by Peter James
Udin shook his head, drew on his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘No, Ross, I don’t believe they have this thought at all. What they see is the value of possessing the only items in existence containing Jesus Christ’s DNA. The marketing value of this for them is incalculable.’
With a grin, Ross said, ‘Maybe I should offer them a deal?’
‘I think you will find that the Devil doesn’t negotiate, my friend.’
61
Friday, 10 March
Driving back down towards Brighton, Ross kept an extra close eye on his mirrors. Several times he pulled over, at random. Waiting as the traffic roared past him. He could see no sign of anyone following him. Yet he did not dismiss Hussam Udin’s warning.
But how did Udin know? How did his people know? Udin said the people who had tried to kill him in Egypt were in the pharmaceutical business. Was the blind cleric right?
How did these people, whoever they were, know about him or what he had?
Why would—?
A chill rippled through him as something came back to him.
Shit.
There was a lay-by a couple of hundred yards ahead. A bus stop. He pulled into it, shaking.
His conversation with Sally Hughes.
My uncle’s a trustee of Chalice Well . . .
Julius Helmsley. He’s a director of a pharmaceutical company . . .
Ross picked up his phone, googled the name Kerr Kluge and looked at the list of directors.
And saw the name, Julius Helmsley. Chief Operating Officer.
He sat thinking for some minutes. Were they the people in Egypt? Was it one of their henchmen who had kicked him in the face as he emerged from the well, and taken his bag? The one he had planted, containing the biscuit tin and christening mug he had bought in Lewes Flea Market?
He drove on, a plan forming in his mind. After a few miles, he saw a shopping mall coming up on his right, and turned into it. A short distance ahead he saw a large hoarding listing the stores in the mall. As he had hoped, one said CARPHONE WAREHOUSE. He parked, locked the Audi and entered the mall.
Fifteen minutes later he returned to his car holding a plastic carrier bag. It contained a roll of small stickers he had bought in a stationery shop and two fully charged and loaded pay-as-you-go mobile phones – ‘burners’ as criminals would call them, as they tended to make one call only and discard them, so they could not be traced.
He sat and labelled the phones, marking them 1 and 2. Then he removed from his wallet the business card Sally had given him, and with mobile 1 dialled her number.
It rang five times, then went to voicemail.
‘Hi, this is Sally, I’m busy, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’
‘Hi, Sally, it’s Ross Hunter. Could you give me a call back on this number – it should have come up on your phone.’
He drove out of the car park and pulled out back onto the A23, watching vigilantly once more for anyone who might be holding back, waiting to follow him, but saw no sign of anything suspicious.
As he drove on, he lapsed back into his thoughts. If the ATGC report on the DNA showed a connection between the tooth and the cup, what could he do? There had to be a way of writing his story that would take him and Imogen out of danger, surely? What about if he simply went public? Perhaps after getting the final set of coordinates from that strange old solicitor in Birmingham, Robert Anholt-Sperry? Put it all out into the public domain. Then walk away from it.
His iPhone began ringing.
‘Ross Hunter,’ he answered.
‘Mr Hunter, it’s DCI Martin Starr from Birmingham Major Crime Unit, we met briefly at the station when you gave your statement about Dr Cook.’
‘Yes, hi.’
‘Are you able to talk?’
‘I’m driving but I’m on hands-free.’
‘Would you prefer to speak on a landline when you have stopped?’
‘No, I’ll pull over. Hold on a sec, there’s a turn-off just ahead.’
Ross pulled off the main road and halted the car. ‘OK,’ he said.
‘Can you tell me again, Mr Hunter, why you entered the premises of Rose Cottage, Newhurst Village, rather than calling the police?’
He thought carefully before answering. ‘Yes – I had met Dr Harry F. Cook, earlier that week. He had contacted me some days before, telling me he had been told I was the journalist who could help him regarding – this may sound strange to you – proof of God’s existence.’
‘I see.’ Starr sounded deadpan. And a tad cynical. ‘Told by who, sir?’
Ross hesitated. ‘A representative of God.’
‘A representative of God?’
‘I did at the time consider Dr Cook a bit of a crackpot, but I was intrigued – enough to meet him and hear his story.’
‘And you did?’
‘He came down to my home in Sussex and told me more.’
‘About proof of God?’ The detective’s voice was sounding more sceptical by the minute.
‘Yes.’
‘I see. And what happened?’
‘I decided after meeting him that he was a bit – shall we say, politely – earnest, but –’
‘But what, sir?’
‘A bit of a – well, a bit deluded.’
‘Yet you decided, subsequently, to drive all the way from Brighton to Worcestershire to meet him?’
‘Well, I called him on Thursday night to tell him I didn’t think I could help him. But he implored me to meet him. He said he had some information for me that would change my mind. I’m a journalist, so I thought I should at least hear him out.’
‘Then you went to his house, where you found the deceased?’
‘I did.’
‘And the moment you found his body, you called the police?’
‘Correct.’
‘Did Dr Cook at any time mention any enemies to you, Mr Hunter? Any fanatics who might not share his views?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Are you aware of anyone who might have been upset by him?’
‘I’m not, no.’
‘I appreciate you’ve already given my colleagues a statement. If I require a further statement from you, would you be willing to talk to us again? We could come down to you if that is more convenient?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hunter. That’s all for now. I’ll be in touch again.’
As Ross ended the call, and was about to drive off, he heard an unfamiliar ring tone. It was from one of his new burners. The one he had used to call Sally. He answered it.
‘Hello, Ross!’ Her voice sounded even warmer and friendlier than he remembered.
‘Hi, Sally, how are you doing?’
‘Yep, OK, you?’
‘Well, fine – I think,’ he replied.
‘It’s refreshing to hear a friendly voice. I just came off air with one of our great knights of the theatre. What a pompous prat – it was like having to be interviewed on provincial radio was beneath him. He gave me an evasive answer to every question. So are you looking forward to your play coming to the Bristol Hippodrome, Sir William? Oh my love, should I be? I understand you’ve wanted to play the role of Archie Rice all your life? Not true, my love. Do you have any unfulfilled ambition, Sir William – is there a role you want to play? I’ve played them all, my dear.’
‘I hope you stuffed him.’
‘I wish I had. There are a million things I wish I’d thought of at the time.’
‘There’s a great Oscar Wilde line about that,’ Ross said. ‘He was at a party with the painter, Whistler, and Whistler made a very witty remark. “I wish I’d said that,” Oscar Wilde replied. To which Whistler retorted, “You will, Oscar, you will!”’
She laughed. ‘I so much enjoyed our interview – lovely to talk to someone who is smart, fun and has no ego.’
‘Sorry I disappointed you, in that case.’
‘Not remotely. You were a lot more interesting than mo
st of the people I have on my show.’
‘You’re very kind. So, the reason I called is I wonder if I could have another chat with you – off the record? Something very important.’
‘Sure – over the phone or do you want to meet?’
‘It would be better to meet.’
‘I’m around this weekend, then I’m away skiing for a few days.’
He thought quickly. Bristol was about three hours’ drive from home. They were going to a party at the Hodges tomorrow night – it was Helen’s birthday and he would be in seriously bad odour with Imogen if he ducked out of that. ‘How about I get to you around lunchtime on Sunday? Perhaps we could have a quick pub lunch?’
‘A quick one?’ She sounded disappointed. ‘I think a long one would be much nicer.’
Again, he felt the same vibe he had as when he had first met her – that frisson of attraction between them. It excited him and he knew it shouldn’t. But he didn’t want it to stop. At the same time, he wondered what her real motives were. Was she being duplicitous in some way?
‘A long lunch sounds very nice indeed,’ he said.
62
Sunday, 12 March
As Ross expected, Imogen was seriously unimpressed that he was spending Sunday driving to Bristol and back. Her sister, Virginia, brother-in-law, Ben, and their three children were coming over for lunch and a walk, and secretly he was very glad to be missing them. Her sister was a virtuous prig who frowned on alcohol, and was always the ‘designated’ driver, and he had, years ago, run out of conversation with her heavy boozer husband who never had anything of interest to say, and repeated himself interminably the drunker he got.
Sally, dressed in tight jeans, suede boots and white blouse, looked stunning, and was already waiting for him at a wooden table in the busy modern pub. A bottle of Rioja sat in front of her.
‘Sorry to be late,’ he said.
‘No need to apologize. Glass of wine?’
She poured it without waiting for a reply, and pushed a menu at him. ‘There are specials on the board. I’m going to have French onion soup and the roast – they do a brilliant roast beef on Sundays.’
‘Sounds good, I’ll have the same.’
‘So, Mr Ross Hunter, famous journalist, what is so important for you to give up a Sunday to come all this way to have lunch with a provincial radio hack?’
He found himself struggling to keep their meeting formal. ‘When we talked before you mentioned your uncle, Julius?’
‘Julius Helmsley?’
‘Right. You said he’s on the board of a pharmaceutical company?’
‘Yes, pretty high up.’
‘Remind me which company he’s with?’ he asked to doublecheck.
‘Kerr Kluge.’
‘Just a little outfit.’
‘Indeed.’ She smiled. ‘I think they’re ranked third in the world.’
‘Can you tell me a bit about your uncle?’
‘Sure, what would you like to know?’
He sipped some wine and nodded approvingly at her choice. He raised the glass. ‘This is seriously good.’
‘Averys of Bristol – this city’s economy was partly founded on the wine trade.’
‘Of course.’
He tried to avoid her gaze, but was finding it difficult. ‘What kind of a guy is your uncle?’
‘We’re not close. He’s my late mother’s brother-in-law, I think I told you. She died last year.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No apology necessary. She had a virulent strain of breast cancer.’ Sally poured more wine into her glass, which was nearly empty, and was about to top his up when he put a hand over his glass.
‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a long drive.’
‘Have you ever lost someone close to you?’ she asked.
‘I have, yes.’
‘You told me when we talked after the show that something had happened to you that turned you from being a sceptical agnostic into – maybe not exactly a believer, but had opened your mind. You said it was too personal to talk about. Are you ready to talk about it now?’
‘How about I trade you?’
‘Trade me?’
‘If I tell you all I can about why I changed, will you tell me about your uncle – like – everything about him?’
She gave him another smile. ‘OK.’
He told her about the morning Ricky died, and what had happened to him in the gym in Brighton, and she listened intently, almost spellbound. When he had finished, she said, ‘Ross, this is incredible. I interviewed a doctor who’d made a study of near-death experiences and had written a book about them. A couple of the stories he told me were very similar to what happened to you.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I read up a lot about it at the time. There’s all kinds of theories, about telepathy, about the brain’s shutting-down processes.’
‘And about life after death?’ she queried.
He smiled. ‘I guess one day we’ll find out – or not.’
‘I’d really like to talk more about this sometime,’ she said. ‘It really fascinates me, I think there’s something in it.’
‘OK, I’m happy to talk more.’
‘I think you should write a book about it. Then I could have you back on the show promoting it.’
‘Maybe I will one day. Right, your turn!’
‘OK. The thing is, Uncle Julius was always a bit odd when I was a child. He liked to show me chemical experiments – such as making stink bombs and magnesium flashes. Like he was a magician. But more recently I’ve pretty much lost any connection with him. I’ve tried to get him on my show but he’s not interested. They’re a very secretive organization – like most pharmaceutical companies. They’re protective of everything – all their patents – and what they have in development. Why are you interested in him?’
‘Just curious.’
She tilted her head. ‘Really. You came all this way to ask me about my uncle – I think that makes you more than just curious!’
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Apologizing to Sally, he pulled it out and answered it. ‘Hello?’
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Jolene Thomas from ATGC Forensics.’
‘Oh, hi!’ he said, giving another apologetic signal to the presenter.
‘I thought you would like to know. I’ve just heard from the lab that we’ve the initial results for you on the two items. Sorry it’s a bit later than I’d hoped, the tooth took more time. Could you come over tomorrow? We can go through them and I’ll explain what they mean.’
‘Have you a match between them?’
‘I’m afraid for security reasons I’m not permitted to say anything over the phone.’
He thanked her and ended the call.
‘Good news?’ Sally Hughes quizzed.
63
Monday, 13 March
Ross detoured via Lewes on his way up to the ATGC Forensics labs. He pulled into the Needlemakers car park, stuck a one-hour pay and display sticker in his windscreen, then hurried down again to the antiques emporium that he and Imogen loved visiting occasionally at weekends, round the corner.
Forty minutes later he was back in his car and heading north towards Kingston, south-west of London. As had become the norm, now – paranoia perhaps – he kept a careful check in his mirrors for any signs that he was being followed. He changed his speed frequently to try to flush someone out, accelerating up to 95 mph in short bursts, then dropping back to 50 mph.
He parked and walked through into the entrance to the main building, strode across to the reception desk and said that Jolene Thomas was expecting him. The receptionist tore off the visitors’ form on which he wrote his name, car registration and time of arrival and folded it inside a tag on a lanyard. He put it on.
A few minutes later the young forensic scientist appeared, wearing an elegant green dress, and took him up in the lift to the second floor. They walked along a labyrinth of crea
m-painted corridors, through a series of double doors, then stopped outside another double doorway leading off to the right. On the wall beside it was a black sign with white lettering, headed SCENE OF CRIME.
Beneath was indicated: LABS 1/15, 1/18, 1/20, 1/21, 1/22.
Underneath were more: LABS 1/1, 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/8.
And beneath that:
SPECIALIST DNA FORENSIC DNA DEPARTMENT
LABS 1/10, 1/12, 1/13
FNDAS
LAB 1/14
She saw Ross looking, baffled, at the signs and grinned. ‘We deliberately don’t make it easy for any strangers to navigate around here. All part of our security, as most of our work in this section is on DNA evidence for police forces.’
‘Good to know,’ he said, aware of the warning from Hussam Udin, and his recent experiences. ‘Have you ever had any breakins?’
‘Touch wood, no. We’re aware that plenty of criminals would dearly like to get their hands on some of the evidence we are processing – and destroy it. But everything that comes in here is allocated a code, and is only known to the staff by that code. Even if someone hacked our computer system, which is pretty secure, they wouldn’t know where to start looking.’
‘I can see that,’ Ross said as he followed her into another labyrinth, glancing at the signs.
BONE EXTRACTION LABORATORY 1/22
DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR WITHOUT GLOVES AND A FACE MASK
WARNING! DO NOT ENTER ROOM IF THE ALARM ABOVE THE DOOR IS FLASHING ORANGE
Jolene finally stopped at a door with a tiny glass and wire mesh panel. She held a tag up to a reader, tapped in a code and then went through, holding the door for him.
He entered a long, open-plan room, with about twenty people hunched over workstations, all seemingly deep in concentration. She walked across to a vacant terminal towards the far end, pulled up a chair for him and sat down beside Ross. She tapped in a password on the keyboard. Beneath the monitor on the cluttered desktop was a box of tissues, a stack of paperwork and a cardboard coffee cup with the plastic lid on.
The screen came to life. Down to the left appeared what looked like an index list, rows of figures that were meaningless to him. In the centre of the screen were several columns of pairs of spindly spikes, of different heights, each topped with a small disc with a number above it.