by Mark Roberts
‘Detective Sergeant Riley,’ said the nun. ‘I’d respectfully request you don’t disturb Father James at the moment. He’s just come out of a seventy-two-hour vigil with a dying baby and her parents. The baby passed just over half an hour ago. He’s praying for the baby and her parents as we speak. He is... emotional, to say the least.’
‘I understand.’ I can almost certainly rule him out, thought Riley, glancing back through the glass into the chapel. ‘I don’t think I need to see Father James.’
‘Thank you for your understanding.’ The nun’s brow creased, as an idea formed in her head. ‘Do you want to see pictures of Father Mike and Father Timothy?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Please step inside the chaplaincy. There are photos on the staff notice board.’
Riley followed Sister Agnes inside. Close to the door was a large board full of smiling faces arranged in panels according to faith, with the individuals’ names printed underneath the portraits.
Riley skimmed and scanned the Muslims, the Sikhs, the Hindus, until she came to the Christian churches, and slowed down when she came to the three smiling portraits of Roman Catholic priests.
She looked at Father Mike Bolan, clean-shaven and half the age of Marta Ondřej’s visitor. She double-checked Father James Dwyer; he was in the same age range as the priest bearing rosary beads, but he was bald and facially entirely unlike him. Under a picture of a smiling Sister Agnes, Father Timothy Jones had acne and looked like he was only weeks out of the seminary. There was no one remotely like the visitor to Marta’s room.
Riley took out her iPhone and within three rings, DCI Eve Clay connected her call.
‘Eve, I’m pulling CCTV from the third floor of Alder Hey on Tuesday, 2nd December, 12 noon until 2 pm. Marta’s had a suspicious visitor. A priest, or a man dressed as a priest, brought her a gift of rosary beads. As more of her lights are turning on, the fleeting vision she had of the visitor has rattled her. She totalled the rosary beads. My alarm bells are ringing.’
‘Mine are ringing just as loud. Did you get a name from him?’
‘No.’ Riley felt sick to her core. ‘No, he was here and gone in under half a minute.’
‘How much sleep have you had in the past seventy hours?’
‘Not much.’
‘Pull the CCTV as you’ve already suggested, and we’ll see what we can nail down. Do you want me to put family liaison in for a few hours?’
‘No, Eve. I’m bonding with this kid and... Like I said, she’s coming out of her shell. I believe she’s going to crack open on the fuckers who’ve taken her and I think I can help her to do just that. It’s up to you. I think I’m of more use here than anywhere else. Your call? No right or wrong answer.’
‘Stay put for now. Get the CCTV footage and email me everything.’
84
9.45 am
En route to Kate Thorpe’s house, Clay drove past St Luke’s Roman Catholic Church on Albert Edward Road and looked at the dozens of terraced houses in Grant Avenue that had an uncluttered view of the Wavertree Mystery.
At the junction of Edward Albert Road and Grant Avenue, Clay stopped to let a car past. Looking at the presbytery, she decided she would rerun the interview with Lucy Bell and use the lecturer in a reconstruction of events on the morning Marta was discovered.
Clay turned onto Grant Avenue. Looking for Kate’s house she was surprised to see the old lady standing on the step, her front door open. Clay pulled up and, turning off her engine, saw an elderly man shuffling along the ice towards her.
Kate looked at the man and then turned to Clay as she got out of the car, raising a hand in greeting.
‘You wanted to see me,’ said Clay.
Kate nodded.
‘I’m Mr Rotherham,’ said the old man. ‘Are you DCI Eve Clay?’
She showed her warrant card and said, ‘Thank you for your call on behalf of Miss Thorpe.’
‘Thank you for calling me back and arranging this meeting,’ said Mr Rotherham, following Clay inside Kate Thorpe’s house. ‘I know a lot of what Kate wants to talk about. She has written much of it down for me. She was not always deaf and she’s good at lip reading.’
Kate Thorpe walked towards the kitchen at the back of the house.
‘She’s going to make us tea. She wants us to sit in the parlour.’
As she entered the room at the front of the house, Clay had the sense that she was walking into a religious art gallery. The three walls were lined with dozens of skilfully executed paintings of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus. In some pictures Mary and Jesus were on their own and in a few they were together.
Making her way to the bay window, Clay lifted the net curtain back and saw Lucy Bell coming out of the vestry next door to St Luke’s Roman Catholic Church.
Mr Rotherham stood at her side. ‘She’s the daughter of our parish priest.’
‘I’ve met both of them. Is Father Aaron a good priest?’
‘Like all of us, DCI Clay, sometimes he is good and sometimes he is not. He has a flaw in his character, as we all do.’
‘What is that flaw, Mr Rotherham?’
‘It would be wrong of me to discuss it with you because Father Aaron is not here to defend himself. But he has disappointed us greatly of late.’
‘I see.’
Clay watched Lucy Bell as she entered the Wavertree Mystery and saw her look back at Kate Thorpe’s house as she pulled the gate after herself. She made direct eye contact with Lucy, tried to explore her features from over the road, and saw that she was emotional. The sorrow in her face stiffened into confusion when she connected that it was Clay in her neighbour’s house.
Clay took out her iPhone, dialled Lucy’s mobile, and watched her fumble through her coat pockets for her phone. She answered it with her eyes fixed on Clay.
‘Hello, Lucy. I can see you.’
‘I can see you, DCI Clay. What are you doing in Miss Thorpe’s front room?’
‘She invited me to come and see her.’
‘About what?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘She has no language and is deaf. Do you want me to come and help? I’ve known her for a long time and understand much about her.’
‘Aren’t you on your way to uni?’
‘It’s Saturday today. I’m going to the Sydney Jones Library to work on my thesis.’
‘That’s good,’ said Clay. ‘You won’t be busy later on, will you?’
‘I have things to do.’
‘I’m organising a reconstruction of how you found Marta Ondřej. It’s going to be staged soon. We need you to take part. Please make sure you’re available and keep your phone on at all times. Goodbye, Lucy.’
She hung up but Lucy stayed where she was, looking back across the road. At the sound of teacups and saucers rattling on a wheeled trolley, Clay dropped the lace curtain but could still see Lucy as she walked into the park, moving at speed towards the spot where Marta was found.
Clay smiled as she turned. Miss Thorpe nodded towards an armchair, so Clay sat down as invited and looked around the walls at the framed religious paintings, noticing that they were all watercolours.
Miss Thorpe poured tea from a china pot and gave Clay a cup on a saucer.
‘Thank you. Did you paint these pictures, Miss Thorpe?’
She nodded, with a small proud smile, and sat on the end of a sofa close to Clay, with Mr Rotherham in the other armchair. Miss Thorpe caught his eye and pointed at Clay.
‘Miss Thorpe says she saw something on Thursday morning around the time the child was discovered by Lucy Bell.’
‘What did you see, Miss Thorpe?’
She shook her head, half-raised her hands and stared at Mr Rotherham’s mouth as he set to speak.
‘It’s too complicated for words,’ said Mr Rotherham. ‘She can’t put it into words or signs but she can make a picture for you. She is making that picture today, and she needs to get it right. She saw something crucial.�
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Miss Thorpe nodded and mouthed Thank you to her friend.
‘Do you want me to tell her about the pictures on the wall?’ He looked at Clay. ‘Go and have a close look at the picture above the fireplace, please.’
The heat from the real coal fire was welcome as the flames and smoke licked up the chimney.
Clay stood and moved to the painting. It was of the Virgin Mary, standing apart from people heading in both directions behind her. Dressed traditionally in blue and white with a veil around her hair, the thing that struck Clay was the Virgin’s face. It wasn’t the traditional beatific, unlined representation. She looked like many young mothers of small children, a little worn out and with the cares of the world upon her. Behind the figures was a stretch of water with the sun setting over the scene.
Clay turned and applauded Miss Thorpe, and enjoyed the smile on her face. ‘Miss Thorpe, can you do me a favour? Can you get a pen and a piece of paper and write down a few words about what you saw on Thursday morning?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m investigating a very, very serious crime and I haven’t got time on my side.’
Clay waited, but the old lady didn’t respond.
‘When will the picture of what you saw be ready, Miss Thorpe?’
‘She may be able to give it to you tomorrow,’ said Mr Rotherham. ‘She wants to know what you notice about the picture you’ve just been looking at?’
‘I notice it is made with skill, love, care and originality,’ replied Clay. ‘What about the water and the sunset? Again, beautifully executed in its detail.’
‘Sit down, please, DCI Clay,’ said Mr Rotherham. ‘I have something remarkable to tell you about Miss Thorpe.’
Clay took her seat near the old woman and smiled at her.
‘Miss Thorpe saw the Virgin Mary at sunset by the River Mersey. What you can see on that wall was what Miss Thorpe saw with her own eyes two months ago near the Albert Dock. All of these paintings are representations of what Miss Thorpe actually saw.’ He pointed at individual paintings as he spoke. ‘The Virgin Mary walking the infant Jesus over the road at the lights by Penny Lane. The Sacred Heart of Jesus floating above the lake in Sefton Park on a hot summer’s day. Look at the people lakeside. They’re all looking at the lake but they cannot see like Miss Thorpe.’
‘You’ve actually seen all this, Miss Thorpe?’
An enigmatic expression formed in her eyes and Clay picked out a picture on the wall behind her.
‘You’ve seen the Virgin Mary standing on the top of the Radio City Tower? In the flesh?’
Miss Thorpe nodded and the hope that Clay had briefly entertained crashed. ‘That’s amazing, Miss Thorpe, simply amazing.’ Clay drank two mouthfuls of tea and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it, and thank you for your hospitality. Let me know when you’ve finished your picture and we’ll arrange to view it. No, no, Mr Rotherham. Stay as you are. I’ll see myself out.’
On Grant Avenue, Clay looked at her watch and felt like some powerful energy at work in the universe was laughing hysterically at her expense.
85
10.15 am
In the incident room at Trinity Road Police Station, Detective Sergeant Karl Stone and Detective Constable Barney Cole sat in front of five sets of documents on the global fascist movement known as Black Sun.
Stone looked up at Eve Clay as she approached.
‘I got your call on my way over here, Karl. You told me you were ready to spill the gravy on Black Sun. I want to know what Barney’s artistic skills have led you to track down. Well done, both of you.’
‘The only cell that’s of any interest, as I see it at the moment, is the American one. The four non-English speaking ones, including the original Italian group, were more like gangs than organisations. You’d be hard pressed to describe the Japanese version of Black Sun as a gang. It was a husband and wife who were so inept that the man they tried to kidnap ended up handing them over to the police within half an hour of the bungled snatch.’
Stone pushed four of the files away and pointed at the one marked ‘USA’. ‘This is a bit more interesting.’ He opened it. ‘Have a look at that.’
Clay picked up a black and white photocopy of a picture of four men and three women dressed in the same uniform, standing under a white flag bearing the Black Sun logo. They all wore black trousers, baggy at the hips and tucked in tightly at the knee into black boots, with black shirts and ties. Each of them had a handgun tucked into a shoulder holster. None of them was smiling.
She looked closely at their solemn faces and felt a sensation in her brain, like a light that wouldn’t quite go on.
‘I want to take this away with me,’ she said. Folding the photocopy and placing it in her coat pocket, she made a mental snapshot of the picture.
Stone turned the page and showed Clay pictures of a couple of young black people in their front room, gunshot wounds in their backs, their heads incinerated. In another picture a man was being led away – handcuffed, foot-chained and in a baggy orange jump suit – by prison guards.
Cole read out the caption, ‘Death sentence for Emanuel Emanuel. Strange name, even for a fascist psycho.’
‘The Black Sun movement grew out of a Christian fundamentalist group called The Covenant, the Sword and the Arm of the Lord, which was formed in Arkansas back in 1978 by a fundamentalist preacher called James Ellison. The CSA were heavy-duty right-wing religious militants. They used to steal...’
‘Christian fundamentalists?’ asked Clay.
‘Stealing was perfectly justifiable. After David slew Goliath, the Israelites went and plundered the Philistine camp.’
‘Thou shalt not steal?’ said Cole.
‘Don’t be pedantic, Barney. Stealing was the bottom rung. They manufactured firearms and had a roaring trade going with all the other right-wing fascist militias and Christian fundamentalists. They burned down a church because it supported gay rights. They assassinated Louis Bryant, a black state trooper. At this point Governor Bill Clinton, as he was at the time, got onto their backs. Seven of the CSA faithful decided the organisation wasn’t going far enough, so they left and formed Black Sun.’
‘The seven smiley-faced ones beneath the Black Sun flag. They abandoned the names given to them by their parents and assumed Biblical ones. Emanuel Emanuel. Elijah Elijah. Ruth Ruth. Naomi Naomi. David David. Sarah Sarah. Abraham Abraham. At their peak they were thirty-five strong, and that’s when things started going wrong. Two of their converts, Isaac Isaac and Micah Micah were FBI agents. Of the thirty-three kosher Black Sun members, twenty-eight are in jail to this day, either on life sentences or on death row. Four are dead and one remains unaccounted for.’
‘So what was Black Sun’s big plan?’ asked Clay.
Stone handed Clay a picture of two people dressed entirely in black, their faces covered by balaclavas. Armed with high-calibre automatic rifles, they saluted with a fist held out sideways, the same fist on the flag above their heads.
‘They created a fake black militia called the Black Hand of Justice, whose aim was to exact revenge on white bourgeois scum. Under this umbrella, they went into seven houses and killed seven white families over a two-week period. Thirty-two dead.’
‘What were the undercover agents doing?’ asked Clay.
‘The whole BHJ thing was a secret to everyone in the group except the original seven members. The FBI were the latest recruits and therefore the most mistrusted. The leader of Black Sun, Christopher Darwin, AKA Abraham Abraham, ordered a stop to the killings while the two new recruits were tested out. To describe Black Sun as utterly paranoid is a massive understatement. The original seven members had the plan and used the other members to do their dirty work. They wanted to spark a racial civil war. They wanted utter carnage.’
Clay worked to make connections with Raymond Dare. ‘It’s all bad Boy’s Own stuff. I can easily see how a mentally ill pothead like Raymond Dare could read up on all this and find it glamorous. All that
death and glory nonsense, secrets within secrets, blood and honour, putting the world to rights with a powerful gun. I want to talk to him now.’
The mobile phone on Cole’s desk rang out and he jumped to answer it. ‘DS Barney Cole speaking. How can I help you?’
As he listened, Cole shifted his gaze from the mid-distance to Clay. ‘Thank you, whereabouts did you say?’ He smiled at Clay and Stone and held up a thumb. ‘That’s great, Constable Wilson. Stay with it, please, until we get there with the removal lorry. In the meantime, send me some images of the vehicle.’ Cole put the receiver down. ‘Burnt-out white Fiat Uno discovered at the site of the Festival Gardens, down by the river. It matches the plates for the one stolen from Moses Street, the one that Raymond Dare used to pick up Dominika Zima.’
‘Let me take all the Black Sun files, please.’ Clay picked them up. ‘Great work, Karl. Could you get yourself over to the Festival Gardens? And Barney, copy me in on any images that come through.’
86
10.18 am
‘Now that Marta’s talking, I believe it’s safe to show her the photograph.’
Mr Edison, a tall, gaunt middle-aged man in a sharp black suit, watched Marta sitting up in bed and colouring in a page on a pad of simple patterns.
Riley looked at the psychiatrist, and then at the random mess the child was making with the felt-tipped pens she had bought for her from Alder Hey’s shop.
‘Can you stay here, Mr Edison, while I do just that?’
From her bag, Riley took out the printed-off image of the Adamczak brothers, smiling in the evening sunshine at the Albert Dock, and looked at them with trepidation. She recalled Marta’s hysterics when she had seen her own reflection in the mirror and dreaded a similar scene now.
She called Clay on her iPhone and was through in two rings. ‘Eve, the consultant psychiatrist’s said it’s OK to show Marta the picture of the Adamczak brothers.’