by Alex Archer
“Gunmen?” Doug said. “That sucks.”
“I know, tell me about it,” Annja replied, but Doug went on as if he hadn’t even heard her.
“We can’t use gunmen in the show. Way too boring, never mind overdone. Bog mummies on the other hand…”
Annja scowled. “Don’t even start, Doug.”
“But surely you can see that…”
She felt her head starting to throb. “Doug!” she snapped.
He was silent for a moment.
“You know, you could be a little nicer to me sometimes. All I’m trying to do is help you with your career.”
“I don’t need help with my career. I want you to help me get out of this mess and find out who’s behind it all.”
Doug sighed. “Okay, okay. What do you need?”
She described both the torc and the tattoos she’d seen on the arms of the gunmen as best she was able. “Use the research team and see if you can come up with any information on either of them, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. What do you want me to tell the police?”
She didn’t want him to tell them anything, but she knew that wasn’t a realistic option. As her employer, they were probably already sniffing around him, waiting to see if he had any information on her whereabouts. She might not be a formal suspect yet, but she knew that status wouldn’t last too long the minute they found out she was alive and well.
“I don’t care what you tell them. Stall them any way you can. I need some time to run down these leads so I have a better idea of what’s going on.”
Doug perked up considerably at her reply. “Don’t worry about it, Annja. I’ll handle things on this end. Call me later—maybe the research team will have something by then.”
Before she could say anything more, he hung up.
18
D.I. Beresford was in the midst of his lunch in the cramped little room that served as his office when his phone rang with a call from the desk sergeant downstairs.
“I’ve got a guy down here claiming he’s got information for you on that Midlands thing.”
Beresford glanced at the half-eaten meal on his desk. “He look legit?”
Ever since the news had broken the night before, the tip line had been flooded by hundreds of calls. Each and every one of them had to be investigated, no matter how unlikely or even ridiculous they might sound. Beresford couldn’t afford to get sidetracked with wild-goose chases and he’d had more than his fair share of meetings with well-meaning but mistaken citizens convinced that the neighbor they don’t really care for down the street was up to no good.
“The guy’s a priest,” the sergeant replied.
From the tone of the man’s voice, Beresford wasn’t sure if that meant the sergeant felt the witness was completely trustworthy or exactly the opposite. Nor could he find a way to ask without insulting the man.
“Send him up,” he said with a longing glance at the lunch he knew he’d never get the chance to finish.
A few minutes later a uniformed officer led a harried-looking young man into his office. He was of average height and build, with sandy hair cropped comfortably short but not too much so, and he was wearing the official uniform of the Catholic church—black clerical shirt and pants.
Beresford knew that if he’d passed him on the street, he wouldn’t have looked twice.
The detective inspector introduced himself, learning the newcomer’s name in the process.
“What can I do for you, Father Anderson?” he asked, waving the other man into the seat before his desk.
Anderson eyed the chair like it might bite, frowning all the while. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before,” he said, looking around the room as if searching for some hint as to how to do what he’d come here to do.
The inspector smiled, trying to put the man at ease. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened?” he suggested as the other man finally sat down. “The desk sergeant said you have some information about the events that occurred recently near Arkholme, is that correct?”
The priest nodded, opened his mouth to say something and then changed his mind about whatever it was. Instead, he asked, “What if what I have to tell you can get me in trouble?”
Beresford’s expression didn’t change, but his level of interest did. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be the typically useless interview, after all.
“Do you mean with the diocese or with the law?” he asked.
Anderson winced, perhaps to hear it put so plainly, but answered nonetheless.
“The law.”
Beresford shrugged. “That would depend on what happened and exactly which laws were broken. Would you like to have an attorney present before we go any further?”
The question was one he didn’t like asking, as the suggestion of having an attorney present often derailed a witness’s level of cooperation, but it was one that had to be asked, if only to be sure everything that was said during the rest of the conversation could be used as evidence if it ever came to that.
Anderson surprised him, however, by waving the suggestion aside.
“No, no, that’s all right. It’s in God’s hands at this point, anyway.”
Beresford nodded. He didn’t quite believe that himself, but he certainly wasn’t going to argue with the man. If he didn’t want a lawyer present, that was his business.
He waited for the other man to continue.
Anderson hesitated, trying to figure out what to say, and then seemed to make up his mind to just let it all out in a rush.
“I picked up a hitchhiker yesterday. I think it was the American that’s gone missing, this Annja Creed woman.”
Beresford wasn’t surprised; he’d heard something similar, if not those exact words, at least half a dozen times already that morning. Never mind the three-hundred-some odd sighting reports that had come in over the anonymous tip line in the past twelve hours. People were seeing the missing television host everywhere.
“Where were you when this happened, Father?”
“About fifteen miles south of Arkholme, on the M6,” was the reply.
Beresford’s interest perked a little. That was in the right place at the right time at least.
“Did she introduce herself to you as Annja Creed?”
Anderson shook his head. “No, she just said her name was Amy.”
Amy, Annja. Both started with A. Easy to remember, too.
“Can you describe her to me?”
Anderson did so, noting the hazel eyes and the ponytail of dark hair. It was a good description, the kind with just enough details to make it believable, to make it seem that the priest had indeed seen someone who at least looked a lot like Creed, but Beresford wasn’t quite convinced. After all, the woman’s photograph had been featured in just about every major newspaper and popular magazine in the London area for at least the past twelve hours. Perhaps he’d just seen it there.
“Sounds like it could be her, but then again it sounds like it could be a hundred other American tourists, too,” Beresford said. “Are you a fan of her show?”
“Me? Oh, heaven’s no. I don’t watch that kind of thing.”
“So why do you think it was her?”
“Well, it wasn’t so much her as it was the two men in the other car trying to kill us.”
He said it so bluntly, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment Beresford wasn’t certain if he’d heard him correctly. When he realized he had, he sat up straighter in his chair.
“Someone tried to kill you?”
The priest nodded. “I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t come up with any other explanation. Why else would they try to run us off the road?”
Why else indeed? Beresford thought, his pulse pounding as his instincts told him they were about to get a break in the case.
“Tell me what happened,” Beresford commanded and, this time, Anderson did.
He described how he’d seen a woman walking alone on the side of the road and how he’d stopped to see if she
needed any help. She’d told him she’d had some trouble with her boyfriend and that the lout had kicked her out of the car. Anderson had offered to give her a lift back into the city as he was headed that way, as well.
Shortly after she’d gotten into the car, a dark-colored Mercedes raced up behind them and rammed the rear of his vehicle.
By now Beresford was taking notes, capturing his first impressions of the individual who’d entered Anderson’s car. At the top of his list he wrote “Already being pursued?” After that he put “Who/Why?”
“You’re sure it was a Mercedes?” he asked, his pencil poised over his legal pad.
Anderson nodded. “The hood ornament was clearly visible.”
“You said dark-colored. Can you be more specific?”
“I think it was black, though it might have been dark blue.”
“License number?”
The priest shook his head. “Sorry.”
“You’re doing fine, Father. Keep going.”
Anderson explained how “Amy” had used the hymnals he’d had in the backseat as makeshift weapons, forcing the other vehicle to keep its distance by throwing them at the windshield of the Mercedes.
“Stays calm under pressure,” Beresford wrote.
“That seemed to work for a time. They kept their distance and I was starting to hope that we’d be okay if we could just find somewhere less isolated. I assumed they wouldn’t continue attacking us in front of witnesses, you know?”
Beresford had been a police officer long enough to know that the presence of witnesses very rarely kept anyone from violence. After all, show the same scene to five different people and you got five different versions of it. Eyewitness testimony was horribly inaccurate.
He didn’t, however, say anything of the sort to Father Anderson.
“That’s a reasonable assumption,” he said instead. “Is that how you managed to escape? By finding someplace a bit more lively?”
For the first time since sitting down, Anderson actually smiled, though it was still a sad, bitter smile. “Heck, no,” he said. “That’s when they started shooting at us.”
“Shooting at you?” Beresford was starting to feel like a broken record, dumbly repeating what was said to him. But as crazy as the story sounded, he found himself believing the young priest. What did he have to gain by lying, after all?
“So what did you do at that point?”
“Do?” Anderson asked, apparently surprised by the question. “I didn’t do anything, unless you count quaking in fear as an action. I was terrified. It was all I could do to hold the wheel steady as the maniac behind me tried to run me off the road while his partner in the passenger seat was turning my car into a lead pincushion.”
“But you obviously got away, so something must have happened to allow that, right?”
Anderson tensed. “You asked me what I did. I didn’t do anything.”
Based on his reaction, Beresford knew that they had arrived at that part of the story that had prompted the priest to ask about the possibility of prosecution earlier for whatever happened next. It was a delicate moment and one that could just as easily have ended up with Anderson clamming up as much as it could with him relaying the rest of the tale.
Not wanting to lose what was turning out to be a star witness, Beresford said, “So far everything you’ve told me fits squarely into the category of self-defense. They attacked you on the road and, being afraid for your life, you defended yourself. Pretty cut-and-dry to me.”
The best part about his statement was that it was true; it did sound like self-defense. Of course, depending on what happened next, that could quickly change, but he hadn’t lied to the man. If that kept him talking…
Anderson considered that for a moment, nodded as if he’d realized the wisdom of the detective’s statement and then continued.
As Beresford listened closely, Anderson went on to describe how “Amy” had convinced him to let the other car catch up and then, at the last minute, he slammed on the brakes. He and his hitchhiking passenger had been prepared for it—all buckled up and expecting the collision—but the men in the Mercedes had not. The two vehicles collided with steel-shattering force, bringing them both to a shuttering halt.
“That’s when she pulled out a sword, climbed through the shattered rear window and attacked the men in the Mercedes!”
“A sword?” Beresford asked, not certain he’d heard correctly. “I thought you said you didn’t have any weapons?”
“I didn’t think we did. But suddenly this woman is waving a sword that’s longer than my arm and rushing off to do battle with the people who’d just been shooting at us moments before!”
Beresford was about to ask where on earth she could have gotten a sword, but then realized he knew the answer already. If it was Annja Creed, and his gut was telling him that it was, then she had probably taken it from the dig site. Her possession of it might also explain why she was being pursued, if the simple fact that she was a potential witness to a multiple homicide, and therefore needed silencing, wasn’t reason enough. He couldn’t imagine what a group like the Red Hand Defenders would want with an Iron Age sword, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have a reason. Perhaps it had a certain financial value and they intended to sell it on the black market in order to finance other projects. Or maybe its value was in its historical significance, something that would support the RHD’s fight for Irish autonomy and independence.
The fact was, he didn’t know.
Yet.
But he would.
He turned his attention back to his guest. “What happened after Amy charged the other vehicle?”
Anderson glanced away, unable, or perhaps just unwilling, to meet Beresford’s gaze. A long moment passed before he sighed and said, “She killed them.”
The detective wouldn’t let it go at that. “How?” he asked.
A look of distaste crossed the priest’s face, but he answered nonetheless. “She stabbed them, I think.”
Remembering the massive puncture wound he’d seen on one of the bodies they’d found in the roadside ditch, Beresford wasn’t all that surprised to hear it. “Did you see her actually kill them?” he asked.
This time the priest shook his head.
“No, it happened so fast that I was still in my car for most of it. By the time I got out, the men were dead and she was staring at them through the open door of their car.”
Beresford sat back and considered things for a moment. The way he saw it, there were two possible scenarios. One, Creed witnessed the massacre at the dig site, escaped the killers somehow and was now running for her life. Or two, she had been working with the killers, had double-crossed them at the last minute and was now running for her life with whatever it was she had stolen from them.
A sword, perhaps?
If Creed was on the run from those who’d murdered her colleagues, why hadn’t she contacted the police? Half a day had passed since the confrontation on the highway. There’d certainly been ample time for her to get to a phone and report what happened to the authorities and yet she’d chosen not to. That made it seem like she was intentionally avoiding the police, which lent some credence to the second scenario. Yet nothing he’d read in the thin file they’d managed to put together since learning she’d been present at the dig site and was now missing gave any indication that she was involved in illegal activities of any kind. In fact, on more than one occasion, she’d personally disrupted the activities of international artifact smugglers and black marketeers.
It just wasn’t adding up.
“Did she threaten you at all, Father?” Beresford asked.
“No.”
“Even after you found her with the two dead men?”
“No, not even then. Though I have to admit that I didn’t wait around for an explanation either. Seeing her with that sword in hand, I decided prudence was the better part of valor and got myself, and my car, out of there as quickly as possible.”
“And
she didn’t try to stop you?”
He shook his head.
Now that makes things a bit more interesting, Beresford thought. Clearly she hadn’t been worried about being seen or recognized by Anderson, nor had she moved to cover up her actions in any way.
Given the file and the fact that she hadn’t sought to silence Anderson, Beresford was beginning to think that perhaps Anja Creed was on the side of the angels, after all.
He spent another ten minutes with Anderson, but didn’t get anything more of importance from him. He thanked him for coming in, reiterated that he’d done the right thing and said that he’d be in touch.
19
Already regretting giving Doug a free hand to talk to the police, Annja headed back to her hotel. The clerk barely gave her a glance as she crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs to her room.
Once inside, she used the hotel’s Wi-Fi service to log onto the internet. She’d had to put a deposit on the bed-sheets when she’d rented the room, and the beat-up old color television on the dresser nearby was bolted down to keep it from being stolen, but the hotel’s wireless service was better than most at airports. Shows where their priorities are, she thought humorlessly. Given the amount of research she had to do, she reminded herself she couldn’t complain.
It was time to learn more about this mysterious torc.
Celtic jewelry had exploded in popularity over the past few years and a simple Google search for “Celtic torc” turned up more than half a million sites, the majority of them selling replicas of one type or another. Mixed throughout, however, were articles discussing the history, manufacturing methods and significance of this type of jewelry, and Annja spent several hours digging through them for anything that might help her in identifying the importance of this particular torc.
She learned quite a bit in the process, such as the fact that the word torc was derived from the Latin torques which meant twisted bar. She discovered that one of the earliest images depicting Celtic gods and warriors wearing a torc around their necks could be found on the side of a silver cauldron from the first century unearthed at Gundestrup in Denmark. While it was interesting reading, it was all general in nature and not particularly helpful with identifying the one she had in her possession.