“Ah,” said Cronin, with a grin. “So you do know.”
Stella immediately realized she had given too much away.
Cronin smiled kindly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to push you for information. Shall I carry on?”
Stella nodded.
“Well then,” he continued. “Gabriel told them about the box and the symbols, and how they had been lost during the Second World War. They disappeared whilst being transported from one temple to another for safety. He told them of his concerns that the knowledge could fall into the wrong hands. He said that there were factions within both the Catholic Church and Islam that knew about the symbols and had been trying to find them for centuries. If either of them got hold of this knowledge the consequences for mankind would be catastrophic. Whoever found them first would use the symbols to create their own Messiah, and announce themselves as the only true religion, thus establishing them as the ultimate power in the world.”
“So where did the two boys come into it?” asked Stella.
“I was just coming to that,” said Cronin. “During their time at the orphanage they had both been given an excellent grounding in various religions, particularly Catholicism and Islam. Gabriel’s request was that Miguel and Abdullah place themselves in these faiths and look for signs of the rogue factions within them, and make sure that they never got hold of the knowledge.”
“And Miguel managed to rise all the way to cardinal,” said Stella. “That’s quite something for a non-Catholic. What about Abdullah?”
“He was a great Islamic scholar and imam.”
“Was?”
“Yes, unfortunately he was killed the other day. Murdered. He sent me a note from his hospital bed warning me that the Muslims were on the trail of the box.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stella sympathized. “It must have hit Miguel badly.”
“Yes, I’m sure it has. But there is no time to dwell.”
“You know what,” said Stella. “You’re story’s remarkably similar to Alonso’s.”
“I dare say it is. I would expect him to twist it to suit his purposes. But believe me, his sole aim is to get hold of that box and those symbols for the Church. It’s my job to stop them.”
“So you say. But how do I know which one of you to believe?”
“You don’t. But I expect you’ve already made your mind up.”
“Just one more question,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “Why did you become a priest?”
“In short, I had to – to allay any suspicion of my appointment as Desayer’s assistant.”
“Makes sense I suppose,” she agreed. “As much as anything does in this sorry business. I don’t understand why you had to lie to me though?”
“I had to check you out – see where you were coming from. See if you could be trusted or not. And also, I had no idea for certain that my theory was right.”
“What theory was that?”
“The theory that brought me here in the first place,” said Cronin. “The idea that your boyfriend had been resurrected. The idea that the symbols had resurfaced. To be honest I still don’t know for sure. I need your cooperation for that.”
Stella looked into Cronin’s eyes trying to gauge his intention. A part of her was screaming not to trust anybody; but way down deep, beneath the hurt, the betrayals, and the lies, something told her this man was good, and that letting him in was the only possible way forward.
“Well?” said Cronin.
Chapter 65
Stone raced to the side of the bridge and stared down into the Thames. The lights of Westminster gave an adequate view of the rain stinging the surface, but there was no sign of Jennings. A crowd started to gather, leaning over as far as they dared, trying to get a glimpse of what they assumed was a dangerous fugitive. The gunfire hadn’t scared them at all.
Davis tried to shuffle them along. “Nothing to see here!” he shouted, prising a gawky teenager away from the balustrade.
Stone grabbed his arm. “Listen,” he whispered. “Leave them. We need as many eyes as we can get. I want him found.”
Davis changed his tack. “Okay then!” he hollered. “If anybody sees anything then just shout.”
Stone assembled his team. “Right then,” he said. “I want all available police launches out there patrolling under the bridge; and I want officers on both banks. I want a net around this area, we can’t let him get away!”
He and Davis walked across the road to the left side of the bridge. They looked over at the long riverside pontoon and peered inside for signs of the runaway.
“Where the hell is he?” muttered Stone.
“Probably underneath,” said Davis. “Taking cover in the arches. That’s what I’d do.”
Stone nodded.
“Or he could have drowned,” Davis added. “The currents down there are all over the place. Doesn’t matter how good a swimmer you are, if the undertow gets you you’re fucked.”
A patrol boat pulled up beneath them and chugged slowly along parallel to the bridge, its blinding light scouring the arches for signs of life. Stone watched nervously.
“Don’t worry mate,” said Davis. “There’s no way that he’s going to escape from this. We’ve got everything covered so tightly even the algae will find it hard to float through.”
“I know,” said Stone. “But Jennings is a survivor. I’m not going to be happy until he’s back on dry land in front of me, preferably in a body bag.”
A shout from the other side caught their attention. Before long the whole crowd was baying and pointing. Stone and Davis sprinted across and barged their way to the head of the throng. Below them, thirty yards in front, a man was swimming wildly for the bank hotly pursued by a police boat. He struggled bravely against the tide, but quickly realized his efforts were futile and began to tread water and let the boat come to him. An arm draped over the side and hauled him up. The launch turned around and sped under the bridge to the pontoon. Stone and Davis ran down to meet it.
As soon as the boat docked Stone leapt on board, closely followed by his slightly breathless partner. “Where is he!?” Stone yelled at one of the officers, holding up his warrant card to confirm his superior rank.
“Over here sir,” said the slightly bewildered cop, and led him to the stern where the man shivered inside a towel.
Stone grabbed the man’s shoulder and snapped his head round to get a look at his face. It wasn’t Jennings. It was a young man, barely out of his teens. “Who the fuck are you?!” he screamed. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing.”
“W…w…what do you mean?” asked the lad, cowering at the unwarranted barrage.
Stone’s blood continued to boil over. “I mean – what the fuck are you doing taking a dip in the fucking Thames at nine o’ clock in the fucking evening! That’s what I fucking mean!”
“I got pushed in,” the lad whimpered. “I was looking over the side of the bridge and some guy came up behind me and pushed me in.”
“Fuck it!” said Stone slamming his hand on a rail. “Right! I want everyone back out there searching. I don’t want a piece of fucking plankton getting by without me knowing. There’s a homicidal fucking maniac out there in the water – I want him found. Now!”
Chapter 66
Stella looked into Cronin’s keen eyes and decided to relent. Stratton would probably go mad when he found out, but that was his problem. If he’d been honest with her in the first place then she wouldn’t be in her current predicament. She’d already let slip her knowledge of the box to Cronin, there didn’t seem any point in hiding the rest. There had been enough deceit, it was about time somebody started opening up.
“Yes, you’re right,” she admitted. “He’s alive.”
Cronin slumped back in his chair and let out a whistle of amazement. “My God!” he said. “I don’t believe it…I just don’t believe it.”
Stella gave him a curious look. “I thought you’d already made your mind up. I tho
ught you already knew.”
Cronin leant forward, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I guessed as much, but actually hearing it confirmed puts it in a completely different light. I don’t know…I can’t explain it…It’s like being touched by a heavenly choir.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it I suppose,” said Stella. “I find it’s like having your brain scrambled by an egg whisk.”
Unable to contain himself Cronin got to his feet and paced about like an expectant father. “I just can’t believe it,” he muttered again.
“Well, it’s true. There’s a part of me that wishes it wasn’t, but it is.”
“Do you wish Stratton was dead then?” asked Cronin.
“No of course not,” she said. “But it’s a lot to take in. I wish he hadn’t died in the first place. And now…now I don’t know what to think. I’d only just decided to let go and get on with my life…Anyway, I’ll put the kettle on. Would you like a coffee?”
“Please,” said Cronin, and followed her into the kitchen.
Stella rinsed out a couple of mugs and spooned some granules into each. “The thing that really bugs me,” she said, “is that he never let me know he was alive.”
“He probably wanted to protect you,” said Cronin. “As you now know, there are a lot of interested parties.”
“I know, and maybe he was right. But there’s part of me that’s hurt. I don’t know…It’s almost like I feel betrayed. Like I’m not important enough, or clever enough to understand. I feel insignificant.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t his intention.”
“No, of course not. But it doesn’t stop me thinking it. I feel like there’s a barrier between us, like we’re worlds apart.” She finished the coffees and handed one to Cronin. “Anyway, listen to me waffling on. Let’s go and sit down, I expect there’s loads of questions you’re dying to ask.”
Cronin made himself comfortable and took a sip of his coffee. He watched Stella light another cigarette. His head was indeed bursting with questions, but he had no idea where to start. “How did he look?” he said eventually. “Did he seem healthy?”
Stella laughed. “He was until I punched him in the face and broke his nose.”
“You seem to take great delight in that,” said Cronin.
“Not really. But as soon as I’d done it he waved his hand and fixed it, like it had never happened. There doesn’t seem any point feeling bad about it.”
“I suppose not,” Cronin agreed. “So he just fixed it on the spot?”
“Yeah. I heard a little crunch then ‘hey presto’, it’s back to normal. I couldn’t believe it.”
“So, he’s obviously got a good command of the symbols?”
“I guess so. He’s had them for three months now, so I expect he probably knows them off by heart.”
“Hmm,” said Cronin. “Interesting…Did he seem different in any way?”
“I suppose he did. Although it’s difficult to tell. For all I know it might have been my attitude that had changed – I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when I found out, as you can imagine. But, yes, there was something strange about him. He seemed more distant, not just from me but from the world…He was somehow removed, not in an unfriendly way, but like he didn’t belong – a kind of serene detachment.” She drew on her cigarette. “Am I making sense?”
“Yes, of course,” Cronin nodded. “It makes perfect sense. Do you think there’s any chance I could meet him?”
Stella stopped to think. Cronin had lulled her into talking, but the request to meet Stratton made her uneasy. She suddenly felt guilty. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll have to ask him.”
“Of course,” said Cronin, and then as if reading her mind, he added, “And don’t feel bad about opening up to me – you’ve made the right decision. Whatever voice inside told you to trust me wasn’t wrong, so don’t beat yourself up about it. All I want is to keep the knowledge from getting into the wrong hands. And I assume that’s Stratton’s wish as well.”
“Yes it is,” she said. “He wants to return the box to India.”
“Well then,” said Cronin. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”
Stella thanked him. She prayed she wasn’t making a huge mistake.
Chapter 67
Shocked and disorientated by his twisting fall, Jennings steadied himself and swam towards what he thought was the underside of the bridge. The current was dragging him down, but he thrust on determinedly. He remembered school holidays retrieving bricks from the bottom of a swimming pool in his pyjamas, and was suddenly thankful for the experience.
Surfacing with a momentous gasp, he found that he had gauged his underwater swim well and was out of sight under the first arch of the bridge. Above him he could hear the beginnings of a commotion. He swam into the shadows of the brickwork.
The noises from the bridge grew louder, and he guessed there would be a huge crowd peering over into the gloom. Soon the police launches would be on their way, and then there would be nowhere to hide.
To make his life easier he kicked off his shoes. He trod water and tried to formulate a plan. His best hope was to get to the other side of the river and disappear up the Thames Path. He figured that he could go from arch to arch swimming beneath the water to keep from view. The only problem was surfacing for breath after each section. Once the police boats were out they would be lighting up the arches like an England international, and then even the slightest attempt for air would be impossible. There was no way he could make it in one go.
As he pondered his predicament, the sound of engines drew near. Responding to his panic, his brain suddenly shot out an idea. He delved into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small notepad. The paper was soaked through, but in the rings was a small disposable biro. After congratulating himself on his obsession with taking notes, he unscrewed the plastic top and got rid of the nib and the ink, leaving himself with a three and a half inch snorkel. He placed it in his mouth and dropped below the surface to test it out. It wasn’t perfect or comfortable but it allowed him to breathe.
He dived under and felt his way round to the next arch. When he’d cleared the brickwork he floated up and allowed himself a few deep breaths through the pen. The stunted length of his breathing apparatus meant that he had to be precise: an inch too high and his face would break the surface; an inch too low and he would be sucking in the putrescent filth of the river.
He continued across one arch at a time. The brightness of the search lamps helped him gauge his flotation, keeping him out of sight; but the polluted state of the water meant that every time he opened his eyes they felt like they were being bathed in acid. As he soldiered on it became almost impossible to see anything at all.
Having never counted the arches underneath Westminster Bridge he had no way of measuring his progress. After what seemed like an endless cycle of breathe; dive; swim; breathe, he felt he must be nearing the far bank. He floated to the surface, took a lungful of pen air, and looked up. Compared to the previous arches this one seemed dark. He didn’t know if it was due to a lack of search lights, or whether the Thames had finally destroyed his retinas. With instinct telling him it was time to take a gamble, he tentatively poked his head above the water.
The noise of the outside world woke him as if from a dream. His senses having been deprived were acute and alert. He rubbed his eyes and swam to the edge of the arch. He was right where he wanted to be, next to the bank. The police boats were speeding away from him towards where he had come from. There appeared to be something going on at the pontoon.
Seeing a window of opportunity he swam as fast as he could for the riverbank. The noise of the boats became a distant hum. With one last burst of energy he dragged himself up onto dry land and ran for the trees.
In reality the trees provided little cover, but at that moment they felt like a cloak of invisibility. Jennings propped himself up against a trunk and caught his breath. Away on the river he saw the police launc
hes resume their patrol. He wondered what heavenly intervention had distracted them.
After regaining his composure and mouthing a quick “thank you” to the skies, he got to his feet and planned his next move. His options were limited.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a ray of light raced over the ground towards him. Before he had a chance to move, it caught his body and moved rapidly up to his face. He put his hand up to shield his eyes.
“Don’t move,” said a voice. “Stay right where you are. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Jennings raised his arms with a weary acceptance and turned his head away from the blinding beam. He heard the voice radio for back up. Soon the place would be crawling. It was over.
Chapter 68
Marvo poked his head round the door of Annie’s room. She had eaten the food and taken the pills. Now she was fast asleep, a picture of discontent.
He shrugged and went back downstairs. Kamal was sitting up in his bed, beavering away at the laptop.
“Found anything interesting?” asked Marvo.
“Not a lot,” Kamal replied. “It is all much the same as the TV news items: she killed her father and sister in a fit of rage. There is, however, a small suggestion of something more sinister.”
“What could be more sinister than killing your father and sister?” asked Marvo.
“Some sources are claiming there was evidence of child abuse,” said Kamal. “Nothing was brought up at the trial because Tracy refused to speak. Apparently she did not utter a word from the time she was found until eight years later.”
“That’s a long silence.”
“Yes, it is. But who can imagine what was going through her young mind. She would have been heavily traumatized.”
“You can say that again,” said Marvo. “So you think there’s more to it than her just being an evil child?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t seem the butchering type, but who knows what she was like back then? I’d like to think she wasn’t evil. I kind of like her.”
Fear of the Fathers Page 23