“Which means he knew Quayle.”
“And Gruner also provided false passports.”
“Dutch passports.”
“Like Quayle’s.”
“Which, once again, a man might prefer not to leave open to the possibility of interception.”
“Hello, Mr. Sellars.”
“Who happens to be moving back and forth between England and the Continent on behalf of Carenor.”
“A seemingly respectable company.”
“Maybe even an actual respectable company.”
“But unlikely.”
“Agreed.”
Hendricksen finished his beer.
“Do you two do this often?” he asked.
“Do what?” asked Angel.
“The Koot en Bie act.”
“The what?”
“Dutch comedians. A double act.”
“Oh,” said Angel. He had no idea what Dutch comedy might be like, and was pretty sure he didn’t want to find out. “Only when it might be annoying to other people.”
“Can you send us what you have on Sellars and Carenor?” Louis asked Hendricksen.
“It’s on my laptop, back in the car. Why don’t you let me take you and your friend to the airport? It will save Paulus a trip, and allow mijnheer De Jaager to return to Amsterdam and concentrate on investigating the death of Eva Meertens in his own way.”
Louis and Angel had no objection. They said goodbye to De Jaager amid exhaust fumes and the growls of big rigs, and turned toward Brussels. Before they left the parking lot, Hendricksen e-mailed a series of files to a Dropbox folder, to be accessed by Louis at his convenience. Louis would share the details with Parker later.
The three men spoke occasionally on the journey, but were mostly quiet. There was no awkwardness, though, because that was not the kind of men they were.
Hendricksen drove. Angel returned to dozing.
And Louis thought of Quayle, and Pallida Mors, and tried to work out which of them he wanted to kill more. The latter, he decided: not just because she’d put two bullets in him; not even because of the depth of her corruption, and the bodies she had left in her wake, perhaps Eva Meertens’s among them; but because of what she represented. She was Pale Death, and he was her opposite. Just as Parker was coming for Quayle, he was coming for Mors.
And he, the last of the Reapers, would cut her down.
CHAPTER LXXXVI
Priestman had wanted to be present when the police entered Gary Holmby’s residence. In retrospect, Hynes thought, she should probably have waited outside, because he certainly wished he had. The body lay on the bed, already buzzing with flies. All the windows in the apartment were closed, and the heating was turned up, so it was oppressively warm. Decomposition commences with death, although it usually takes close to twenty-four hours before the odor becomes particularly noticeable, let alone unpleasant. In the swelter of the confined space, Gary Holmby had begun to smell bad.
“What do you think?” Priestman asked, as Hynes stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, and to rustle up some Vicks VapoRub from the CSI team.
“The room temperature has botched things up a bit in terms of a time of death, and he’s bled a lot, so I wouldn’t be making guesses based on lividity,” said Hynes. “But he’s stiff as a board, so he’s been dead for twelve hours at least, I’d say. Which means he hasn’t been e-mailing images of dead women, not unless they have the Internet wherever he’s gone.”
“No sign of a laptop?”
“Only his own, so far. Romana Moon owned a PC, but it looks like Gary Holmby was an Apple guy all the way. The bedroom had been turned over before we got there, though. Whoever killed Gary could have taken the laptop with them, if e-mails were still being sent from it earlier today. I can’t see anyone wanting to hang around in the apartment, not without a mask.”
“The second set of e-mails didn’t come from here,” said Priestman. “They came from a Starbucks in Kingston Park.” Kingston Park was a northern suburb of Newcastle.
“Cameras?”
“We’re looking, but there’s a big Tesco supermarket nearby. Someone could have sat in the car park and piggybacked on the Starbucks Wi-Fi. We’re accessing the security footage to see if we can come up with a list of vehicles.”
The VapoRub was produced, and Hynes gave his upper lip and nostrils a good smear. He was already suited and booted in full barrier clothing. Priestman would leave the scene to him and the CSI team. Examining a dead man’s home wasn’t her job. Gackowska, meanwhile, was already on her way to the Holmby residence in Middlesbrough, and had been tasked with supervising the search for Karl Holmby.
“There are empty beer bottles inside,” said Hynes, “and pizza boxes, but no signs of crusts or crumbs, which is odd. No receipt, either. If they were delivered to the building, there should be a delivery docket somewhere nearby, but we haven’t found one yet. We’ll contact the pizza company, see what it has on its records. We also have an unopened bottle of tequila, some limes, and a pack of nachos in a bag on the hall table, along with a credit card receipt in Holmby’s wallet from shortly after ten last night, courtesy of a fancy convenience store within walking distance of here.”
“So he probably had company,” said Priestman. “His brother?”
“We’ve only just begun canvassing the other residents, but we already have a woman down the hall who remembers seeing someone who might have been Karl Holmby arrive late yesterday afternoon.”
It was possible that Karl could have acquired a gun, or even found one belonging to Gary in the apartment, but why use it to kill his brother? If Karl had sent the e-mails, what was he doing with Moon’s PC? He had an alibi for the night she died—multiple alibis, in fact. He couldn’t have murdered her, yet somehow her computer had ended up in Gary Holmby’s flat. Could Gary have murdered Romana Moon, only to have his brother find out and kill him in revenge? But then why disseminate pictures of her mutilated body, along with images of what appeared to be a second victim, Kathy Hicks, to media outlets both respectable and otherwise?
Meanwhile, violence continued to spread because of those pictures. Priestman had already been in touch with the Avon and Somerset Police to agree to a joint approach, since they had been looking into the disappearance of Hicks, which meant that three separate forces were now involved in the investigation, given Essex and Kent’s jurisdiction over the Helen Wylie killing. Already it had been decided to reveal the fact of the discovery of another misbaha at the scene of the Wylie killing, and to do so within the hour. Better that the police should tell the public than to have it appear on another anti-Muslim website. They could attribute to “operational requirements” their failure to share this detail before now, and hope the excuse flew.
Another press conference was scheduled for early the following morning, to be chaired jointly by representatives of the three forces. Their principal aim, in association with police around the country, would be to get the situation under control, and prevent any further bloodshed or damage to property. Good luck with that, Priestman thought. Someone, it seemed, wanted to start a religious and racial conflagration, and was doing a very good job of it so far, but she didn’t believe it was Karl Holmby. She wasn’t ruling him out as a suspect in the shooting of his brother, but the e-mailing of the photographs didn’t make sense to her. Could Karl be working with someone else, someone older and less scrupulous than he?
Then again, perhaps Karl Holmby was much brighter than she’d suspected, and had led them on a merry dance so far. In a way, she hoped this might be true, because the other possibility was that Karl wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was. If he hadn’t killed his brother, then he could have crossed paths with whoever had, and that seemed unlikely to bode well for Karl.
Daylight was continuing its slow dissolution into night, and Priestman was exhausted. She knew Hynes and Gackowska must be tired as well. Priestman wished she could tell them to go home and get some rest, but she wanted Hynes as her eyes in Gary
Holmby’s apartment, and Gackowska was searching for his brother, which also meant being entrusted with the death knock for the Holmbys’ mother. For that alone, Priestman would secure an extra day’s leave for Gackowska, once all this was over. She told Hynes to stay in touch, and call her with an update before he left, regardless of the hour. She then got in touch with Gackowska, who was working through a list of Karl Holmby’s friends and associates as part of the ongoing effort to trace him.
“How is their mother?” Priestman asked.
“She threw us out of the house before she could shed a tear. It’s now full of the kind of men and women who make a virtue out of not helping the police.”
“Do you think she’ll tell us if she hears from Karl?”
“Maybe. She’s not stupid, just one of the angriest women I’ve ever met.”
And she was now mourning her older son, which wouldn’t make her any less angry. Priestman thanked Gackowska, gave her the same instructions she’d given Hynes, and hung up. Her car was back at Wallsend, so she bummed a ride from a uniform. She was almost at the station when she swore, causing the officer to glance at her anxiously.
“Everything all right, ma’am?”
“No, but never mind.”
She had just remembered that the Moon family would be arriving on Monday to claim their daughter’s body from the mortuary. She couldn’t be present, but she thought someone from the force should be.
She’d make it happen. It was the best she could do.
CHAPTER LXXXVII
Parker’s flight north was delayed, before being canceled due to a technical problem with the aircraft. He and his fellow passengers were rebooked on a later flight, which meant he didn’t get into Newcastle until 7 p.m. He picked up a rental car at the airport, but saw no point in trying to negotiate the moors in the dark, so instead secured a room at the Malmaison on the city’s Quayside. A fog had descended, and he got lost in it on his way from the airport. He eventually crossed a bridge over the Tyne to enter the city, but the fog was by then so thick that he couldn’t see the river below, or even the end of the bridge itself. He found it deeply unsettling, and was grateful to reach the streets at last. As he drove to the hotel, he noticed a lot of police activity at one of the big apartment blocks nearby. When he got to his room, he turned on the local news and learned of the Holmby brothers—one missing, one dead—but the names meant nothing to him, not then.
Parker ordered room service, staring down at the dark river while he ate. His phone rang as he finished. Just a handful of people back home had the numbers he was using while abroad. All had been told to keep them private, and to call only if absolutely necessary. Now the display was showing Rachel Wolfe’s name. Relations between Parker and Sam’s mother had reached their nadir the previous fall, when Rachel had begun proceedings to restrict Parker’s access to his daughter. She’d elected to take that step following Sam’s brief, terrifying abduction by a man being hunted by her father. However painful it might have been for him, Parker was willing to agree to her terms, but something had changed Rachel’s mind. He hadn’t asked her what it was. She would tell him in her own time—perhaps. For the present, he was just relieved that he could continue to see his daughter without restriction.
“Rachel?”
“I hope you don’t mind me calling. I remember what you said about this number.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Sam wanted to speak to you, that’s all. I think she’s missing you.”
“Sure, put her on.”
“Where are you?”
“The northeast of England.”
“Are you okay?”
“So far.”
“Good. Stay that way. Here’s Sam.”
A rustling, then “Hello?”
Parker felt the piercing combination of joy and sorrow that came only from hearing the voice of one’s child while separated from her by a great distance.
“Hello, bear,” he said.
She liked it when he called her that. He wasn’t sure why. She would usually have responded in kind, but not this time, instead launching straight into tales of school, friends, her grandparents, and her mom—all, it seemed, without pausing even once for breath. Parker listened contentedly until the tone of her voice changed, and he knew that Rachel must have moved out of earshot.
“Daddy, Jennifer asked me to tell you something, and I agreed.”
In an instant, the texture of his surroundings appeared to alter, their shadows growing deeper. All sound was deadened, and the blackness of the river beyond the glass became like liquid night. He saw faces in the fog.
“What did she say?”
“That you have to be careful, that they’re in the glass of the church. They’re not just pictures. They’re real. Do you understand, Daddy? Because I’m not sure that I do. Jennifer says they’re in the glass. And they’re real.”
AN INCIDENT AT FAIRFORD, 1703
From the Reverend Edward Shipman of Fairford to the writer, Mr. Daniel Defoe, in response to his newspaper advertisement seeking first-hand accounts of the Great Storm of 1703, later published as part of The Storm (1704).
Honoured Sir,—In obedience to your request I have here sent you a particular account of the damages sustained in our parish by the late violent storm; and because that of our church is the most material which I have to impart to you, I shall therefore begin with it. It is the fineness of our church which magnifies our present loss, for in the whole it is a large and noble structure, composed within and without of ashler curiously wrought, and consisting of a stately roof in the middle, and two isles running a considerable length from one end of it to the other, makes a very beautiful figure. It is also adorned with 28 admired and celebrated windows, which, for the variety and fineness of the painted glass that was in them, do justly attract the eyes of all curious travellers to inspect and behold them; nor is it more famous for its glass, than newly renowned for the beauty of its seats and paving, both being chiefly the noble gift of that pious and worthy gentleman Andrew Barker, Esq., the late deceased lord of the manor. So that all things considered, it does equal, at least, if not exceed, any parochial church in England. Now that part of it which most of all felt the fury of the winds was a large middle west window, in dimension about 15 foot wide, and 25 foot high, it represents the general judgment, and is so fine a piece of art, that 1500l has formerly been bidden for it, a price, though very tempting, yet were the parishioners so just and honest as to refuse it. The upper part of this window, just above the place where our Saviour’s picture is drawn sitting on a rainbow, and the earth his footstool, is entirely ruined, and both sides are so shattered and torn, especially the left, that upon a general computation, a fourth part at least, is blown down and destroyed. The like fate has another, west window on the left side of the former, in dimension about 10 foot broad, and 15 foot high, sustained; the upper half of which is totally broke, excepting one stone munnel. Now if these were but ordinary glass, we might quickly compute what our repairs would cost, but we the more lament our misfortune herein, because the paint of these two, as of all the other windows in our church, is stained through the body of the glass; so that if that be true which is generally said, that this art is lost, then have we an irretrievable loss. There are other damages about our church, which, though not so great as the former, do yet as much testify how strong and boisterous the winds were, for they unbedded 3 sheets of lead upon the uppermost roof, and rolled them up like so much paper. Over the church porch, a large pinnacle and two battlements were blown down upon the leads of it, but resting there, and their fall being short, these will be repaired with little cost…
I have nothing more to add, unless it be the fall of several trees and ricks of hay amongst us, but these being so common everywhere, and not very many in number here, I shall conclude this tedious scribble, and subscribe myself,
Sir, Your Most Obedient And Humble Servant, Edw. Shipman, Vicar.
Fairford, Gloucest. January,
1704.
* * *
Shipman set aside his quill and rubbed his eyes. Behind him, his wife placed her hands upon his shoulders.
“You are doing the right thing, husband,” she said.
This was the second version of the letter he had written. The first was already consigned to the flames.
“But it is not a true account of all that took place,” he replied. “I fear I have lied by omission.”
“Yet can you explain those events?”
“No, I cannot.”
“And would you be believed, even if you could?”
“I do not know.”
“They would think you mad, or possessed.”
Shipman knew she was correct, but it did not make this concealment of the truth any easier to bear.
“I have begun to think that we should leave this place,” he said, “and seek another living.”
She kissed his pate tenderly.
“Your will is my will, but you now know more about this church than any man alive.”
“I may know more, but I understand in a lower degree.”
“Would you bequeath these problems to another, to one less capable of coping with them?”
“It is indeed my wish, at this moment, for you think me stronger than I am.”
“But is it what God would will?”
Shipman stood and embraced her.
“I fear,” he whispered, “that God’s will may have found some opposition here.”
* * *
The Reverend Edward Shipman had never been inclined to despair, not even before he found his vocation. He trusted in God, and God was hope, yet as he stared at the wreckage of his church, and the destruction wrought on its beautiful windows by the recent storm, he could not help but weep. The windows had survived the depredations of the Roundhead army in the previous century when William Oldysworth, hearing of the troops’ march to Circencester, had ordered the removal and concealment of the larger panes. In doing so, some of the glass had been damaged, and the restoration work that followed was, of necessity, poorer than the original; but better that than no windows at all, and for this alone Oldysworth had earned his seat by the Lord’s right hand.
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