by D C Macey
‘Yes, I’m aware of them. I haven’t really looked though.’
‘Well some of them are a bit clunky, the data displays well enough, but searching is still quite hard work as the presentation is not always logical. It can be a bit frustrating. Ah, here we are. What do you think?’ Davy leant back and let Sam get a good look at the screen.
‘Obviously, for us, you search medieval weapons, and then daggers come up pretty well top of the list, Knights Templar too. I refined the search a few times and suddenly there it was.’
Sam leant in over Davy’s shoulder. Any misgivings about Davy’s renewed involvement vanished in an instant. On screen was the image of a dagger, grainy, but a dagger he knew very well. It was one of the set.
Sam put a hand on Davy’s shoulder, squeezed a little. ‘Tell nobody about this, okay? You’ve done well, really well, but there are still some things it’s best nobody knows you know. Understand?’
Davy nodded.
‘Good, let’s make sure Julie understands the risks as well.’
‘Oh, she’s okay. She was the one that insisted I come in person and not use emails to tell you about it.’
‘Can you jot down those website details for me, Davy? I will need to go and verify your find. The picture resolution’s not high enough to see all the detail. To be certain and to get any useable information I actually need to see the dagger.’
Sam reclaimed his seat at the computer and reviewed the find carefully. Then he phoned the museum. He was fluent in German but Bernhard Richter, the German archivist, insisted on practising his English skills, which were good. Happily, this proved to be one of those moments when working for a renowned university paid dividends - he could have sight of the dagger by arrangement.
As Sam spoke down the phone line, he also worked the airport schedules on his computer. He made an arrangement to visit Frankfurt on Monday. The German seemed a little surprised at the speed of Sam’s visit but took it in his stride. Sam thanked him, ended the call and wrapped up his work. He walked out of the building with Davy and there they parted company.
• • •
Cassiter sat stony faced staring at the screen. He could see an equally expressionless face staring back at him. Sour face had just delivered DCI Wallace’s message. Cassiter was not happy. He was particularly unhappy that he found himself linked to pictures with Collette at Hereford Cathedral. Only circumstantial, but nonetheless he was in the pictures. This detective was proving to be far too independent for his own good but Cassiter had a lot to deal with right now.
Fight all your battles, he told himself, but only one at a time and in an order to best suit the project. There was no doubt the detective would have to go. But Wallace had indicated his main concern was he wanted Cassiter and his team to leave Edinburgh, and to leave his wards unharmed. Getting out of Edinburgh was on the agenda and most of his team were already away. Surrendering ground was fine. He would retake it once the other issues had been dealt with, and they were already well in hand. When the moment came, he’d return and he’d start by cutting away the churchwomen’s protective shield, Wallace. Then he would work down the list and enjoy every moment. Particularly that American minister from the church, she had a lot of suffering to face. But for now, it could wait.
‘Okay, here’s what to do. Tell Collette to reverse out of Edinburgh. She is to harm nobody, just slip out quietly today. I want you to book her on a flight right now. The boys have picked up some interesting footage in Sardinia and I have a job for her there. She’s to contact me as soon as she’s out of the UK.’ He paused for a moment, watching the screen as sour face bowed her head to write a note on her pad. Finished, she looked up again.
‘The team have spotted Sam Cameron’s booked on a flight to Frankfurt. I will have somebody in Germany positioned to find out why he’s going there.
‘I want you to contact Wallace, arrange to meet with him. You know the drill, control the timing and venue, just in case he tries to organise some electronic monitoring, speak to him somewhere that can’t be bugged. Let him know you have spoken to me. Tell him our interests now lie elsewhere. Only you will remain on station to oversee a wind-down over the coming months. Tell him his every wish is met.’
Cassiter watched the sour faced woman nod in silent understanding. His mind was already ordering how events should play. ‘I’ll have somebody dispatched from this end to take the original CCTV images from Hereford Cathedral and from the local police down there. When the time comes to be active in Edinburgh again, which will be sooner than you might think, we will have to remove the images from Wallace too.’
He tapped the printouts on the desk beside his screen. ‘Clearly Wallace is using the pictures as a bargaining chip. To do that he has kept them out of the police system; we can use that. These pictures of you and Collette doing the transfer, taken by a police photographer, your job is to dig around discreetly, find out who the photographer is, where they live. One day we will want to retrieve the originals of those pictures, wherever they are being hidden. And you are to build up a folio on Wallace. Before we strike back, I want to know any weak points he has - wife, children, the usual. And where he might hide his pictures too. Keep in touch,’ and with that, he leant forward and broke the link.
Cassiter went for a stroll, made for the Seine. He always found the flow of a river conducive to clear thinking and this was a moment of importance. The move of his headquarters had been easy enough. Almost everything was digital, the team were more than happy to spend some time in France, and the office he maintained in the Rue de l'Université was as well-equipped as Edinburgh. Joining up with the French section was straightforward - they all interchanged often enough on assignments to know one another well anyway.
As soon as he knew what Cameron’s purpose was in rushing to Frankfurt, he would contact Parsol. The evidence was amassing, but it made no sense to him: the Norwegian dagger, the picture from Hereford Cathedral, the dagger he had ordered snatched from that churchwoman’s father in the States. All things he knew Parsol wanted, all seemingly unintelligible. Then there was the information Collette had gathered on the church’s glass window to add into the mix. After much thought, he decided it would make sense to give it all to Parsol. That was what he was contracted to do, and then his next moves could be determined by how Parsol interpreted the information. In the meantime, he had another lead to follow up and it was almost time for his team to act on it. He’d wait for Collette’s call.
• • •
Helen raised her glass to Sam. ‘I hope you are going to give him good marks next year, he’s got talent has our Davy.’
‘Yes, he has. But once again, he’s put himself in danger. Still, I have to say I would never have found it.’
‘Nobody would. It’s so obscure, but it’s there. How will you handle it?’
‘There’s no problem getting to see it, that’s arranged already. I intend to verify it and get a high-resolution picture. The website doesn’t give much detail in terms of provenance, but I understand from Herr Richter that there are some records offline. If I can get access to them, we may well be able to work out not just where this dagger came from, but which saint or church’s name it represents.’
‘We’ve got three left to identify: St Athanasius, St Boniface and Mary Magdalene. Any informed guesses?’ said Helen.
‘Let’s wait and see what the records show. If it were local to Germany then we might think about St Boniface. Sandi McLellan said St B was big in parts of Germany, Belgium and France. But the Nazis looted from across Europe, so without further information it’s impossible to say.’
‘Okay, I’m going to try and sort something out about James Curry as well.’
‘Yes, that’s important; if we lose access to the old tunnel we may never solve this. Good luck with him, he seems a real -’
‘Yes, he is,’ said Helen. ‘But with a bit of luck I might just be able to throw a spanner in his works. I’m not saying anything until I know for sure. I
don’t want to build people’s hopes up until I know.’
CHAPTER 17 - SATURDAY 24th AUGUST
It was past mid-afternoon when the doors of St Bartholomew’s swung open and Xavier emerged. He stopped on the top step and looked down at the crowd filling the narrow street below, and they greeted the appearance of their priest with a great cheer. The air was thick with cigarette smoke mixed with the smell of garlic and wine, and the sweat of happy jostling humans; it all warmed together in the still air to form the smell that, for Xavier, was forever St Bartholomew’s Day. His day, his church’s day.
Xavier smiled, raised his hand to the crowd, made the sign of the cross and blessed them all. The cheers rang out again, bouncing to and fro between the buildings that lined both sides of the old cobbled thoroughfare. The volume soared, the sound hemmed in between the plastered walls; some whitewashed, some faded yellow ochre, occasional creams. Quickly the noise rose above the crowd, and past first and second floor balconies where elderly ladies revelled in the spectacle and recalled days past when they had marched with the procession. Up the sound continued, funnelling out of the street’s shadows to spill over the terracotta-tiled roofs from where it dissipated into the sunlit sky.
The space on the step behind him was quickly occupied by several priests from neighbouring parishes, come to lend support on the big day. Angelo, never far from Xavier’s side, stood closest.
Xavier saw the district band mustered in the street a few paces to his left. Everything was as it should be. As the blessing ended, the bandleader signalled and the music struck up in a greeting for him. Then as the band began a slow march past, heading down towards the harbour, he led the clergy down the few broad steps from the church to the street below, pacing himself to arrive a moment after the band had passed. To his left the street ran a hundred paces up to the town square. The procession would end there in about half an hour. He turned right, heading down the hill, following the music.
The priests were followed from the church by four sturdy looking men, each supporting a corner of a litter on which perched a statue of St Bartholomew. Behind them, a crowd of parishioners streamed out of the church to join the procession. Those that lined the little street cheered and clapped. Xavier knew they too would join the end of the procession, which grew as it went. Camera flashes identified the tourists in the crowd and extended arms signed the presence of smartphone users intent on recording life as it happened.
Ahead, at the foot of the street, he could see the sea; still and glistening blue. He knew that the fishermen’s boats would be moored along the little quayside, cleaned and tided especially for the moment. The fishermen and their families would clap and cheer as he passed, then, in their turn, join the end of the procession. Eventually, once the procession had wound its route through the little town, it would have gathered in all the families. Then on the final approach into the square, he would find the way lined with the farming families from the homes scattered into the high hills beyond the town. By the time the band led Xavier and the effigy of St Bartholomew into the square all the families of his parish would be represented.
And so it was. The procession came to a halt in the square, directly outside the municipal hall. The band continued to play as people settled on to the benches that lined the trestle tables arranged around three sides of the square. Already seated were the old ladies, whisked from their balconies directly to the square as soon as the procession had passed them by. Xavier climbed the steps of the municipal hall; he welcomed Angelo’s supporting hand as he went. Waiting at the top was the mayor, half Xavier’s age and brimming with confidence and pride. He welcomed Xavier with a warm handshake and a kiss then deferentially stepped back, allowing Xavier the limelight. For the second time that afternoon, Xavier looked down on his flock.
He watched the crowd; saw toddlers hurrying to clamber up beside grandmothers, saw parents, mostly laughing, as they separated little groups of children and herded them to their places - knowing they wouldn’t stay put for long. Meanwhile, the statue of St Bartholomew had worked its wobbly way up the steps and been settled on a table beside him. From here, the saint would watch over the parishioners during the festivities. The band stopped playing and the crowd fell silent. Xavier saw all the faces tilted up expectantly towards him, the younger ones hoping his speech wouldn’t last too long.
They were not disappointed. Xavier’s voice was as strong as ever, it filled the little square, bounced back off the walls. Everyone heard as he thanked St Bartholomew for the parish’s continuing success and commended by name into God’s safe keeping all those the parish had lost through the year. Then he called for prosperity in the coming year and finally he blessed the feast.
The band, never silent for long, struck up and, to another round of cheers, Xavier slowly stepped back down to the square. As he took his place at table, the doors of the two local bars and the restaurant burst open to further cheers. Smells swirled out from the doorways to tease the crowd: fresh baked breads, pastas, sweet fragranced lamb dishes and, from the restaurant, roasting pig. Xavier laughed and waved the waiting staff out, encouraging speed. He watched the waiters streaming back and forth across the space in the middle of the square, left clear for the dancing that he knew would accompany the singing and gaiety into the small hours. The waiters fanned out, delivering their loaded trays of food to the seated parishioners. Others carried water, bottles of wine, and fizzy drinks for the children. The feast had begun.
• • •
As night fell on the sound of distant festivities, three visitors wandered up from the calm of the empty quayside where they had left their car. The middle visitor was a beautiful young woman; to either side of her, big men. Collette glanced over her shoulder back towards the car where a fourth visitor had stayed behind the wheel. She saw the headlights flash as the fourth man acknowledged her look.
She turned her attention back to the street ahead. A couple of streetlights had failed outside the church and everything in the vicinity was in darkness. Beyond the church, she could see the lights in the square glowing warmly and hear the music and shrieks of fun continuing unabated as the population partied. Perfect, she thought, pointing her companions up the steps towards the church doors. They hurried up and while she and one of the men glanced to left and right, the second man produced a short crowbar and jemmied the door. They were in within moments and Collette pushed the door tight shut behind them. They stood still in the darkness, listening - silence. Without going any further into the church, each pulled forensic suits from their shoulder bags and donned them.
Collette produced a little torch and switched it on, careful to keep the beam low to the floor. The architecture, designed for cool comfort, had few windows, and those that were there were small and set high. As long as she did not shine the beam upwards there was little chance of it being spotted from outside. ‘Come on,’ she said, leading the men directly up the centre aisle.
Halfway up she paused and directed one man away to the side. She watched as he hurried between the pews. Reaching the side wall, he climbed on to a pew and stretched up to retrieve a little covert camera from a wall-light mounting. He gripped it and ripped hard; pulling it out along with the power feed he had previously hooked into the light fitting. Pocketing it, he returned to the aisle, joining Collette. She noted his nod of success and pointed him away to gather in the rest of his bugs from around the building. She led the other man on up the aisle.
Reaching the altar, she brushed past it and stopped at the reredos beyond, allowing her torch to roam across its façade. The decorative screen was impressive. It was sculpted from marble, which shimmered in the beam of her torchlight. It featured a dazzling array of religious images. Ornately worked saints and angels were picked out as the beam moved; each figure was gold leafed and seemed to move and glisten, snatching its moment in the beam before surrendering the spotlight to the next and fading back into the dark.
‘That’s the one,’ said Collette, suddenly swingi
ng the beam back to one of the figures. It was St Bartholomew. She didn’t know who it was, didn’t care; knew only that it was the one the old priest had used. Their cameras had been in place for a week. It had begun to seem a pointless task, nothing had happened, no revelations, it had made pretty boring viewing. Likewise, the cameras in the priest’s home had offered nothing, completely uninspiring. But then, ninety percent of their job was waiting and inaction.
Because of the disruption to the team in Edinburgh, it had taken a while for them to link the priests’ visits to Edinburgh with a series of flights by a private plane to and from Cagliari Airport earlier in the summer. Once the connection was made, it had been a simple process to trace the priests back to their home, after which the surveillance had begun.
Yesterday things had changed, the priests had behaved oddly and Cassiter had immediately ordered action. In her mind, she reviewed the images again. Together with the younger priest who always seemed to be nearby, Xavier had locked himself in the church. They had paused reverentially at the altar before proceeding beyond it to the reredos. They had stood where she stood now. The old one had messed about with the odd little figure, the one with the knives. She remembered laughing to herself when she first watched the pictures; that would be her saint if she cared about such things. She didn’t.
He had done something clever with his hands, they had not been able to work out exactly what, and the upshot was the little figure had slid forward to reveal a compartment, a drawer from which he had removed a silver dagger. Exactly what Cassiter was looking for. And now here they were.
She reached out, felt the figure, tried to twist, pull and push, and got no response. This had been anticipated and with time at a premium, she immediately signalled her companion forward.