The Sacred Sword

Chapter Nineteen

With the sunrise, Ben tried three more times to contact Jude Arundel on his mobile, and three times was put through to the same voicemail service. The first two calls, he left another message asking him to call back, stressing how important it was. The third time, frustrated, he gave up and went back to trying to figure out the pieces of the puzzle.

He put together what he knew so far: Simeon Arundel and Fabrice Lalique had been working together on the sacred sword project, whatever that was. So much was clear, and it explained why they’d been in close contact for a prolonged period of time and appeared to have travelled to Israel together eighteen months ago. It also seemed that a third man had been involved in the project, an American called Wes, who was very probably the ‘expert’ whom Simeon had been to visit in the States. Expert at what?

Three men. Three colleagues. One was running scared after ‘something’ had happened. Another was dead in a suicide that no longer seemed to quite add up. Another had been killed in a car crash involving a mysterious third party and a few too many suspicious circumstances, after which his home had been broken into by heavily armed thieves with a very clear and serious purpose.

Ben thought back to the group photo that had been taken in Israel. If Wes was one of the men in the picture, he was either the burly olive-skinned man on the left or the fit-looking man in his sixties, standing between Simeon and Fabrice Lalique. Ben reckoned on the latter. Then who was the fourth man in the picture? He looked as though he might be Israeli, and was obviously connected to this as well.

And now a fifth player had apparently just entered the game: Martha. Wes had said he was going to her place to make sure the sword was safe, so she was obviously helping them to hide it. There was no woman in the photo, so maybe she wasn’t part of the core group. Or maybe Martha had been the one who took the picture.

Ben paced up and down the length of the living room for a long time, churning over the clues and all too aware that they so far amounted to very little. But he had more things to worry about. The news of Simeon and Michaela’s deaths would spread fast. The rest of the family would have been informed by now, and soon the whole grim aftermath would roll into action.

If only he could find Jude.

Ben knew the number by heart now. He tried one more time — still no reply. But now another option occurred to him. He flipped through the Arundels’ address book to the letter N, scanned down the list of names and found the number he was looking for.

After four rings, a woman’s voice replied, ‘Petra Norrington.’

Ben had only wanted to know that she was at home. He hung up the phone. Looking her up in the local telephone directory, he found her address listed. She lived close by in Greater Denton.

‘We’re going for a drive, Scruff,’ he said, and led the dog out to the Land Rover. Scruffy urinated on the rear wheel and jumped in.

As Ben headed under the leaden sky towards Greater Denton, the local radio news came on.

‘Church parishes across west Oxfordshire are in mourning today following the tragic deaths of the Reverend Simeon Arundel and his wife Michaela in a road accident. The Reverend Arundel was a popular figure within the church community. The fatal incident took place on the B4429 outside the village of Little Denton. Official cause of death is to be verified pending the Coroner’s report. A church spokesman…’

Ben turned it off.

Petra Norrington lived in a large and expensive-looking thatched cottage at the edge of the village. A Siamese cat hissed at Ben from the front step and slunk away into the frosty bushes. Answering the door, Petra looked Ben disdainfully up and down for a moment before recognition showed on her face. She was wearing the same string of pearls she’d had on the night before, and her hair was hairsprayed into a peroxide blond helmet that looked as if it could withstand a tornado. ‘Oh — we met last night at the restaurant, didn’t we? You’re Mr, er…’

‘Hope. Please call me Ben. May I come in?’

‘I can’t believe he’s dead,’ Petra said as she led Ben inside the spacious cottage and into a chintzy sitting room. ‘It’s so awful. I’ve just got off the phone with the ladies’ badminton club secretary. Everyone’s just devastated.’ She sighed and shook her head sadly — though not too sadly. Her Siamese being run over might have upset her more.

‘They both are, Mrs Norrington,’ Ben said.

Petra nodded hesitantly, and Ben got the impression that she was considerably less concerned about Michaela’s death than about Simeon’s.

‘How can I help you, Mr Hope? Ben?’

‘I came to ask you if you knew how I could find Jude,’ Ben said. ‘You seemed to know about the place in Cornwall where he hangs out with his friend Robbie.’

Petra nodded, a flicker of disapproval showing. ‘That Robbie. His parents’ holiday place, apparently. It’s out in the middle of the moors. Somewhere not far from Bodmin, I think. I don’t know exactly where.’

‘I see,’ Ben said, feeling his heart sink.

‘But Sophie would be able to tell you.’

‘Sophie?’

‘My daughter.’ Petra arched a carefully plucked eyebrow. ‘She and Jude went out together — only for a short time, mind you. He took her to the farm once, for a weekend. From what she told me, it’s a dreadful place. A whole gang of them hang out there, drinking themselves stupid and God knows what else. I can’t imagine what that boy-’

‘Is Sophie here?’ Ben cut in.

‘She’s spending Christmas with her father. He lives in Spain.’

‘Could I have his number?’

Petra shook her head emphatically. ‘Dominic and I haven’t spoken for over five years.’

‘What about Sophie’s mobile number?’

She frowned.

‘It’s very important,’ he said. ‘Jude needs to be contacted.’

Petra nodded and went over to a little writing desk in the corner, where her phone lay next to a glasses case, a pile of mail and the small camera Ben remembered she’d been waving around in the restaurant the night before. Petra took her time putting on her glasses, then picked up the phone and pressed a speed-dial key. After a moment she said in a sugary tone: ‘Sophie, darling, it’s Mummy. Could you call me when you’ve got a moment? Byeee.’

Ben looked at her. ‘That didn’t exactly convey a sense of urgency.’

Petra returned his look icily. ‘As if he’ll be concerned about his parents, anyway,’ she muttered. ‘That young man is only interested in himself.’

Ben was about to reply, then thought better of it and changed the subject. ‘There’s something else I need from you,’ he said. ‘The registration number of the BMW you backed into last night in the Old Windmill car park.’

Petra blinked. ‘Whatever for?’

‘I haven’t got time to explain. I’d appreciate your help.’

‘Er… are you from the police, Mr Hope? Because if not, I frankly don’t see-’

She was interrupted by the doorbell. A UPS delivery van had pulled up in the street outside.

‘My Harrods Christmas hamper! At last!’ Petra gasped, and rushed out of the room to answer the door. She made a big fuss of signing for the parcel. The delivery man had to lug it inside the hallway for her, amid her cries of ‘Oh, be careful! You’ll scratch the parquet!’

Meanwhile, Ben was looking up Sophie Norrington’s number from the phone and scribbling it on the back of his hand with a biro from the writing desk. Sifting quickly through the pile of mail on top of the desk, he found a sealed, unstamped envelope addressed to a motor insurance company and slipped it into his pocket.

Petra had almost finished harrying the delivery driver in the hallway. Ben looked at the little camera lying on the desk. His mind raced back to replay the scene from the restaurant. When Petra Norrington had jumped up from the noisy ladies’ badminton club party table to photograph them all, snapping away left and right, she’d had her back more or less to Ben, which meant she’d been facing roughly in the direction of the archway leading through to the bar area.

The same bar area where the owner of the BMW had been sitting quietly, unnoticed until the incident with the headlight. Was it possible that he might have been captured by chance in one of her shots?

The guy might not be connected to the crash at all. Maybe he was just some surly bastard who’d been miles away when the Lotus had gone over the bridge. Maybe this was a blind alley. Maybe not.

Ben didn’t have long to decide. Petra had shut the front door and was heading back towards the sitting room. He flipped open the side port of the camera, slid out its memory card and pocketed that too.

‘Anyway, Mr Hope,’ she announced archly as she walked back into the room. ‘I’m afraid my private affairs are none of your business.’

Ben gave her his warmest smile. ‘You’re quite right, Mrs Norrington. I’ll be on my way. Thanks for your help, and Merry Christmas to you.’