by Peter James
The big story.
Where actually was he on it? What would today bring?
When the package arrived from his solicitor he might know a lot more.
He reflected on some of his conversations in the past couple of days: the MI5 man, Stuart Ivens, in the motorway service station, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Italian last night, Giuseppe Silvestri.
That man bothered him. There was something deeply sinister beneath his charm.
Vatican Emissary.
What did that actually mean? Henchman to the Pope?
When he had been studying journalism at college in London, back in his late teens, many of his fellow students had dreamed of the big story. One of the lecturers there, whom he had really liked, Jim Coheny, was a laid-back guy with an impressive track record himself. One rather drunken evening in a pub, Coheny told him there were a million stories to write about every day. But a really big one only came along once in a decade or maybe even once in a lifetime. It wouldn’t always be immediately obvious. Intuition, tenacity, perseverance, belief in yourself and gambling everything, in equal measure, were what it took to get that one, Coheny told him. Coheny cited every reporter’s dream, the scoop of Woodward and Bernstein in 1972, when they’d exposed the Watergate scandal and brought down the US president, Richard Nixon.
Then Coheny had looked him in the eye. ‘If that opportunity ever falls your way, Ross, no matter what the cost, seize it. That will be your chance for your day in the sun. You’ll know it in your heart when it comes. It could be the difference between you having, one day, your own column in The Times or the Guardian or whatever, or ending your career writing about village fetes and lost dogs for some provincial rag on its last legs. You have it, kid. You have the cojones. I sense it in you. Don’t let me down.’ He had put his pint down, then tapped his own ears. ‘Listen.’ Then he pointed at his own eyes. ‘Watch.’ Then he raised his arms and curled his fingers into claws and hissed, ‘Pounce!’
Ross would have liked to talk to Coheny now, get his advice on what he should do, but the reporter had been killed in Syria five years ago, working on a piece about ISIS. His big story, Ross wondered?
Thinking of Coheny reminded him of his grandfather’s words shortly before he died, telling him never to be frightened to make the right choices.
But he was feeling deeply depressed. And in a strange space. Alone.
Imogen had fled and their home had been trashed. Their finances were bad. The Sunday Times editor was clearly running out of patience. The events of the past weeks had been traumatizing and he realized he should be more scared himself. But he wasn’t. Perhaps he was too tired to think straight, just operating on autopilot?
Should he call Silvestri and negotiate?
And then? Perhaps walk away financially secure?
Could he ever live with that?
Live with the memory of those wistful eyes of Harry Cook, just weeks ago? And the knowledge that he might have done something of real value for mankind, but instead took the money and ran. And just how far could you run in a world that was falling apart?
He thought of Coheny’s words again.
Intuition, tenacity, perseverance, belief in yourself and gambling everything, in equal measure, is what it takes.
The big one. Imogen knew his dream and had always supported him – until the break-in.
His mobile phone rang.
‘Ross Hunter,’ he answered.
‘How’s your day looking?’ said a breezy female voice he instantly recognized.
‘You’re here already, Sally?’
‘On the train.’
‘Do you have lunch plans?’
‘Nothing I can’t move for the man who has proof of God.’
He smiled, his spirits instantly lifted. ‘Anything you particularly like to eat?’
‘Born-again Christians. Grilled, preferably.’
‘Fishy ones?’
‘Fish is good. Very Christian.’
He arranged to meet her at English’s restaurant at 1 p.m. After he ended the call to Sally he rang and booked a table.
95
Thursday, 16 March
The directors of Kerr Kluge were assembled in the top-floor boardroom. Each of them had a copy of the document, downloaded from the memory stick Julius Helmsley had finally obtained from his Monaco contact.
Ainsley Bloor read out the coordinates on it.
34°4'56.42''N 118°22'56.52''W'
The computer screen on the wall above them showed a street map of West Hollywood, Los Angeles.
‘Nice work, Julius,’ Bloor said, his voice laced with bitterness. ‘Do you realize how big this area is? Anything you’d like to add?’
‘This is what the Birmingham solicitor, Anholt-Sperry, had in his file, presumably to give to the reporter Ross Hunter,’ Helmsley replied.
‘Can you refine the search area? What exactly are we supposed to be looking for?’
‘We know one thing, Ainsley,’ Helmsley said. ‘We’ve thwarted Hunter by getting this.’
Bloor stared at him. ‘So far we’ve failed to get what Ross Hunter was after in Chalice Well. We’ve failed to get what he was after in Egypt. Now we have something he was after but we don’t know what it is, right? A map without a key.’
‘Perhaps Mr Hunter has the key but not the map?’ suggested Alan Gittings, the Head of Research and Development.
‘Look, has it occurred to any of us we might be going about this the wrong way?’ said Ron Mason, the director Bloor most trusted on his team.
‘In what sense, Ron?’ Julius Helmsley asked.
Mason laid in front of him a sheet of printout. ‘This is Ross Hunter’s current financial position. Have a read.’
Helmsley turned the document round and studied it. ‘Mortgage of four hundred and fifty thousand and he’s asked his bank for a repayment holiday. He’s almost at his overdraft limit of ten thousand. Eight hundred pounds of credit left on his AmEx. Fifteen hundred on his Visa.’
‘What does that tell us?’ Mason pressed.
‘As we already knew, he needs money. Badly,’ Helmsley replied.
Bloor smiled. ‘What is our company motto, Julius?’
‘The company that cares.’
‘So, go and talk to him. Offer to pay his mortgage off, clear his cards and a nice lump sum on top; way more than his paper would ever pay him.’ Bloor smiled, baring his immaculate white teeth. ‘To show we care.’
96
Thursday, 16 March
Detective Constable Mike Harris was shocked and sympathetic in equal measures about what he saw on the walls of the house. He’d heard back from CSI Alex Call that there was no new evidence, and asked Ross what he thought might have provoked this.
Because of his worry about bugs, Ross took Harris outside and told him the truth about Harry Cook’s original call and visit, and what he had found at Cook’s home – and gave him the name of the Birmingham DCI, Martin Starr. He also told him what he knew of Robert Anholt-Sperry’s death. Harris said that he would follow up with DCI Starr.
Moments after the detective left, the envelope arrived from his solicitor.
He opened it in the kitchen and removed the document that had been enhanced by ATGC onto a plain sheet of paper. On it were handwritten compass coordinates:
34°4'56.42''N 118°22'56.52''W
He went up to his office, opened up Google Earth and entered the coordinates in the search box. After some seconds, a section of West Hollywood zoomed in. It showed as the intersection of Fairfax and Melrose. Were the coordinates deliberately vague, he wondered, as they had been for Chalice Well, putting him in the vicinity but not the precise spot?
He went to the street-view setting and navigated around. He saw a small shopping mall; the Fairfax Farmers Market; a cosmetic dental lab; a gas station; then a large complex of buildings and open space, Fairfax High School; cafes; bars; shops; a shabby blue structure, like a large shack, with a yellow hoarding advertising itself as CENTER
FOLD NEWS STAND.
What was he supposed to be looking for? This didn’t exactly look like the area where a tumultuous event would occur. But then neither had a stable in Bethlehem, most probably.
He stopped and thought back to Anholt-Sperry. Remembering his words.
Come back to me once you have found what awaits you at the second set of coordinates. Then you will know for sure . . . With the third you will find the location of the Second Coming of Christ himself.
He felt a sudden beat of excitement. An idea that might work. Could it?
He looked up Jolene Thomas’s number, went outside and dialled it on one of his burners. She answered after just two rings.
He identified himself.
‘Hello, Mr Hunter!’ she said, breezily. ‘Did your documents arrive safely?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘There’s something I wonder if you could help me with.’
‘I’ll try!’
‘DNA databases. Can you tell me, are there separate national and international databases for standard DNA, mitochondrial DNA and Y-STR DNA?’
‘Yes, there are, completely. By far the most comprehensive are the standard DNA databases – there’s pretty much worldwide coverage with these now among law-enforcement agencies – subject to the privacy rules of certain countries, and certain states within the USA. Mitochondrial databases are less comprehensive. And the Y-STR is sort of the new kid on the block – that has the fewest databases currently. It will change, but it will be several years before it catches up with standard DNA.’
‘To make sure I have it absolutely clear in my head, standard DNA is different for every human being?’
‘Correct – except for identical twins and, in rare cases, identical triplets.’
‘And mitochondrial is the female DNA – and that passes down through the female line unchanged?’
‘Yes.’
‘For generations, right?’
‘Yes, it does, it goes down through the bloodline. Mother to daughter to granddaughter ad infinitum, completely unchanged.’
‘And the Y-STR does the same thing, but down the male line?’
‘Yes, for as long as the male line continues. It has a great deal of value in paternity testing – and in genealogy. But you have to be aware there can sometimes be mutations – and the longer the line, the more chance there is.’
‘How big is that chance?’
‘Pretty small.’
‘Small enough to be unlikely?’
‘Yes, very. But you need to be aware of the possibility, always.’
Ross was jotting down notes. ‘You said that there are not that many Y-STR DNA databases at present.’
‘Correct.’
‘Where are the biggest databases, currently?’
‘For Y-STR?’
‘Yes.’
‘There are a few in the UK now, and growing. A number in Europe – and the Czech Republic, for some reason, has been very progressive in this area.’
‘What about America?’ he asked.
‘Yes, there are quite a number there. New York State, Illinois, Florida; the biggest actually is in Southern California.’
‘Southern California?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know if they have an equally big mitochondrial database there?’
‘Yes, they do – actually much bigger at this stage than their Y-STR.’
‘Can anyone access these databases? Would I be able to?’ he asked.
‘No, they are all strictly protected. Here in the UK they fall under the Data Protection Act – for instance, I wouldn’t even be permitted to let you have your own DNA if it was on a database. The overseas ones would depend on the individual laws of each country – or American state. In some places law enforcement agencies can access them freely, in others they’d require a court order.’
As Ross thanked Jolene and ended the call, excitement thrummed inside him.
Southern California.
Los Angeles was in Southern California.
97
Thursday, 16 March
Ross looked down at the notes he had just made from his conversation with the DNA scientist. All strictly protected.
He looked at his watch. 11.55 a.m. He had to leave in a quarter of an hour, latest, to get into town and park in time for his lunch meeting with Sally. He needed to access the databases. Somehow.
How?
Then he thought of someone who could help him.
He was aware that although it was approaching midday, it was still the middle of the night for the nocturnal computer hacker. The oddball didn’t like to be disturbed until late afternoon, at the very earliest. Too bad. He looked up Zack Boxx’s number, went out into the garden and dialled it on a burner.
After several rings, it was answered by a very bleary-sounding voice.
‘Yrrr?’
‘Zack, it’s Ross Hunter.’
‘Yrrr.’
There was a long silence. Ross waited patiently but there was no sound.
‘Zack?’
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’
‘Midday.’
‘Not in San Francisco. It’s four in the morning, for God’s sake, Ross!’
‘Are you in San Francisco?’
‘No, I’m not, I’m in Brighton. Trying to get some sleep. What do you want?’
‘I need some help.’
‘I already gave you some. Shit. You want free help?’
‘I’m willing to pay.’
‘That would be a first.’
‘I’m serious. Can I come over and talk to you? I don’t trust the phones. Are you in the same place?’
‘You mean mentally? Physically? Geographically? Astronomically? Astrologically?’
‘Residentially.’
‘Actually, I’m living in a nice condominium on Mars, since you asked. Seems to be the smart place these days. My earthly residence is still Elm Grove, Brighton, but for hopefully not too much longer.’
‘Long enough for me to get over to see you? Urgently?’
‘Can it wait till four o’clock this afternoon?’
‘That would be good.’
‘Fine. Until then, sod off and let me go back to sleep.’
98
Thursday, 16 March
A large, round platter of West Mersea oysters was placed in front of them, on a tall metal stand, along with lemons, dishes of vinaigrette with chopped onion and buttered brown bread.
Sally looked great. Raising his wine glass, Ross said, ‘Cheers!’
They clinked glasses.
‘It’s very good to see you again,’ he said.
‘Funny you should say that, I was thinking the same thing.’ She gave him a cheeky grin.
‘So, you’re in town, interviewing writers,’ he fished. ‘Who have you talked to so far?’
‘William Shaw and Elly Griffiths – they’re both lovely. And a wonderfully whacky food writer called Andrew Kay. Do you know any of them?’
Ross nodded. ‘Yep, Andrew Kay does a lot with the local media and he’s an interesting novelist, too. I’ve read both Shaw and Griffiths – very good writers.’
‘So, how is Mr God?’ she asked. ‘Or is it Mrs?’
‘Good question.’
‘What’s happening with your article? Have you written it yet?’ She picked up a shell, squeezed lemon onto the oyster, spooned on some vinaigrette, then tipped the contents of the shell into her mouth, chewed once and swallowed.
‘Wow!’ she said. ‘Sensational!’ She raised her glass and drank some more. ‘OK, Interesting times, you said in your text. So?’
Guardedly, Ross brought the radio presenter up to speed, telling her as much as he wanted to share with her. He was careful to keep back the LA coordinates.
When he had finished she looked at him in silence. ‘So where do you go from here?’
‘Honestly?’
She nodded.
‘I’m increasingly getting the strong message from my w
ife that if I want to save our marriage, then I should sell out.’
‘To sleazy Mr Silvestri?’
‘Take the Vatican’s shilling.’
‘And will you?’
‘I’m not a quitter, Sally. Everything is totally surreal at the moment. But I can’t stop now – I think I’m in too deep.’ He looked hard at her, smiling, then took a sip of his wine. ‘Tell me, have you spoken to your uncle again at all?’
‘Creepy Uncle Julius Helmsley?’
Very interested in this comment, he asked, ‘Why do you say creepy?’
‘Have you ever seen a picture of him?’
‘Yes, I googled the board of Kerr Kluge.’
‘He’s one of those people that kind of make you want to wash your hands – or have a bath – after you’ve been in his company. He’s pervy.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s never come on to me, but I just feel it – always have. It’s the way he looks – with those ridiculous red glasses and his stupid hairstyle, and he never makes eye contact when he talks to you – he sort of stares past you. Uggggh! He always seems so superior and condescending. Whenever he used to come to our home when I was a child he would arrive all la-di-da aloof. Him with his grand London house and his weekend country estate, and all of that.’
‘What’s his wife like?’
‘An ice queen. Mum was arty, a bit chaotic – bohemian. My aunt Antonia was always cold and hard – very into science. My mum tolerated Antonia because she was her sister, but I don’t think they ever got on that well.’ She hesitated and blushed. ‘Actually – this may sound pathetic – but my uncle Julius pretty much killed Christmas for me when I was six.’
‘I love Christmas – that doesn’t sound pathetic at all. What happened, what did he do?’
‘He and my aunt had come over to spend Christmas Day with us. We had the tree, all the presents under it, you know, all the fun stuff. He took me aside, sat me down in a quiet room and spent half an hour very solemnly explaining, scientifically, why Santa Claus could not exist. He went through the lot – how reindeer did not have wings, so they couldn’t fly. And he’d done the maths, which he showed me in elaborate, easy-to-understand diagrams. He pointed out just how many homes there were in England alone – something like twenty-five million – and that if Santa spent just two minutes at each of them, it would take him 34,000 days – about ninety-five years. I can still remember his expression – it was really cruel, as if he was getting huge pleasure from telling me.’