The Sixth Soul

by Mark Roberts

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Well, Capaneus’s book, you see, is history written by the so-called losers. It’s Satan’s reply to the Holy Bible. It’s Satan’s side of the story. Some of the individual books that make up the whole piece even have the same names as the books in the Holy Bible. There’s a Book of Genesis, Exodus, Job – they’re all in there.’

  ‘The Capaneusian Bible, then,’ said Rosen.

  ‘Oh, very good,’ replied Flint, bringing his hands together in a single clap. ‘The Capaneusian Bible, what a neat title you’ve come up with, David.’

  Rosen eyed the clock, ignored Flint’s patronizing tone and asked, ‘What about the second part?’

  ‘The New Testament of Capaneus? In part it’s a prophetic vision, in part a guidebook. The prophetic vision tells the future story of what will happen when Satan comes to earth in spirit to take on human form. You look perplexed, David. Think Jesus Christ in first-century Judea, now flip it on its head and think Satan Morningstar in the twenty-first century, right here. The guidebook’s there for anyone willing to conjure up the Satanic spirit and act as host. That’s where this killer comes in. He’s had access to the information in the Capaneusian Bible. Your killer’s been out there gathering in carriers – that’s Capaneus’s specific term for pregnant mothers and souls, unborn babies not corrupted by original sin. In Capaneus’s view, when the child is born it draws in original sin with its first breath, gets contaminated by the air around it at the moment it becomes an independent human. If it is taken from the womb, the soul remains in the body untouched by original sin. It’s partly written in Latin, the language of the empire that subjugated Jesus and his people, and it’s partly written in first-century Aramaic, the language that would have been spoken by the Messiah. It’s part mockery, part blasphemy.’

  I want to go home, thought Rosen. I want to go away, far, far away.

  ‘Are you all right, David?’

  ‘For the killer to know all this . . . is it a widely circulated book in occult circles?’

  Father Sebastian laughed. ‘No. Not at all. I believe there’s only one copy in the whole world.’

  ‘And that’s in the British Library?’ Rosen spoke his thought aloud.

  ‘No. The Vatican.’

  ‘You had access to it when you were at the Vatican?’

  ‘No. The Holy Father’s the only human being allowed to look at it and, if the account I read today is accurate, Pope Pius XII was the last pope to do so. Besides, I had absolutely no interest in Capaneus at that time. He was barely a footnote.’

  ‘Today, then, today you’ve found out all this information?’

  ‘Today, but not from the book itself, of course. Secondary sources – second-hand accounts if you like – in a whole range of antiquarian books. Some are in the British Library, others will probably be in the Bodleian, the Carnegie, all the major libraries of the world. That’s why I went to the British Library today, to refresh my memory from a range of other sources. You’ve got to understand, David, this book’s been buried by the Church, absolutely suppressed for centuries. Just as the Florentines suppressed the name of Alessio Capaneus, and tried to wipe his memory from the face of the earth, so the Church has tried to wipe out his account of the dawn of time and this manifesto for the overturning of the universe.’

  ‘What if he succeeds?’

  ‘Who, David? What if who succeeds?’

  ‘Julia Caton’s killer.’

  ‘If he follows the Capaneusian Bible, there’ll be six dead mothers and six dead babies. I don’t need to tell you the religious significance of the number six. You don’t strike me as a believer. You don’t believe, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe in the possibility of a Satanic revolution.’

  ‘You know, for a clever man, that’s a rather dim point of view.’

  ‘I’m an equal-opportunities sceptic. I don’t believe in God, either.’

  ‘Sadistic rabbi, was it? Turned you against the Lord?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or are you the kind of atheist who thinks nothing so bad’s ever going to befall them so they don’t need a little heavenly help?’

  ‘I’m a policeman. I do evidence, hard evidence; stuff that will stand up in court.’

  ‘I see. This scepticism, did it come from your father?’

  ‘How’s the killer accessing this information if it’s so buried, if it’s so scattered?’

  ‘Time’s marching on, David. I shall miss my train if I don’t go now.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Father Sebastian. Let me get this straight. The killer thinks that by killing six women and hacking out their foetuses, he’s going to unleash a force of evil in the universe and he’s going to come out as king in this newly Satanized world – ?’

  Sebastian smiled. ‘Crazy, absolutely crazy. Right? You know it’s nuts. But he’s a believer and those beliefs, however you view them, have resulted in five dead women, five dead foetuses, so far. Just as Hitler believed he could wipe out your tribe. Like emptying the sea with a thimble. A deluded and idiotic belief. However, the end result was the end result. If you’ve got a problem computing this in terms of theology and Satanism, then think of what’s going on in London as a . . . as a mini Holocaust. I hope I’ve been of some help to you, David. And I wish you well with the ongoing investigation.’

  Sebastian placed the empty water bottle on the ground, smiled at Rosen and said, ‘I guess we’re done.’

  ‘How can an individual get access to a book that’s buried in the Vatican and is written in first-century Aramaic?’

  ‘The same way I saw much of it this afternoon. That’s where your visit to St Mark’s came in so handy. The Church can suppress a book until the College of Cardinals is collectively blue in the face. The problem is that suppression of information’s a thing of the past. The internet, Detective Rosen. My guess is, your killer’s getting it all off the World Wide Web. I checked the computers at the British Library this afternoon. I wish we had one at St Mark’s. The Capaneusian Bible is largely but not completely online.’

  ‘How can that be?’ asked Rosen. ‘We put his name into the search engine back at St Mark’s and nothing came up. We did an in-depth search at Isaac Street and nothing came up there, either.’

  ‘The book isn’t really called the Capaneusian Bible or the Book of Alessio Capaneus,’ explained Flint. ‘It’s called something else entirely different.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘I need to board my train.’

  ‘What is it called? This book?’

  ‘Oh, it’s very simple. It’s called A. Does that speak of significance in your case, David? A for Alessio, maybe . . .’

  Rosen pictured five dead women, their faces, their bodies, at the points where they were dropped off. An image formed of the map with those five places marked, and the shape that was emerging.

  ‘A,’ said Flint. ‘Maybe an initial from a name or maybe A for alpha. Alpha, David: the first letter, the opening sound, the beginning, the brand-new beginning heralded by the Satanic revolution. I have to tell you, there is no omega to this alpha. I’m convinced there is no concept of an end to the torments that this brand-new world promises. Alpha, it’s the opening word of A’s Book of Genesis. Alpha, just that, just that. Goodbye, David. Brother Aidan awaits me.’

  ‘Body drop-off number six – it’ll be at the midpoint of Vauxhall Bridge Road. That’ll form a nice crooked bridge between body dropoffs two and three. I think you’re right about the “A”; I think you’re right because I’ve seen a pattern.’

  Rosen felt the satisfaction of having slapped someone in the face.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, David.’

  ‘Next time you’re in London, buy a map and visit an internet café. Google the case. Check it out.’

  Rosen fixed his gaze in neutral.

  ‘Maybe I should,’ said the priest.

  You’re an arrogant bastard, thought Rosen.

  ‘God bless you, David Rosen. You’ll need His b
lessing one day, even if you don’t believe in Him.’

  Father Sebastian turned away and made for the barrier. Rosen kept his eyes clamped onto the priest’s back but also kept the water bottle firmly in his field of vision.

  Bellwood, armed with a commuter’s briefcase and a copy of a glossy magazine, appeared and melted into the tide following the priest.

  Father Sebastian walked past the barrier, blending into a stream of people heading for the same platform.

  In the moment that Flint was no longer distinguishable from the flowing mass of humanity, a station cleaner stepped in front of David and stooped to pick up the bottle.

  ‘Stop! Don’t you touch that!’ The cleaner froze, shock and fear on his face at Rosen’s sharp command. ‘Don’t touch the bottle.’ Rosen flashed his warrant card and picked up the bottle at the base, using his thumb and forefinger. The neck of the bottle had something on it that was of particular interest to him.

  He returned the way he had come, careful to sidestep people coming the other way who might brush against his prize.

  He was consumed with purpose, and grateful for the sense of direction that went with it. He would need to bring in civilian IT support.

  In his car, he snatched an evidence bag from the glove compartment and secured the water bottle.

  Taking out his mobile, he scrolled through his contacts and came to Karen Jones of ICT, a civilian computer specialist and the soul of discretion. He called her.

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘David? You don’t sound too good.’

  ‘I’m OK. Listen, it’s probably a cinch to find . . .’ He explained the bare bones of what Flint had told him. ‘Can you find anything about this thing, this A, this Capaneusian Bible? Dig as deep as you can.’

  ‘I take it mum’s the word?’ said Karen.

  ‘Mum is indeed the word,’ said Rosen, as he turned on the ignition and shifted into gear.

  35

  On the platform, the station guard slammed shut the last open door of the train and raised his whistle to his mouth.

  On the 17.15 train from London Charing Cross to Ramsgate, Carol Bellwood sat seven seats behind Father Sebastian. There was standing room only for the commuters and the journey promised to be short of fresh air.

  He was sitting next to the aisle, two seats away from the door. She’d picked a seat that gave her the best unobstructed view of her mark. A heavy inward surge of passengers at Chatham Station, the next along, and a shuffling of bodies up the aisle would be enough to completely obstruct her view of him.

  She stood up to gain a better view of the priest.

  Just before the train doors closed at Chatham Station, she felt a tightening in her stomach, expecting him to rise and calmly get off at the last moment, leaving her behind. But he didn’t. He remained where he was, and she was struck by his stillness in the milling of bodies around the doors. Even the woman sitting next to him, and the people opposite, seemed over-animated as they sat staring at newspapers and into space.

  A newspaper unfolded just in front of him. There was a photograph on the front page of the Evening Standard of the white tent around Julia Caton’s corpse and, next to this, a picture of Julia from her wedding day. It was close to Sebastian, just diagonally across the aisle from him. Still, his head was set like stone.

  At Gillingham, Bellwood’s adrenalin pumped. A handful of people left the train but many more boarded, forcing door-hangers further down the aisle and making the carriage uncomfortably full.

  In the jostling of bodies, a lone mother, tired and stressed to the point of tears, double buggy in tow with two crying children under the age of three, struggled to find a space between the doors and the aisle. As the doors slid shut and the train pulled out of Gillingham, no one moved a muscle to help her.

  Then Father Sebastian stood up. He was taller than he’d appeared at Charing Cross. He caught the woman’s attention and spoke to her, but it was clear she didn’t follow his English. He spoke again. Bellwood struggled to hear but couldn’t make it out through the din of the moving train, but the woman’s expression shifted to one of understanding.

  Father Sebastian reached out and, in a single motion, took the buggy from the woman, folded it and stored it in the coat rack above. He indicated the seat he’d occupied and with her children in tow, she edged past the passengers to take it.

  Flint half turned to smile down at the woman and Bellwood caught his profile. He would be handsome when he was an old man – his bone structure was good; his immense good looks were not the fleeting gift of time.

  The woman spoke to him and he listened. There was clearly a problem with the wriggling children in the space-to-adult ratio of the double-facing seats.

  Flint made a suggestion, waited a moment and then leaned down to pick up the older of the two children, a boy of about two and a half years.

  In his arms, the fractious child settled, smiled and raised a hand towards Flint’s face. Then, Flint turned slowly, slowly, his profile clear once more.

  Bellwood felt her spine stiffen. The boy’s fingers were inside Flint’s mouth. The mother’s voice cut across the carriage as she ordered her child to remove them in a language Bellwood didn’t understand.

  Flint tugged the boy’s hand away as he turned his back on Bellwood. He replied to the mother in a calm voice, in her own language, telling her, Bellwood guessed, not to worry, children will be children . . .

  By Sittingbourne, the passengers thinned out, but Flint still stood, his body rocking slightly, his head now moving with the motion of a nursery rhyme or some song for bedtime. The boy laid his head on Flint’s shoulder and by Sheerness-on-Sea was fast asleep.

  At Faversham, Flint reclaimed a seat, with the sleeping child on his lap, and returned to the stillness of his former self, the complete, unassailable self-possession that was as remarkable as it was enviable.

  The automated voice and the electronic noticeboard told the passengers that Canterbury East was the next stop. Tenderly, Flint handed the child to his mother and made his way to the door.

  Bellwood tried to imagine what it would be like to utterly dismiss the prospect of tenderness, intimacy and sex, as he had done by pledging himself to God and the Church.

  She stood up and shuffled down the aisle, her magazine open. Cosmopolitan. ‘How to Have First-Time Sex Every Time.’

  The train slowed.

  He glanced back not at her but at the magazine, and she shut it fast, suddenly blushing to the roots of her hair, embarrassed by what she was apparently reading.

  Handsome, calm, a natural with children. It was a waste of a man.

  The train stopped but the doors remained closed. As he reached to press ‘open’, between his coat sleeve and the hem of his glove, she caught sight of a wound on his wrist. The white scar looked like the result of a blow from a heavy blade, the edge of a machete perhaps. She looked up. He was gazing back at her. The doors opened.

  ‘After you?’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, and stepped off the train. Bodies flowed past on either side of her but he was not among them. She stopped.

  She turned slightly and almost bumped into him as he came the other way. His hand grasped her shoulder and slid down a few inches. He said, ‘I beg your pardon.’

  She nodded. And on he went.

  She followed him. As he headed for the taxi rank outside the station, she waved as if saying goodbye to a friend still on board the train. When she waved, DS Corrigan, in the private hire car he’d occupied at the head of the taxi rank since half past five, caught sight of Father Sebastian approaching his passenger door.

  ‘St Mark’s,’ said the priest.

  ‘Get in,’ Bellwood heard Corrigan reply.

  Bellwood watched the car go and, reaching in her bag for a cigarette, remembered she’d quit many years ago.

  She called Rosen. ‘He’s in the car with Corrigan.’

  ‘Any incident?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Good jo
b, Carol, well done.’

  Bellwood didn’t agree with Rosen, but said nothing.

  In the space of a single train journey from Charing Cross to Canterbury East, station by station, she had grown steadily and more deeply attracted to the man she’d been tailing. And, as she made her way to the meeting point with Corrigan, who would drive her back to London once he’d dropped off Flint, she wished her mother had been there. She wished her mother had been there to give her a damn good slap in the face.

  36

  At just after half past eight, Corrigan and Bellwood arrived back at the incident room. Feldman and Gold had already begun the eye-watering task of viewing a combination of over twenty-four hours of footage from the British Library’s CCTV, both interior and exterior.

  Rosen called them all together.

  ‘Let’s do it chronologically.’ He turned to Feldman. ‘Take it from the point where I passed over to you, Mike, in the reading room at the British Library.’

  Feldman held his hands up. ‘He read, he got up and stretched his legs, he visited the toilet, he read . . .’

  ‘How long was he in the toilet?’

  ‘Half a minute to a minute. Time to pee and wash his hands. He went to the café and had lunch.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Tap water and an apple. He went back and read. At four o’clock, he went to the John Ritblat Gallery and looked at the old manuscripts.’

  ‘Did he talk to anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone sit with him in the reading room?’

  ‘Lots of people sat near and around him, coming and going, but no one engaged with him and he didn’t engage with any of the other readers. Then he made his way to the front entrance.’

  Gold picked up the baton.

  ‘Feldman joined me in the entrance and, separately, we followed him on the tube to Charing Cross. We waited on the concourse until you met up with him.’

  ‘He got the train to Canterbury East,’ said Bellwood. ‘He has a way with small children, he’s very good with little kids. He engaged with a mother struggling with her little ones, but that was all.’