The Camelot Code

by Sam Christer

  Adjacent is a third desk, that of LT ELEONORA FRACCI.

  Mitzi inspects a tube of expensive foreign hand cream, a gorgeous brown Achille Pinto silk scarf and two small blue Murano glass fish used as paperweights. She picks up a silver-framed photograph showing a strikingly beautiful woman in a smart Carabinieri police uniform, flanked by her small but proud mother and father.

  The office door opens.

  Stood there is her new boss, unit head Sandra Donovan.

  ‘Quite a looker.’ Mitzi returns the photo to Fracci’s desk. She nods to her cardboard box. ‘I think I’ll sit over there, just so no one thinks me and the lovely Eleonora are part of a before-and-after commercial.’

  Donovan doesn’t laugh. The forty-four-year-old’s sense of humour is as short as her masculine haircut. She extends a hand and grips hard. ‘Good to have you on board, though we didn’t expect you until tomorrow.’

  ‘Hey, if that’s a problem, I can gladly go home.’

  ‘No. If you’re on the payroll, you’re on the clock. Personnel are useless. Come to my office; we can talk there.’

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘They’re out on a case. Will be all day. It’s something the cops downtown have been struggling with.’

  Mitzi follows her into the small area behind the soundproof glass. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She slides into a chair behind her desk and gestures to Mitzi to sit. ‘Week ago cops found a woman’s body buried in her own back garden. Homicide has been grilling the husband ever since.’

  ‘Sounds like a domestic.’

  ‘They thought the same. But this is a weird one. Forensics found multiple semen samples on the corpse and none are the husband’s.’

  Mitzi frowns. ‘But why call in this unit? What’s historic, religious or unexplainable about a rape-homicide?’

  Donovan manages a smile for the first time. ‘The vic was a witch. A full-blown black magic priestess.’

  2

  ANTIQUES ROW, KENSINGTON, MARYLAND

  Detective Paddy Fitzgerald, the cop everyone calls ‘Irish’, stands outside the antiques store on Howard Avenue, eating a large Danish. At his feet is a bucket of black coffee still too hot to hold let alone drink.

  He isn’t going into that stinking hole of a crime scene until he’s finished his breakfast. The stiff in there has been cooking all weekend and from what one of the CSIs has told him, there are enough blowflies to lift him off his feet.

  Calliphoridae.

  He hates them with a passion. Hates their noise and their way of hanging around even when he’s batted the fuck out of them.

  Irish sends uniforms to canvass for witnesses and tries the coffee. Still too hot. He puts it back down on the sidewalk and inspects the gathering crowd.

  Human blowflies. Every bit as bad as the bloodsuckers inside. To say nothing about the press. Those cocksuckers are even worse. His vitriol has been sparked by the sight of Tommy Watson, an idiot from the crime desk of the Washington Post, with a long rap sheet for misquoting police.

  The reporter raises a hand and with it his voice, ‘Hey, Detective.’

  Irish ignores him.

  ‘You got a minute for me?’

  He dusts pastry flakes off an unironed blue shirt that testifies yesterday’s dinner included meatballs and tomato sauce.

  ‘Come on; give me a break, Irish. You got a quote I can use for the online edition?’

  ‘Yeah, I got a quote. Tommy Watson don’t know his fat, lazy ass from his chicken-shit elbows – and if he wasn’t screwing the ugliest broad in Dispatch he wouldn’t even know to be here.’

  ‘Screw you, Lieutenant.’ He flips him the finger.

  ‘Screw you, Tommy tiny dick.’ He looks up, as he pulls forensic overalls and shoe covers from a police bag. ‘What? You don’t think Big Brenda told us about Tiny Tommy?’ He laughs and starts to suit up.

  A hanging bell rings as he opens the door of Goldman’s Antiques and a sign saying CLOSED clatters against the reinforced glass. The light inside is nicotine-brown, as though tainted by too much contact with dark wood, dust and history.

  The floorboards bend and creak as he walks a non-contamination route marked out by the forensic teams. The place smells of beeswax polish and brass cleaner.

  And death.

  The air is fat with the stomach-turning stink of it.

  A young, male crime-scene photographer is up a short aluminium stepladder. He’s shooting video of the body, its relation to the entrance, the register, the showroom and the small restroom that, by the look of it, also gets used to make hot drinks.

  Medical Examiner Cherrie Archer is on her knees, searching for defence wounds and trace on the hands of the cadaver. Over the stiff, curled fingers, the thirty-three-year-old blonde sees Irish shuffle towards her. He’s six-foot-plus but slouches and seems smaller. His dark, curly hair is specked with grey and looks like he slept the night in a cardboard box. Every time Cherrie sees him, she remembers that half a decade ago he had a brain sharper than her skull saw.

  Then came the incident.

  The one no one talks about.

  Not divorce. Not the death of a partner. Not a clichéd crash into drink and ruin.

  Something worse. Far worse.

  She tucks a curl of hair back into the hood of her white Tyvek suit. ‘I’m just about to start, Detective. Want to join me?’

  Irish’s knees crack as he bends beside her. ‘That’s the best offer I’ve had today.’ He corrects himself, ‘Come to think of it, it’s my best offer this year.’

  3

  HRU CRIMES UNIT, SAN FRANCISCO

  Mitzi hears them coming down the corridor laughing and joking. The way colleagues do when they’re comfortable with each other.

  She feels very much the new girl. Undoubtedly they’ll be nice as pie to her. Then someone will call a contact in LA and learn her husband used to beat her. Someone else will discover she stuck a gun to his head, had him jailed and then banned from coming within a mile of her or their kids.

  ‘Hi there!’ she says as they enter the office. ‘I’m Mitzi Fallon – from the LAPD.’ She sticks out a grin and her hand.

  ‘Jon Bronty,’ says a man with chestnut-brown hair. ‘People just call me Bronty.’

  Mitzi notices he’s of medium build, not much taller than she is. Maybe five ten. Somewhere around thirty, trim but not muscular and, despite old-fashioned brown cords and a scruffy green shirt, has a comfortable way that she imagines some women – or maybe men – might find attractive.

  ‘This is Eleonora – Eleonora Fracci.’ Bronty pronounces the surname with melodramatic accentuation.

  ‘Ciao ’itzi.’ The brunette from the Carabinieri photograph is wearing a pale-pink blouse and short brown skirt that shows off ridiculously toned legs.

  ‘It’s Mitzi with an M.’ She tries not to sound too annoyed. ‘Not itzi as in “itsy bitsy”.’

  The Italian looks baffled. ‘M— itzi?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  A young, mousy woman in jeans and a Big Bang Theory T-shirt flashes a set of teeth braces. ‘Victoria Cantrell – Vicky. I do research. Research and coffee.’ Her voice says New York – Brooklyn. ‘Lots of coffee.’ She gives a nervous giggle. ‘They drink it all day. Would you like some?’

  Mitzi would. She’d like a long tumbler of vodka to go with it. ‘Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.’

  The youngster looks pleased. ‘How d’you take it?’

  ‘Black, no sugar,’ She pats her hips. ‘Can’t afford the calories.’

  ‘Exercise,’ suggests Eleonora. ‘It is the only way to kill calories. I take sugar and cream but I do gym and kill the calories. You should come.’

  ‘Honey, the only gym I could do in a morning is one spelled J-I-M, and he’s going to have to be tall, rich, handsome and not mind taking on two teenage girls.’ She spins round one of the framed pictures. ‘These are my calorie killers.’

  The room is silent. Silent enough
to tell her that no one else has kids.

  She repositions the photo.

  Sandra Donovan appears from behind her glass partition. ‘Are you ladies playing nicely?’

  Mitzi and Eleonora stare through her.

  ‘Good. Then how about someone updates me on the Satanists?’

  Bronty pumps a green bead of germicidal gel into his palms and rubs his hands clean as he talks. ‘The victim’s closet was full of black magic paraphernalia. Witches’ robes, candles and spell books.’

  ‘Nothing in the husband’s?’ asks Donovan.

  ‘Not a thing. He wasn’t into it, or didn’t know.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ says Mitzi.

  ‘You don’t know the case,’ snaps Eleonora.

  ‘I don’t need to. If she was being nailed by Satanists, hubby knew it. She’d be weird in bed. Ask any married guy.’

  ‘Maybe she should know the case.’ Sandra Donovan can’t help but enjoy the friction between them. ‘Give her the briefing notes, Eleonora.’ She turns to Mitzi. ‘It’s going to be interesting to see what you make of it.’

  4

  BRITISH EMBASSY, WASHINGTON DC

  The British Embassy lies less than three miles north-west of the White House, in palatial grounds on the southern side of the US Naval Observatory and east of Dumbarton Oaks, the research centre renowned for Byzantine studies.

  The building, the first erected on Embassy Row, boasts seven main bedrooms, all named after past ambassadors. The current occupant, Sir Owain Gwyn, stands patiently in the Howard and Halifax Suite while his valet dresses him.

  Every article of clothing has been handmade by trusted tailors and carefully checked by the middle-aged servant before his master is allowed to wear it.

  From laundry to skin, it is the valet’s job to know exactly who has washed, ironed and delivered it back into his care. Even then, the rigorous routine is far from over. Most items are X-rayed, others are subjected to toxicity testing. All are dusted top-to-bottom with a hand-scanner to ensure no microscopic trackers have been sewn into their fabrics.

  ‘Your under-armour, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, James.’ Forty-two-year-old Owain comes from a long line of tall, broad, dark-haired Welshmen. At almost six foot six, her Majesty’s ambassador in America has to become a contortionist to get into the proffered garment. Although it looks like a combination of vest and long johns, it is a unique piece of clothing, fashioned from state-of-the-art grapheme, a fine mesh of carbon atoms that, according to the manufacturers, is ‘strong enough to support the weight of an elephant balancing upon a spike’. He wears it to protect him, not from gymnastic mammals but from bullets and bombs.

  ‘Comfortable, sir?’

  The roll of Owain’s warm brown eyes gives away the fact that he is not.

  A buzzer sounds.

  The flat-screen monitor above the door shows the output of eight security cameras around the residence, including the adjoining room where a tall, sandy-haired man in a sharp grey suit is waiting.

  The valet knows his time is up. ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need you early tonight for my farewell charity dinner, say five?’

  ‘That’s not a problem, sir. Might I be so bold as to say something personal?’

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘I’m sure the government of the United States will miss you greatly. I think you have done amazing things in your work here, sir and it’s been an absolute pleasure to serve you. You’ll leave quite a hole.’

  ‘For all of a week, James. Then the hole will be filled and I’ll be forgotten. But thank you for your kind comments. You should get off now, make the most of the rest of your day and the short time we have left in Washington.’

  The former guardsman gives a courteous nod, takes a neat military stride to the door and pulls it open for the ambassador.

  Owain greets Gareth Madoc, a childhood friend and former army colleague, with the Welsh equivalent of good morning, ‘Bore da.’ He waves at a breakfast trolley. ‘Do you have room and time to have a crempog with me?’

  The former soldier smiles. ‘I always have time for a crempog.’

  The two men go back to a life before knighthoods, international postings and politics. Their history stretches beyond the green valleys where they were born to the intertwined genealogy of two clans who lived and fought together in days long before Romans ruled Britain.

  Madoc leans down to the lower tray of the trolley and lifts out a wicker breadbasket covered by a starched white cloth. ‘A little surprise with your breakfast.’ He grasps the square of cotton and jerks it away, like a magician performing a table trick.

  Owain stares at the basket’s contents. He carefully removes the single object and handles it with reverential respect. He turns it over in his scarred hands, then kisses it. ‘Who recovered this?’

  ‘George.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Still missing.’

  Owain winces. ‘Were there casualties?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  The ambassador flinches then passes the ancient relic back. ‘I am late. Please make sure it is returned to its proper place. We need to talk this afternoon about what’s still missing and what we tell the others when I meet them.’

  5

  NORTH BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  Irish bangs on the apartment door for the second time. ‘Police. Open up!’

  He stands to the side and slips the safety off his gun. Sophie Hudson is only a store assistant at Goldman’s but she called in sick on the day of the murder. If she’s mixed up in this killing, anything might happen and Irish doesn’t want that ‘anything’ to include a doped-up boyfriend with a spray-and-pray Mac-10.

  There’s a click. The door opens barely six inches.

  A croaky voice spills through the crack. ‘I’m not taking the chain off. Not until I see some ID.’

  Irish flips out his badge and holds it to the gap.

  She could be buying time. The killer might be climbing out a window and down a fire escape.

  ‘C’mon lady, open the door, or I’ll do it for you.’

  The slab of cheap, blue-painted MDF closes and reopens without the chain. A small woman in a short nightdress steps back so he can come in. She’s five six, a little plump and looks disorientated. Without make-up, her nose is Rudolph red and her long dark hair a mass of rats’ tails.

  ‘Sophie Hudson?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s this about?’

  ‘Lieutenant Fitzgerald, Washington Homicide. You work at Goldman’s in Kensington, right?’

  ‘Right.’ She’s quick enough to add together Homicide and Goldman and realize it equals something bad. ‘Is Mr Goldman okay?’

  Irish goes Hawkeye. Now is the very second a killer or accomplice has to put on the best performance of their life.

  ‘No, he’s not. And he never will be. I’m sorry to say, he’s dead.’ He holds back the rest of the details.

  Sophie’s hand goes up to cover her open mouth. ‘Oh, my God.’ She stretches out a bunch of fingers to the arm of a sofa, steadies herself and then sits.

  It seems she’s forgotten she’s in a short nightie and Irish sees more of a young woman than he’s done for many a year.

  The cop averts his eyes and walks to the back of the apartment. He runs water in the tiny galley kitchen and takes a tumbler to her.

  ‘Thanks.’ She looks dazed.

  Seconds pass before she takes a drink and puts the glass on a side table. She pulls a tissue from a pink box with flowers on it and blows.

  Irish can tell the cold is genuine. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved in the crime. Even killers and accomplices come down with flu. He glances at his notebook. ‘The answerphone in the store shows that you called Saturday around seven a.m. and said you were sick and couldn’t make it in.’

  She holds up a tissue. ‘Been dying most of the weekend.’ She is instantly horrified by her unintentional pun. ‘I’m sorry. Wha
t happened to Mr Goldman?’

  ‘He was murdered in his store.’

  He watches her face for twitches and her hands for tension. ‘So you were sick on Saturday but went in Friday. What time did you finish?’

  ‘A little after four. He sent me home early because of the cold.’ She bites a nail.

  ‘That was kind of him.’ Irish’s tone hints that he still needs to be convinced she’s telling the truth. ‘Did anything happen during the day that was different, or anything strike you as unusual in any way?’

  She hesitates and chews the last of a hangnail.

  ‘He said he had some business happening. I guess he was referring to the cross that he bought.’

  ‘What kind of cross? A Nazi cross? Wartime stuff?’

  ‘No. Mr Goldman was Jewish. He wouldn’t touch anything like that. This was Christian.’

  ‘Catholic Christian or just Christian Christian?’

  She gets to her feet. ‘I made a drawing of it.’ She goes to the back of her room and brings him a sheet of A3 notepaper from her bag.

  Irish regards it with scepticism. ‘Why did you sketch this?’

  She looks embarrassed. ‘Mr Goldman kept the cross from me and that made it intriguing. But he’s forgetful. He sent me to the safe to get an item for a customer and I saw it. Only a glance, but it was interesting, so I made the drawing. It looks kinda weird, don’t you think?’

  Irish isn’t thinking about the cross.

  He’d missed the safe.

  Hadn’t seen one anywhere. Searched behind the counter, wall panels, back rooms, everywhere.

  ‘You said “safe” – did you mean as in a lock-up box or a wall safe?’

  She smiles for the first time since she heard the knock on the door. ‘You couldn’t find it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mr Goldman would have been pleased. It’s not a regular safe. It’s fitted into a wall and hidden behind a panel in the grandfather clock.’