by Peter James
‘Well, that’s what I hope to find out.’ He drained his glass again. He was still feeling shaken.
‘If you want to forget golf tomorrow, mate, don’t worry about it,’ Hodge said.
‘No, I think a few hours out in the fresh air is what I need. And the forecast’s good.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m looking for a major win!’
‘In your dreams.’
Ross grinned. Hodge beat him consistently.
‘Ten o’clock tee-off OK with you?’
Ross nodded.
‘It will do you good,’ Imogen encouraged.
Ross looked at her and nodded. But his suspicions about her returned. Even though she was three months pregnant, they just wouldn’t go away. Four or five hours without him around. Was she being altruistic, a good and caring wife? Or did she have another motive?
‘This all started when this man, Dr Cook, contacted you out of the blue with his weird message?’ Helen went on. ‘And you didn’t hang up on him?’
‘I’m a journalist, always looking for an angle.’
‘Aren’t you worried after what’s happened to him?’
‘I am,’ Imogen said. ‘I’ve told Ross to forget it. When you start messing with religion, you don’t know what kind of nutters or fanatics you’re going to attract.’
‘As Helen said, it could just have been a burglary that went wrong,’ Hodge tried to reassure her.
‘Oh sure. He was a retired university lecturer – not a drug dealer,’ Imogen retorted. ‘They tortured him. They were after something they wanted very badly.’
‘The manuscript?’ Hodge suggested.
‘Not necessarily,’ Ross replied. ‘You do get sadistic burglars – they’re rare, fortunately, but it happens. Here they had an old man living alone in a secluded property. Maybe they were convinced he had a safe hidden somewhere.’
‘I dread to think if they’d been there when you arrived.’ Imogen picked up her wine glass, started to reach across for the bottle, then stopped. Hodge lifted it out of the cooler and held it towards her. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘One glass is my limit at the moment – although I could do with a whole bottle. I can’t believe that this poor man, Harry Cook, was in our house on Monday – and now he’s dead. Tortured and murdered. I just think this is too coincidental to be anything other than connected to the manuscript. The one dictated by God, that you said is total rubbish.’
‘It is,’ Ross said.
‘If that’s what they were after, then perhaps someone else doesn’t consider it to be rubbish, you know?’ Imogen said.
‘Did you tell the police about the manuscript?’ Hodge asked.
‘No.’
Imogen turned to him. ‘What? You withheld information? Isn’t that a criminal offence?’
‘I figured if I told them about it they’d want it as evidence.’
‘And what’s your problem with that?’ said Imogen.
‘What did you do with it?’ Hodge asked.
Ross hesitated.
‘Don’t tell me you still have it?’ Imogen said.
‘I didn’t want to part with it – not until I’ve had a chance to copy it, Imo.’
‘So where is it now?’ she said.
‘Safe.’
‘Safe where?’ she demanded.
‘It’s in the garage, OK? I’m going to take it to our solicitor’s on Monday and get it put in their vaults.’
‘Jesus! You told me it was utter rubbish. Why do you want the bloody thing? Who’s going to want it?’
‘The people who tortured and murdered Harry Cook?’ suggested Hodge, helpfully.
‘That might not be the reason he was killed. No one knew about this manuscript,’ Ross replied. ‘So far as I’m aware. Other than a BBC presenter I talked to in Bristol and I don’t think she is a killer.’
‘Sure,’ Imogen said. ‘Maybe that’s what Cook told you, that no one else knew about it. Maybe that’s what he wanted you to believe.’
‘I’ll tell you what I really believe.’ Ross glanced at their friends. ‘I believe Cook was probably a deluded, well-meaning nutter. But – and this is a very big but – what if he wasn’t? What if he was right?’
‘And you’re willing to risk your life for that?’ Imogen queried.
Ross had no immediate answer. Maybe the beer was giving him courage. Maybe it was his sense of obligation to Cook. All he knew was that he wasn’t ready to let this go. ‘Imo, you know my job. I’m constantly digging deep and writing stuff that upsets people. You know I’ve had threats. The game changer would be the moment I felt that your life and our baby’s life was in danger, that’s when I’d forget about it.’
‘Let’s hope the money’s worth it,’ his wife replied tartly.
25
Sunday, 26 February
Pastor Wesley Wenceslas delivered two sermons most Sundays, one at Arise, Shine and the other at the evening Praise! Each was in a different church, whether he was in the UK or the US. He moved around the seven he shepherded in steady rotation, ferried by either the Wesley Wenceslas Ministries helicopter or Boeing 737 jet, both in the WWM livery of white, adorned with the distinct and elegant ministry logo of a winged fish entwined round a cross.
Of all the things he liked doing most, preaching, spreading the words of the Lord to his adoring flocks, feeling their love – and hearing their love – these gave him the most joy. Well, almost as much as entering the garages on his English and American estates and looking at his fleet of gleaming supercars. Almost even as much as selecting the Angelhelper – and often Angelhelpers – who would share his bed for the night.
But this morning, despite the stunning blue sky beyond the helicopter’s window and the crystal-clear view of the Thames, the pastor wasn’t feeling the usual joy in his heart.
Instead he had a deep sense of foreboding. And growing, dark anger.
There was a threat – only small at this stage, but small could do a lot of damage, small could turn big mightily fast. In one of the sermons he liked to preach from time to time was a quote from the Dalai Lama: ‘If you ever thought you were too small to make a difference, you never shared a bed with a mosquito.’
The bite could give you a small itch. Or it could give you malaria, dengue or zika virus. Any of those could kill you. That was why when you saw a mosquito you didn’t take the chance. You snuffed it out, fast.
And there was a human mosquito out there now.
The world had always been a dangerous place, balanced constantly between good and evil. His mother had been taken from him because he hadn’t been there to protect her, to hold her hand as she crossed the street. It was his fault. He should have been there. He was never, ever again going to let something be taken from him. Never ever again let something happen which he could have prevented.
God had sought him out and given him this mission in life, made him His foot soldier, and he had risen to become His general. But now there was a threat and he needed to deal with it the same way all generals deal with threats.
A sudden jolt shook him and gave him a moment of panic. He liked the convenience of his helicopter, and the grand entrance he made wherever he landed, with the second matching helicopter a few minutes behind carrying lesser members of his entourage – his hairdresser, make-up artist, personal chef and four bodyguards. He received regular death threats from religious fanatics of different faiths who did not subscribe to his teachings. They scared him to the point of paranoia. Almost as much as flying in helicopters scared him. Even though the Lord should be protecting him. Though he wasn’t too sure about that – wasn’t too sure the Lord approved of his lifestyle.
They were rapidly losing height, sinking down to the London Heliport in Battersea. A number of helicopters sat on the ground, and from up here they looked like hunched, angry insects.
He was angry and hunched, too. In today’s sermon was his message for his faithful: ‘Focus on the positives. There are so many negatives in life. N
egatives drag you under, positives raise you up. Just like the Lord was raised from the dead, by all the positives that surrounded him.’
‘Smilealot’, as he called the Managing Director of his empire, was strapped in the cream leather seat opposite, a short, dapper man with neat dark hair. He was dressed in one of his trademark grey chalk-striped three-piece suits, pink tie and immaculately buffed black Gucci loafers. It was Smilealot who had alerted him to the new threat, after being contacted by a police officer in Somerset who was a member of their congregation.
Smilealot was at this moment reading the sermon, frowning and tut-tutting as he made each annotation with an ornate Montegrappa pen poised daintily between his manicured fingers. His real name was Lancelot Pope, and when Wenceslas had first met the man, he’d said, ‘I’ve got to have you – I’ve got to be able to tell folk I have the Pope working for me!’
‘I’m not sure about this bit, boss,’ he said, sharply.
‘Which bit?’
Pope read aloud: ‘I’m telling you that Satan is all around us. He’s not a fiery man with a tail and a pitchfork. He’s in the aisle of every supermarket tempting you with sugary confections. Eat rubbish and you are being duped by Satan. He’s poisoning you by stealth.’
‘What’s your problem with that? It’s an important message.’
‘I’m thinking about our YouTube sponsors.’
‘And I’m thinking about our moral obligations. This is on-message. This is the message of today.’
‘I’m not comfortable with it.’
Pope rarely smiled and when he did it was thin and colourless, like a ray of sunlight failing to quite penetrate a bleak, wintry sky. And hey, praise the Lord, Wenceslas didn’t pay the man to smile. He paid him to run his business with an iron rod. To keep an eye on every detail, down to fine-tuning every sermon. To deal with problems.
Smilealot did just that. A pernickety, highly efficient control freak, utterly ruthless, he was the only employee of the Wesley Wenceslas corporation who dared to answer his boss back or criticize him. Partly because he knew too much about the pastor.
Both men were aware that Lancelot Pope could bring the entire empire crumbling down with a single press statement. Equally, both of them knew he would never do that, because of the stake Wenceslas had given him. He would never destroy the golden goose that had already made him a millionaire and would, if things continued the way they were headed, one day make him far, far more money. Riches beyond his dreams.
Wenceslas knew that God had sent this man to take care of him and all he stood for.
Because for a long time in his early life, he’d had no one to take care of him. The day after he and his mother had returned to England from Disney World, probably confused because of suffering from jet lag, the coroner had said at her inquest, she had looked the wrong way whilst crossing Old Shoreham Road and gone under a bus.
From that moment, he had lost all faith in God, and turned into a rebel at school. He started stealing and found he had an ability to persuade others to do things for him. Anything. Within a year he had a network of five pupils distributing drugs around the school for him.
When, inevitably, he was caught, he was hauled before the headmaster. Mr Collins spoke to him calmly, telling him he felt sympathy for him since the terrible tragedy of his mother. But he had no other option than to expel him. ‘You know, Thomas, you have so much charm, and I think beneath all of this you are a decent young man who has lost his way. You are good with people. I could see you in sales one day or in public relations. Don’t destroy your future by getting a criminal record. Given the chance, what would you like to do in life?’
‘I want to make a lot of money, Mr Collins,’ he had replied. ‘And have a Roller with a chauffeur.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything is possible, Thomas, if you believe in yourself and work hard. It’s what I try to teach everyone here. You don’t have to go down a criminal path to make money, you just have to make the right choices.’
‘And what would they be? What are the right choices to make a lot of money?’
‘I’ll tell you what I would do if I wanted to become rich. I think I’d become a property developer or a banker. Or –’ he hesitated and smiled – ‘I might start a religion!’
26
Sunday, 26 February
It was one of those cold but almost impossibly beautiful February mornings, where a sparkling cobweb dew lay across the grass either side of the fairway of the first hole at the Dyke Golf Club.
Exercise had always been Ross’s way of dealing with stress, and despite all his turmoil over Harry Cook, he decided to play today. Also, it would help his appalling hangover, he hoped. But his mind was clouded with deep dismay over what had happened to Cook, and about the two sets of compass coordinates he would now never have. Coordinates someone had wanted badly enough to kill the old man?
Coordinates that he needed to progress any story he could write about him.
He tugged his driver out of his flashy new bag – a Christmas present from Imogen – rummaged inside for a ball and laid his bag on the ground. He held the ball up and read the markings. ‘Titleist 4,’ he announced to his partner. Then, for a moment, he took in the spectacular view across acres of farmland, down to the single chimney of Shoreham power station and the English Channel beyond. But his mind was somewhere way beyond that.
Hodge, who had won the toss, went first. He planted his red tee into the soft, moist soil, placed his ball on top, then lumbered into position, bending his knees and arching his back. He had a couple of swings, then took a step forward, tapped the grass behind his ball a couple of times with the club head and gave a mighty swipe.
There was just a faint, sweet click. Ross watched the ball rise dead straight into the air, losing sight of it for an instant against the bright sky, then saw it land a good two hundred and fifty yards dead ahead, in the centre of the fairway, and roll.
‘Brilliant!’ he said. ‘Great shot.’
Hodge pursed his lips and nodded, looking very smug. ‘Not shit!’
Ross pushed his own tee into the ground and placed his ball on it. The ball fell off. He tried again and it fell off again. He felt like a hot wire was sawing through his brain. The third time, the ball stayed on.
He took his stance, made a practice swing, then stepped up to the ball and swung his club.
And totally missed the ball, doing an air shot.
‘Three off the tee,’ Hodge said, reproachfully, and looking even more smug. He pulled out a small cigar and lit it.
Ross took a couple more practice swings then stepped up to the ball again and swung his club. It struck the ground about a foot in front of the ball, sending a massive divot flying up into the air and landing a few feet away.
‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Shit!’
He replaced the divot and noticed the next group to play, a four-ball, were standing right beside them, watching, their patience being tested.
On his third attempt he managed a respectable shot, but it fell well short of his friend’s, lagging up behind a bush.
Ross’s performance wasn’t much better over the next two holes. He was totally distracted by his thoughts about Cook.
As they waited for a four-ball ahead of them to tee off at the sixth, Hodge relit his cigar and said, ‘What’s Imogen doing this morning?’
‘She was talking about going to Matins – she tries to go once a month or so.’
‘Do you ever go with her?’
‘Occasionally – mostly when it’s pissing with rain and golf isn’t an option.’ Ross grinned.
‘So where do you sit on religion these days? You’ve never really told me,’ Hodge asked. ‘Apart from trashing charlatan preachers.’
Ross smiled. Hodge was referring to a large piece he had written for the Sunday Times, about five years ago, on the world’s richest evangelists. The Wesley Wenceslas Ministries in the UK had threatened to sue the newspaper for wha
t he had written about Wesley Wenceslas. The lawyers had only dropped the allegations after the paper threatened to publish the pastor’s former criminal record.
‘We were brought up by not particularly religious Christian parents. Then when I was fourteen my mum, who my brother and I adored, got sick with cancer. I prayed every night for her and she still died, three months later. I stopped praying after that – just lost all my faith. Our dad brought us up on his own. Then something very strange happened some years ago that I just can’t explain.’
‘What was that?’
‘Haven’t I told you about it? Ricky, my identical twin brother?’
‘No.’
‘He died in a freak accident. He was a couple of hundred miles away but I felt an incredibly strong connection with him, for – I don’t know – at least a minute or two – which I found out later was at the exact time he died.’
‘I’ve read about identical twins having some kind of telepathy. Maybe that’s what happened to you?’
Ross shook his head. ‘No, it was way more than that – I had a distinct mystical experience. It’s hard to explain without sounding crazy, so I don’t tend to talk about it.’
‘And that’s turned you into a believer?’
‘Not in God – but in the sense that there might be a bigger picture.’
Hodge puffed on his cigar. ‘This guy, Dr Cook, right?’
‘Yes?’
‘Which God is he talking about? Anglican, Catholic, Judaic, Islamic? Hindu? Sikh? Rastafarian?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Ross gave his friend a quizzical look. ‘You’re a pretty hard-core atheist, right?’
Hodge nodded as he watched, through a wisp of smoke, the incredibly slow four-ball ahead finally move off the tee. ‘Yep, I have a big problem. Stephen Fry was talking about it a while ago and summed it up beautifully. He was saying if God really did create us, what kind of a sick mind did he have to create a parasite that only thrives inside the eye of a child, that burrows from the inside of the eyeball outwards, and the sole purpose for its existence is to blind children?’