. He takes one final look at the detective’s eyes — the window to his soul — then he deletes the photograph.

Ephrem will meet Nic Karakandez, he is sure of it — and God will guide his hands as he kills him.

92

Amy Chang sits in her office chair, herbal tea in hand and listens to the very English voice of Professor Alexander Hasting-Smith on the other end of the line. She tries to picture him. Maybe public-schoolboy neat and tidy like the British Prime Minister or perhaps crazily hairy like that big bearded bishop who married Kate and William?

Professor Alex is nothing like either. He’s late forties and barely five-nine, lives in baggy shirts and corduroy trousers and despite being an expert in anatomy and biology, is only a fried breakfast away from being clinically obese and a year or two away from being bald.

‘Dear lady,’ he says, stretching out the lay-dee. ‘The comparable tests I undertook were exhaustive. I can categorically assure you the marks on the Shroud are not only consistent with having covered a man who suffered the ignominious end of crucifixion but are also identical to those endured by the body of Jesus Christ.’

What do you mean?’

‘Well, take the iconic spear wound. The cloth shows blood staining in alignment with a wound in between the right fifth and sixth ribs. The lower and inner part of this wound is approximately two-fifths of an inch below the tip of the sternum and about two and a half inches below the midline. Entirely consistent with the hole made by the spear that the Roman soldier plunged into Christ. The staining on the Shroud is also corroborative in that it contains clear fluids as well as blood.’

‘I didn’t see any fluid markings.’

‘You won’t have done. Not unless you inspected the cloth itself. But it is there. I assure you.’

It’s been a long day and she takes the point without rancour. ‘And the fluid flow?’

‘Down across the body. Consistent with the wound from the spear being made on a person in the upright — crucified — position.’

She puts her tea on a desk coaster and opens a folder on her Mac containing the high-definition Shroud photographs. ‘Forgive my ignorance but exactly what tests did you do, Professor?’

‘Goodness. What tests didn’t I do? Are you aware of Pierre Barbet’s work in this field?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ She suddenly feels out of her depth. ‘Until very recently I hadn’t even seen pictures of the Shroud. This really isn’t my normal area of interest.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He sounds disappointed. ‘Then why was I called and asked to contact you by the FBI?’

‘Dr Quentell thought your knowledge about the Shroud could help with an ongoing investigation here in Los Angeles.’

‘Ah, very well — then I’m happy to elucidate.’ A little energy seems to return to his voice. ‘Barbet was a French surgeon interested in the Shroud and had the good fortune to examine it in pure daylight. I’m going back to the 1930s now. Thirty-three, I think. Anyway, being a surgeon he had access to cadavers and amputated limbs, so he reconstructed the crucifixion of Christ. He nailed a dead body to a giant wooden cross and found the marks on the corpse perfectly fitted those found on the Shroud.’

‘And you did the same?’

‘Yes. I wish to be unambiguous about that.’

‘Could you talk me through exactly what you did — and what you found?’

‘With the greatest of pleasure. Some of it was debunking filmic myths. In Hollywood crucifixions you see nails hammered through the palms of hands. A completely inadequate way of holding a man upright. The movement and weight of his sagging body would soon tear the flesh. That certainly wasn’t the method employed in the case of the Shroud.’

‘It wasn’t?’

‘Not at all. Barbet discerned that the suspension nails had been driven through Destot’s Space.’

Amy knows he means the gap in the wrist bounded by the hamate, capitate, triquetral and lunate bones. ‘I can see that could certainly be strong enough.’

‘It is. I assure you.’ He sounds almost offended. ‘If you look at the Shroud, you’ll notice that the thumbs are not visible. Can you see that, do you have a photograph to inspect?’

Amy enlarges the shot she has onscreen. ‘Yes, yes I have one onscreen.’

‘Good. Well, as a pathologist, you’ll know that a nail driven through Destot’s Space would damage the Median nerve and that would almost always result in the thumbs turning inwards.’

Amy glances at the photograph and it seems to comply. ‘What about stigmata marks — they’re always in the palms of hands, aren’t they? I’ve never seen religious paintings of people showing their wrists bleeding.’

‘Not a question for me, Doctor, I am not a theologian, I am a scientist. Though I do believe stigmata take various forms and are not confined only to Catholicism.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Indeed. You’ll find evidence of stigmata in Buddhism and even in polytheistic religions, particularly ones with tutelary deities.’

‘Professor, I’ll have to take your word for it.’ Her eyes go to the HD prints again. ‘I’m looking at the feet and I can’t see any images indicating how they were nailed to the cross.’

‘An excellent observation. You can’t see any because it’s very blurred. There is a possibility, a thin one I believe, that the nails were inserted between the metatarsal bones.’

‘Would that have been sufficient to hold a grown man?’

He becomes animated again. ‘I think not, which is why I pinned my cadaver through the ankles. Entirely adequate. Again, if you examine any good stills, you will see dark patches indicating a spillage of blood around the ankle regions.’

Amy’s not sure she can discern such detail but she doesn’t want to debate the matter. ‘Professor, is it possible for you to mail me a summary of your findings?’

‘Certainly, Quentell gave me your details.’

‘Thank you. One thing, though, before you go — I’ve been wondering about blood spillage and decomposition. Hours after death, wounds don’t bleed enough to transfer perfect outlines of their shapes onto cloth. A body kept in the open air for days will putrefy and there will be signs of loss of body fluids and matters. The Shroud shows no evidence of that. How can you explain it?’

‘Easily,’ he says. ‘It’s a miracle.’

93

It’s 2.30 a.m. Saturday when Nic and Fabio Goria have settled Erica Craxi in a safe house guarded by the investigator’s men. As they leave, rain beats hard on the windshield of Goria’s speeding Fiat — too hard for the worn wipers to make clean sweeps of the heavy downpour.

The lateness of the hour, the warmth of the car and the rhythm of the rain are testing the detective’s ability to stay awake. Boy, does he need some shut-eye. He drifts off as he listens to the repetitive rasp of the tyres on the wet road and the rain hitting the windows. He’s miles away. Out on the open sea, his old boat cutting white water as it picks up speed towards the sun shimmering on the horizon. He turns towards the laughing voices on the back of the boat. Carolina and Max are there in red life-jackets, wind in their hair, the joy of life all over their wonderful faces.

Nic wakes. His heart is hammering with the pain of remembering them. He winds down the window and lets the cold air and beating rain pound his face. Not long now. Not long until late nights and murder cases like this are problems for other people. Gradually, familiar city centre sights smear themselves across the rain-streaked window. Goria kills the engine and headlights as he draws up to the kerb around the corner from Nic’s hotel. ‘Here you are. Now you can have a proper sleep.’

He yawns as he unbuckles his seat belt. ‘Thanks, I certainly need it. Given the circumstances, Fabio, you and your guys did okay tonight. Erica Craxi certainly gave us plenty to follow up on.’

‘Grazie. I will come for you at eight. I’m sorry we lost her husband. My men will find him, I promise you.’

‘I hope so — for his sake and hers.’

Goria grabs Nic’s arm as he reaches for the door handle. ‘Be careful. The Carabinieri may be watching your hotel. They could have night sights on you from a kilometre away and we would not know. I will stay here until you get inside and have settled. If they are around, they will move closer and I will see. It is better we are safe than sorry.’

Nic steps from the car, nods goodnight and turns up his jacket collar against the rain. Save for the cars parked at odd angles all over the place, the streets are deserted. The neighbourhood’s shops and bars are filled only with blackness.

He shakes off the downpour as he heads past reception and rides the lift to his room.

He freshens up in the bathroom and notices his toothbrush and razor have been placed neatly in a glass on a shelf by the sink. The maid must have been in. It’s the kind of thing he’d expect in a four-star hotel but not this dive. He turns off the light and walks back to the main room. There’s something different, maybe something wrong. He can sense it, in the same way he senses clues at a crime scene.

The bed has been turned back for the first time since he checked in. And it’s not been done in the professional, neat way a maid does. It’s been done by someone wanting to make it look like a maid’s done it. Someone poking around.

There’s been a stranger in his room.

94

Amy Chang had been hoping to go home early — end her Friday night by cooking a light dinner and sinking a glass of crisp white or two, maybe even put her feet up on the couch, play a little soft music and forget a week’s worth of cold flesh and sterile steel.

But it’s not to be. What’s pinning her to her office chair is the Shroud of Turin. Alexander Hasting-Smith’s call and the subsequent reports he mailed have left her head buzzing so she may as well try to finish the report she promised Mitzi. Amy spends a good hour trawling the internet, pulling up pages, searching through dedicated Shroud websites, diving deep into religious discussion groups and social network blogs. She discovers Shroud universities, multiple Shroud shops and dozens of different video streams dealing with not only the carbon dating of the Shroud but also 3D renderings of its image, microscopic analysis and digital enhancements. Along with all the pictures come countless conflicting opinions about the cloth’s authenticity.

Around 6 p.m. her tummy grumbles a reminder that all she had for lunch was coffee and a salmon bagel. The ME sits back from her Mac, twists her head from side to side to ease the tension from being hunched and reviews the notes she’s made.

Amy decides to take a break. She goes to the washroom then brews a fresh cup of herbal tea and raids her small office fridge for one of the emergency Hershey bars she keeps there.

Back at her computer she taps the space bar to click off the screensaver. Nothing happens. The machine has locked up. She tries ESCAPE and then reluctantly reboots, sipping the tea and eating a square of milk chocolate while the machine gets up to speed.

Her document has gone. She searches the file folder. Searches the cute little wire trash basket at the end of the shiny steel dock bar. Nothing. She’s lost everything.

‘No, no, no. This can’t be.’ Amy tries to stay calm. The Mac backs things up every couple of minutes. All her work will be somewhere.

It isn’t. She searches every conceivable storage space, then searches it again. An hour later she fearfully opens her mailbox. Empty. Some kind of virus has penetrated the firewall and destroyed every document, image, file and presentation on the computer.

95

Nic takes a long, slow look around his hotel room.

He knows he’s exhausted and knows tired people often don’t think straight but he’s sure someone’s been in here snooping around. He opens the wardrobe and stares at the shirts and a sweater dangling from plastic coat-hangers. Are they really as he left them when he’d unpacked?

He doesn’t think so. They’re strung out across the silver hanging rail. Spaced almost evenly. Neat and tidy. Not at all his style. He has a longstanding habit of hanging things only on the left side of the bar. It’s what he always does. Carolina used to hang her stuff on the right and even today he still leaves space. He can’t help it. He certainly didn’t leave them like this.

He lifts out the suitcase from the shallow well at the bottom of the wardrobe and drops it on the bed. The combination is 8634 — the same as his credit card pin. He always spins the numbers to 7523 to lock it — one digit back on each reel. He remembers the numbers precisely because in his mind he has a permanent picture of a clock in heaven (rhymes with 7) that’s stuck at five (5) to (2) three (3) — the time his wife and child died and went to heaven.

The numbers don’t read that any more. They read 1870. Someone has either opened the case and spun the locks randomly or tried to open it. He enters the combination and flips the locks. The inside is a mess. A gym kit and trainers he’ll never get round to using, enough socks and underwear to dress an army, a camera that needs new batteries and copies of all the case papers he could carry.

He sits on the bed and lifts out the documents. There are so many he can’t remember the order of the files stacked in there. He shuts his eyes and tries to recall what he last looked at. Craxi’s bank accounts. Carlotta had shown him the final withdrawal when they were in the bank together. He’d closed the file with that page facing up at him.

He opens the document folder. It’s as he left it. Despite the reassurance he doesn’t feel satisfied. Maybe he’s imagining things. Tiredness and stress can make you edgy — even paranoid. He needs a long, deep sleep. Another thing occurs to him. He flicks quickly down the stack of files and finds the crime-scene photographs showing Tamara Jacobs’s body on the beach. He stares at the bundle not sure whether he feels relieved or not.

They’re there. They’re not missing. But they are back-to-front.

He’d arranged them in the order a psychological profiler does — pictures that set the scene first and then shots of the victim.

But that’s not how they are. They’re now in reverse order. He’d never do that. He’s as messy as a teenager when it comes to leaving clothes and crockery around the house, but not work things, never professional stuff. Someone has been through all the photographs. But who? The Carabinieri? That doesn’t make sense. He would gladly have shown them the photos if they’d asked. Until a few hours ago, until meeting Goria and talking to Erica Craxi, he’d have shared anything and everything with them.

If not the Carabinieri, then who? Tamara’s killer? He looks down at the crime-scene prints. Is it really possible that the man who tortured her to death had held these photographs? Had admired his own handiwork in this very room? Nic looks around the room and finds a pad of complimentary paper and a couple of envelopes bearing the crest of the hotel. He slips the photographs inside one of the envelopes and seals it. It’s highly unlikely the murderer left his prints behind but even hitmen make mistakes.

As he seals the envelope he thinks of the killer being in his room — being in the lodge and listening when he’d called Craxi on Goria’s cell phone. The man comes and goes like a ghost. A tingle lifts hairs on the back of Nic’s neck as he realises the killer knows more about him than he does about the killer.

96

Barney, the emergency IT guy, finishes examining the Mac and gives Amy an expression that says he’s almost at the end of his shift and she’s screwed.

‘I’m sorry, I just can’t fix this.’ The bespectacled geek repositions a fall of shoulder-length black hair behind his blue denim shirt. ‘We’re going to have to take your machine away, hook it up and run diagnostics.’

She doesn’t like the sound of that. IT is a graveyard. Few loved machines come back from there alive. ‘What about my files? They’ll be backed up on the server, won’t they?’

‘Should be. You might have lost stuff you’ve been working on today. We did the last dump around midnight last night.’

‘Shit.’

‘That’s the way it goes. I keep telling the Chief that he should give you guys portable back-ups. It’s the only way to stay safe.’

Amy shakes her head. ‘So how long? How long do you think it’ll take to get me fixed?’

He looks at his watch. ‘I should have been gone an hour ago. I’m afraid your Mac won’t even get seen until Monday now.’

‘Monday. That’s a lifetime away.’

‘Sorry. Overtime was cut for us as well as everyone else.’ He peers at the computer as though it just whispered to him. ‘Hold on. Let me just take a look at something.’

Barney settles in her chair, pounds keys and exposes parts of Amy’s computer that she didn’t even know existed. Administrator’s privileges. Something akin to a surgical examination of her Mac’s innermost and most private parts.

‘Whoa. I don’t believe this.’

‘You can fix it?’ Amy bends close to the screen.

‘No way.’ He sits back and folds his arms, staring at a mass of codes with apparent admiration. ‘It’s a zombie.’

‘A what?’

‘Some smart ass has infiltrated the firewall, downloaded everything from your computer and has been using it remotely.’ He reaches round the back and snaps out the cable. ‘Best get this quarantined and cleansed ASAP.’

Amy feels violated.

‘Our guy will know we’re on to him.’ Barney is as excited as a kid playing cops and robbers. ‘He’ll have dropped worms or Trojans in your system too. They’ll have destroyed most of your programs and you’ve probably been passing on infections as well.’ He lifts the Mac off her desk. ‘You should go home, Dr Chang. You’re not going to see this baby Monday, or ever again. We’ll order you a new computer.’

97

BEL–LA-PIZZA is a new restaurant around the corner from Mitzi’s place. It’s the latest in a long line in LA to badly word pun the connection between bella and LA.

She and the girls are there for several reasons. First, she has nothing in at home. Second, it’s a place they’ve never been to before — in other words they’ve never been with Alfie. Most important, though, it has a half-price and free glass of wine offer until the end of the month.

A breadstick-thin teenage waitress with long black hair stands at the edge of the table as Mitzi orders. ‘Two diet cokes and one glass of house red. One garlic bread. One Minestrone soup. One battered mushrooms. For mains, one medium-sized, thin-crust Neptune, no anchovies. One large stuffed-crust, Pepperoni with a cracked egg. And — ‘ Mitzi glances again at the card to decide what she’s having, ‘ — one small lasagne with a chopped green salad, no fries and nothing else.’ As she watches the girl frantically catch up on her notepad she realises she’s turning into Tyler Carter. No courtesy, just facts. ‘Thanks,’ she adds, hastily, as the waitress heads for the kitchen. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Bad news is always best broken first and broken quickly. As soon as Jade and Amber have their drinks, Mitzi gives it to them. ‘Your father’s case came up in court today. They sent him to prison. Thirty days.’ She curses herself, again she sounds like Carter.

Amber drops the Coke straw from her lips. ‘Daddy’s in jail?’

‘Right now? Already?’ Jade looks more annoyed than shocked.

Mitzi reaches across and takes both their hands. ‘Yes. He started his sentence this afternoon.’

Jade snatches her hand away. ‘Oh God. Poor Daddy.’

Poor Daddy? Mitzi has to bite her tongue.

Amber says nothing. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch her drink. Just disappears into private thoughts that her mom can only guess are horribly painful.

‘So what’s all this, then?’ Jade throws her arms wide, her face reddening with anger. ‘Have you brought us here to celebrate?’

‘No.’ Mitzi is firm but calm. ‘I’ve brought you out to be with you. To show you that life goes on.’

‘Not for Dad, though.’ Jade gets up and throws her napkin at the table. ‘I’m not doing this. I’m not sitting here in a restaurant while my father’s in prison, probably with nothing to eat or drink.’

Mitzi stands up opposite her. ‘Yes, you are. Sit down.’

Tables fall silent around them.

Jade glares at her mother. ‘I’m leaving. I’m going home and you’re not stopping me.’

‘Yes, I am. Now sit down.’ Mitzi says it in a tone that never gets disobeyed.

Jade stares defiantly then starts to move towards the door. ‘What are you going to do? Beat me up? Call your cop friends? Have me locked up as well as my dad?’

Mitzi needs all her willpower not to slap the child, not to shake her and tell her to grow up.

‘Go on!’ Amber pulls up right in front of her. ‘I know you want to hit me.’ She sticks her face out. ‘Do it, if that’s what makes you feel better.’

A small middle-aged man in a black suit turns up in the gap between the tables. Behind him is the breadstick waitress with their coats. ‘I am sorry, you have to leave.’ He looks nervously at Mitzi and then motions with both hands to the door like he’s shooing an unspeakably dirty animal. ‘You go now, please. You go now.’

She doesn’t put up a fight. She grabs their coats. He’s doing her a favour. The stand-off is over. Even though they’re being thrown out, they’re still all together.

98

Nic turns off the bedroom light and eases back an inch of curtain. He stands at the window looking at the wet, empty street as he calls Goria. ‘My room’s been turned over.’

‘What?’

‘Someone’s searched it. They haven’t taken anything but I know they’ve been through case files, maybe even photographed stuff.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘I am still around the corner. Check out. You can stay at my place. We have to move quickly tomorrow anyway.’

Nic leaves the curtain and starts gathering his things. ‘Good idea. I’ll be down in a moment.’

It takes him ten minutes to pack and head downstairs. While paying the bill he thinks about asking who cleaned his room and could have messed with his personal belongings but decides against it. From the look of the half-asleep reception clerk he’d be unlikely to get a helpful answer.

Nic slips into what remains of the cold rainy night and scans the street for watching eyes as he turns the corner to find Goria’s Bravo. To the best of his knowledge no one has seen him leave.

‘This is like a day that never ends,’ says the Italian as the detective settles into the passenger seat.

‘I’ve had too many of those recently. Thanks again for your help.’

‘Not a problem.’ He starts the engine and pulls away.

‘Listen, I need to call my boss. You mind?’

‘Go right ahead.’

Nic dials the number. It takes a few seconds to connect, then he hears it ringing.

‘Yes.’

The bluntness of the answer shocks him. It’s almost like it’s not her and he’s got a wrong number.

‘Mitzi, it’s Nic.’

‘Hi Nic. I’m sorry this isn’t a good time.’

He can tell that from her tone. She’s in a car going somewhere — there’s the noise of traffic and of one of the girls shouting at her and another crying. ‘Mitz, I can hardly hear you. Call me back when you can. There are some strange things happening and I need to bring you up to speed.’ The line goes dead and he closes down his phone. ‘Seems like my boss is having a tough time too.’

‘Tough times sometimes they make for good memories,’ says Goria, swerving to avoid a pothole. ‘For me, the happiest time of my marriage was when our lives were tough and we had nothing. My wife and I just ate soup and went to bed to stay warm and make love.’ He turns and smiles at Nic. ‘You know what I mean?’

‘Yeah. I know what you mean.’

They head north-west across the city to Venaria Reale, a quiet area not far from the sprawling grounds of the Strada Militare Carlo Grassi. Goria’s place is a small new house protected by its own iron gates and high metal fence. He thumbs an electronic zapper. The gates open and a roller door slides up and reveals a long garage.

Nic can’t help but look over his shoulder as they exit the narrow street. He sees a flash of passing headlights but no following cars.

‘We are safe here. Do not worry any more tonight.’ Goria turns off the car engine and steps out into the garage. ‘I have security cameras and a full perimeter alarm around the house. All necessary precautions in my line of work.’ He goes to a metal box set in the cinderblock wall and presses several buttons. ‘It is armed now for the night, nothing can get in without it being triggered.’

‘Talking of arms,’ Nic follows him through a door into a cool, dark kitchen. ‘Do you have a piece you can give me?’

‘Of course. But you did not get it from me.’ Overhead neons flicker on. He opens a large steel larder fridge, dips into the coolbox and turns around with a bottle in one hand and a gun in the other. ‘Beer and a Beretta — how’s that for service?’

‘Perfect.’ Nic’s phone rings in his pocket.

Goria places the pistol and Peroni on a worktop and goes for his own beer.

Caller display says it’s Mitzi. ‘Hello.’

‘Hi, Nic. Sorry about earlier. Hey, what time is it there?’

He glances at his wrist. ‘Four a.m.’

‘Gee, I’m sorry. This too late?’

‘I don’t even know what late is any more.’ He manages a tired laugh as he picks up the beer. ‘I’m just about to have a drink then crash.’

There’s a pause then her voice changes. ‘Alfie beat up on me again and I got him busted.’

‘What?’

‘He started slapping me about and coming the big I am. Then it all turned nasty and I called it in.’

‘Are you okay? Did that bastard hurt you?’

She’s touched to hear the anger in his voice. ‘Not so much physically.’

‘And the girls?’

‘They’re in bits. That’s why I couldn’t talk.’

Nic puts the bottle down. ‘Listen, screw this damned job, if you need me to come back, I can be on the next plane to LA.’

She laughs. ‘No way, cowboy. You finish this job.’

‘Seriously—’

‘No. I’m fine. Besides, Amy’s looking after me.’

‘Good.’

‘She asked about you.’

‘Yeah, sure she did. What’s happening with Alfie?’

‘They already put him through court. Thirty days in the Big House.’

‘And then?’

‘I’m not thinking of having him back, if that’s what you mean.’

‘That was exactly what I meant.’

‘Lesson learned.’

‘Glad to hear it. If I can help — in any way — let me know.’

‘Thanks. I will. You can help right now by closing this freakin’ case.’

‘Wish I could. I just moved out the hotel. Someone turned it over while I was chasing down Craxi.’

‘You sure?’

‘Absolutely. Dave Burge from the FBI fixed a PI to help me chase down some leads. Good guy by the name of Fabio Goria.’

‘I told you there was no money for that, Nic.’

‘None spent. It’s a favour. Burge owed me one. Owed me several actually.’

‘Good. And Craxi?’

‘Found him and lost him. It’s a long story. Anyway, I’m about to go AWOL on the Carabinieri.’

‘Fine by me. I’m gonna hang up now, let you get a little sleep.’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow — I mean later today.’

‘Great. Stay in touch.’

‘Oh, Mitz?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m glad you got that bum busted. You’re a great cop, great mom and great lady. I hope this is the first step towards you having the great life you and the girls deserve.’

‘Thanks.’ She hangs up quick. Doesn’t want him to hear her get emotional.

99

In the damp, fetid darkness Roberto Craxi thanks God for small mercies.

He’s alive. And he knows he so easily could be dead.

His hands and feet are untied and he isn’t gagged. Whoever is holding him is doing so in a secluded place, somewhere they’re sure any shouts for help will go unheard. Somewhere out of the city.

Craxi rubs his wrists. He can feel a ridge on his skin where the rope was pulled tight. He reaches down and feels his ankles. The same is true down there. Whoever attacked him came prepared to tie him up. If it was a lone attacker, the guy was also strong enough to carry him unconscious to a vehicle and move him around. It’s a worrying thought. He would rather not think of a single enemy with such power.

He wipes a hand across and around his mouth. It’s sticky. Adhesive residue. A sign that tape has been plastered across his lips. Another sign that his foe is professional and well prepared for any eventuality. Finally, he touches his windpipe. The pain here is intense. He can feel a ridge where the wire sliced into his throat. The man choking him had known exactly how hard to pull. He understood how to control life and death. He was a man like him.

The place he’s being held is pitch black — not a single speck of light. It’s cold too. Craxi puts his palms flat on the floor where he’s sitting. It’s hard and smooth. Some form of polished stone, not earth. He knows better than to try to stand up — there’s every chance he could knock himself out or fall off some unseen ledge.

He raises his hands above his head. Or at least he tries to. Sat down he has about a foot of space above him. He runs his fingers over the ceiling. It feels like the floor — cold and smooth. Stone. His heart thumps out an objection. Craxi puts his hands to his sides. There’s not much room there either. Maybe a foot on one side and perhaps a little more on the other. The surfaces are also stone.

Cautiously, he lowers himself into a lying position. A shade less than six feet, his head and toes don’t touch any walls. He reaches up behind him and scrapes his fingers — stone. Barely six inches away. He shuffles forward. His feet quickly reach a hard stop. More stone. So now he knows. He’s being held in an airless seven-foot-by-four-foot stone block. Or, to use a more familiar description, a tomb.

100

By day the neighbourhood is a suburban boiling pot. People of all hues go about their business. Cars stick bumper-to-bumper. Noise rises like steam above the suburb. Right now it’s a ghost town. Dark and deserted. Silent and spectral.

It’s just the way JJ likes it. He scans for house lights and surveillance cameras as he walks slowly past the clapboard buildings that run the length of Emma Varley’s street. The place she used to live. It’s 3 a.m. and there’s nothing to disturb him. No reason why he can’t go return his queen to her domestic throne. Just one more circle around the block and then he’ll do it.

He winds his way back up West 169th, swings open the front gate and crosses the worn grass to her front door. JJ stops on the doorstep. Turns. Takes a final look at the street then pulls out the ring of keys he took from her purse. Satisfied he’s unwatched, he tries several. The last, a square-headed brass one, does the trick.

The place is filled with the essences of Em. Her perfumes, soaps and talcs. Her hair sprays, washing powders and fabrics. He stands in the dark and inhales them all. It is like she is here with him. The rental is small — just two downstairs rooms — a sitting area and cramped kitchen-diner. Upstairs there’s an adequate enough bedroom, a much smaller spare room that has no furniture in it and a tiny bathroom with a sink that’s coming loose from the wall. He picks up her toothbrush from a cracked glass shelf and runs a hand over the worn bristles. He closes his eyes and puts it to his lips, glides it into his mouth and over his tongue. The taste of her makes him tremble.

JJ lingers in every room. He takes her carefully ironed and packed clothes from a rickety chest of drawers and smells and holds them. He opens the tiny one-door wardrobe and embraces the only two dresses that she owned — one short and black, one long, flowing and hippy-like.

He lies on her unmade bed, his face in the same pillow crease she made during her last night under the covers. How he wishes he’d come here earlier, spent longer among her things, got to know her even better. Painful as it is, he drags himself away from the sensual reminiscences, leaves the house and returns to the Explorer.

He drives slowly and kills the lights fifty yards from Em’s place. Ten yards away he turns off the engine and lets the big old bus glide to the kerb. With darkness pressed to breath-misted glass he sits patiently and watches the street and surrounding houses. He winds down the window and listens for approaching traffic or people.

Nothing. This is the dead of night.

JJ makes his move. Quickly. Smartly. Confidently. He opens the driver’s door then the rear door. He grabs Em under the arms and hauls her out of the vehicle. ‘Sorry,’ he whispers as her feet thud down onto the asphalt. He shuffles backwards and drags her through the gate he left open, up the doorstep and into the house.

JJ lays her out on the hall floor. He walks calmly back to the Explorer and shuts the doors. He knows he can’t delay now. Can’t spend the time he’d like with her. He quickly returns to the house, shuts the door behind him and crouches down to get a good lifting grip of her. The stench of decomposition is awful but it doesn’t matter. He lifts her in his arms and feels like a groom carrying his bride over a threshold.

He struggles up the stairs and almost falls when her feet bang on a wall. Moonlight is streaming through her window as he lays her on the bed. It’s as though God is shining a light for him, affording him a final parting view of his beloved. He leans over her pale face and kisses her lips. Then he covers her. Wraps the bottom sheet around her. Tucks her in. Tight.

‘Night, night, my queen,’ he says from the doorway. ‘I will see you on the other side.’

101

A lesser man would have gone mad by now. The darkness of the tomb. The stench. The silence. The cramping of muscles. The claustrophobia. Any, or all of those things, would have broken someone who lacked Roberto Craxi’s willpower and training.

He’s experienced enough to know that he’s being kept alive for a purpose, that right now his life isn’t intentionally going to be ended. But captors make mistakes — sometimes fatal ones — and as a result hostages are abandoned and left to suffocate or starve.

He concentrates on lowering his heartbeat. The slower it thumps, the less oxygen he uses and the longer he lives. The mathematics of survival. His focus is so intense he can feel the organ’s soft thuds in his chest and all but hear blood slowing in his veins.

Sixty-nine.

Fifty-two.

Forty-seven.

That’s as low as he can get it. Forty-seven beats a minute. Twenty years ago he would have had it down another ten, but he’s nowhere near being the athlete he was.

‘Signore Craxi, are you awake?’

The voice startles him. Bumps his heartbeats per minute back over the sixty mark. It was polite and foreign. English with a strange accent. Oddly formal.

‘Signore Craxi.’

It is coming out of nowhere.

‘Can you hear me?’

Somewhere in the darkness is a tiny wireless loudspeaker. He has no idea where. He rubs his hands over the cold stone but can’t find anything. He stays silent. The fact that his abductor has gone to the trouble of putting the device in here means the man needs to communicate with him. Well, if he wants to do that, he’s going to have to come and get him out of this god forsaken place.

‘Signore.’ The voice is louder this time and Craxi detects an accent.

Foreign. Not European — African. No, not African. Arabic.

A bored sigh hisses like steam through the thick stone. ‘Signore, there is good reason why I let your wife live. Should you not cooperate with me, I am confident that I can torture her into doing so.’

‘What do you want?’ Craxi’s voice is thin and strained. ‘I am ready to give you whatever you want.’

102

JJ steers the Explorer through the dark backstreets of Gardena, then out into the bright lights of the freeway and over to Boyle Heights.

It is time to pay Jenny Harrison a visit. The display on the dash shows 4 a.m. He knows he has only a couple of hours before the sun comes up and the poor folk that work late-night shifts come drifting home.

He’s going to have to be quick. Her big old house is in total blackness. He parks down the street in almost exactly the same position he occupied last time he was here. He sits with the window down, watching and listening, waiting to see if anyone has heard his vehicle and is stupid enough to take a closer look.

At ten after four he reaches into the passenger foot well, picks up the tyre iron he put there and slips out of the car. He walks briskly across the road, through the gate and up the path. The patchy lawn around him smells of dog shit and is peppered with discarded cigarette butts.

JJ jogs up the steps onto the porch, turns and checks the scene behind him. Nothing. No movement. No noise. No people. He puts his hand on the front door and twists the big round knob. Hopefully the lock will be old and there’ll be enough movement for him to get the thin end of the iron in.

The door is unlocked. He feels a jolt of excitement. God is indeed looking after him tonight. He enters the lobby and the unmistakable stench of a doss-house hits him. It disgusts him. What a fitting place for Jenny Harrison to die. Around him are more doors than he anticipated, all brown and without numbers.

JJ moves to the foot of an uncarpeted wooden staircase. He takes out his cell phone and calls the number she gave him. The dial tone rolls into cyberspace. There’s a click. From above JJ’s head comes the noise of a ringing phone.

103

A repetitive thump haunts the darkness. Not a loud one. Not hoof beats on hardened earth, more a woodpecker tapping stone.

Roberto Craxi cranes his head anxiously to the right. He shouts through the walls of the tomb to the man who’s imprisoned him — a man he’s never seen. ‘What are you doing? What’s going on?’

Suddenly the stone vibrates. A loud screaming noise penetrates the casement.

‘Hey!’

It feels like the whole tomb is going to collapse. Craxi’s training kicks in. He calms himself. Tries to work out what’s happening. His captor is drilling. Boring some kind of hole. There’s a bang as the whirling steel breaks through and the chuck hits the exterior. Debris from the drill bit spatters Craxi’s face. The mechanical screaming stops.

Through the hole bursts a shaft of bright light as thick as a pencil. He rolls on his right side and shuffles along so he can see outside the tomb.

An eyeball stares down at him.

Craxi’s heart jumps.

‘Move back.’ The voice is cold and insistent.

He edges away.

Ephrem puts down the high-speed battery-powered drill. ‘This hole will give you air. If what you’ve told me is true, I will call the police and they will come and find you. If it is not, then when I have finished with your wife, I will come back for you.’

The monk bags up the tools he’d bought in Turin after Craxi had given him the slip in the subway. He leaves the old church and returns to the rental car. He’ll need different tools for the next part of the mission. Very different ones.

104

It takes four rings of the phone for JJ to track the tone to an upstairs room.

He places his own cell back in his trousers and examines the door in front of him. It’s cheap and insubstantial. A low-quality block of painted plywood fitted with a barely decent lock. No match for the tyre iron he’s brought with him. He could easily prise it open.

But not yet. He sits patiently on the floor outside and listens for movement. The phone most probably woke her. He needs her to fall back to sleep. Needs her to be in a state of rest when he takes her.

JJ is waiting for the sound of her using the bathroom. The noise of a TV being put on or a kettle being boiled.

There is nothing. Forty minutes pass. Two thousand four hundred long seconds tick away, before he’s satisfied enough to wriggle the fluted end of the tyre iron into the door jamb. He lets the metal chew slowly into the soft wood, nosing deeper into the space where the edge of the door and the frame meet. The work is hard and sweat beads on his forehead. Finally, it is in the right position. He’s satisfied he has enough purchase — sufficient leverage — to be able to force the door open. In one crisp movement he jerks the iron to his left while ramming his right shoulder and hip against the door.

It bursts open. Bangs noisily against the wall. Certainly loudly enough to wake Harrison. He forgets about closing it and rushes inside. The room is in darkness. There’s a bed and a couch and a window and a sink. No Jenny. He swings round. Another door. He pushes it open.

A tiny bathroom. She’s not there. JJ inches his way back to the splintered door and closes it. The place has paper-thin walls. Chances are people next door have heard him.

He flicks on the light. On the floor near the edge of the bed is her phone. She must have dropped it. Gone out without it. An act of forgetfulness that has saved her life. For now.

105

It’s a long time since former soldier Roberto Craxi has been forced to lie in a pool of his own urine.

If memory serves him well it was twenty years ago in Naples. An anti-Camorra operation went wrong and he and his team got trapped in a landfill site for almost an entire day. He killed three people in the gun battle that followed. And he’d dearly like to kill again today.

The tomb that’s holding him seems escape-proof. He rolls onto his front, gets up on his knees and presses his back against the heavy slab above him. It won’t budge.

Not an inch. His captor’s been gone some time now and Craxi knows exactly where he is and what he’s doing. It won’t take an animal like him long to crack the man he’s visiting. A scientist with no guts. And when he does, he will know the truth. Know Craxi held back on him. Delayed him.

Craxi takes in a deep lungful of air and once more painfully presses his back against the unyielding stone. He has to get out. Must get out. Escape before it’s too late.