The Moses Stone

43

Bronson felt drained. He seemed to have spent all the previous day sitting in an aircraft, and the damp, grey skies were an unpleasant reminder that he was back in Britain, in stark contrast to the few hot and sunny days he'd just spent down in Morocco. He punched the address Byrd had sent him by text into the unmarked car's satnav and headed towards Canterbury.

When he arrived at the house, there were two police vans parked in the driveway and a couple of cars on the road outside the property. The front door was standing slightly ajar, and he slipped under the 'crime scene' tape and stepped into the hall.

'You're Chris Bronson, right?' A beefy, red-faced man wearing a somewhat grubby grey suit greeted him.

Bronson nodded and showed his warrant card.

'Right, I'm Dave Robbins. Come through into the dining room to keep out of the way of the SOCOs – they're just finishing up in the lounge, and then we're out of here. Now,' he said, when they were both seated at the dining table, 'I gather from Dickie Byrd that you've had some contact with the victim?'

'I met her and her husband a couple of times in Morocco,' Bronson agreed, and explained what had happened to Kirsty Philips's parents.

'Do you think there's any connection between their deaths and her murder?' Robbins asked.

Bronson paused for a few moments before he replied. He was absolutely certain that the three deaths were connected, and that the missing clay tablet was at the heart of the matter, but he didn't see how explaining all that would help Robbins find Kirsty's killer.

'I don't know,' he said finally. 'It's a hell of a coincidence if they're unconnected, but I can't think what the connection could be. What actually happened here? How did she die?'

In a few short sentences, Robbins explained what the police had found when they arrived at the house.

As he listened, Bronson's mind span back to the hotel in Rabat, and to the way Kirsty had looked when he'd seen her there: bright and full of life, her natural vivacity subdued only because of the double tragedy that had decimated her family. Intellectually he accepted the truth of what Robbins had told him, but on an emotional level it was still difficult to believe what had happened.

'Who raised the alarm?' he asked.

'One of the neighbours thought she'd pop in and offer her condolences for the loss of her parents. She went to the side door, saw Kirsty lying dead on the floor, and ran screaming up the road to her own house to dial triple nine. We've already done a door-to-door but we haven't found anyone who saw Kirsty arriving, and only two people noticed the neighbour doing a four-minute mile and howling like a banshee.'

'Right,' Bronson said. 'I can't think what connection this has to Morocco. My guess is she might have disturbed a burglar, one of those sick bastards who find out who's died and then target their houses. And because she was only hit once, he might not have intended to kill her. If he thought the house was empty and she suddenly stepped out in front of him, he might have just swung his jemmy as a kind of reflex action, and hit her harder than he meant to. In my opinion, I think it's most likely that you're looking at a totally unrelated crime.'

Robbins nodded. 'Makes sense to me. And this is probably another bugger we're never going to solve. We've found no useful forensic stuff here apart from a few fingerprints that might or might not belong to the intruder. As far as we can see the killer jemmied the door, walked in, hit Kirsty Philips on the side of the head and then walked out again. There might be some more trace evidence somewhere, but if there is, we haven't found it yet. There's no sign of anything having been taken, or disturbed in any way. No forensics, no witnesses, no suspects, no motives. And that means no nothing.'

'Yep,' Bronson agreed, 'it's every cop's worst-case scenario. Look, unless there's anything else I can tell you or help you with, I'll get out of your way.'

'OK, Chris, thanks for that,' Robbins said and stood up. 'Leave the front door open on your way out, would you?'

The two men shook hands and left the dining room, turning in opposite directions – Robbins right towards the back of the house where the SOCOs were still working, and Bronson left. As he stepped into the hall, Bronson glanced down at the rug just inside the front door and saw a scatter of envelopes lying there. Obviously the post had been delivered while they had been talking in the dining room, and the postman had placed everything on the mat rather than sliding it through the letterbox, simply because the door was still ajar.

'The post's here,' Bronson called out, and automatically bent down to pick it up.

He noticed the package immediately, one end protruding slightly from under a white junk-mail envelope. It was bulkier than everything else there, and the Moroccan stamps were extremely distinctive.

Suddenly, he knew exactly what had to be in the small parcel, and saw clearly what the 'burglar' must have been doing in the house – he'd just broken in a couple of days too early.

Bronson knew it was wrong, knew he was tampering with evidence, and knew that what he was doing might easily be sufficient to get him kicked off the force, but he did it anyway. As DI Robbins turned round and walked back towards him, Bronson hunched down over the mat, reached out, seized the packet and slid it into his jacket pocket with his left hand. With his right, he collected the rest of the mail, then stood up and glanced behind him.

Robbins was approaching, his hand outstretched. Bronson gave him the post and turned to leave.

'Typical,' the DI muttered, flicking through the envelopes. 'All bloody junk mail, by the looks of it. OK, see you around, Chris.'

When Bronson sat down in the driving seat of his car he found that, despite the chill in the air, there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. For a few seconds he wondered if he should take the package back, leave it outside the door or maybe put it on the carpet. But he told himself that the presence or absence of a two-thousand-year-old clay tablet at a crime scene in Canterbury would have no impact whatsoever on Robbins' success or failure in solving the murder. He also knew Angela would be delighted to get her hands on it.

Feeling a sudden jolt of pure adrenalin, he turned the key in the ignition and drove quickly away.