by K. M. Ashman
Rubria realised she had been very lucky. There were six other acolytes ready to take the next step forward but the high priestess had selected her as the most worthy and Rubria had lain prone for two days before the image of the goddess, giving thanks for her selection. She stared at the open doorway, holding her breath as the footsteps approached until at last the Pontifex Maximus stood before her.
‘You are summoned, acolyte.’ intoned the familiar voice. Rubria took a pace forward…and slammed the door in his face.’
----
‘Get thee from my vision, temptation,’ she cried out, ‘I reject you.’
As expected, a minute later the door was flung open once more and six sisters who had already served their times as priestesses, filed into the room taking their place in a circle around her. She dropped to her knees and bending her head forward, allowed her long golden tresses to hang to the floor. Another person entered the room and stood before her.
‘Do you discard all worldly possessions, acolyte?’ asked the high priestess gently.
‘I do,’ she answered meekly.
‘Do you surrender to the service of the great mother, blessed virgin of the house of Vesta?’
‘With all my heart.’
‘Will you repel the hand of man in deed and thought, even unto death?’
‘I will.’
‘And will you nurture the flames of our mother’s untouched womb, forsaking all other gods?’
‘Until the day I die.’
‘Then make the choice, acolyte. Leave the world of the ignorant and embrace the heart of the enlightened.’
The high priestess gathered Rubria’s hair and bunched it together, holding it high. Another priestess, holding a silk cushion, stepped forward and gave her a pair shears. The gathered sisters said a mutual prayer and as she prayed with her eyes tightly shut, Rubria’s hair fell to the floor beneath her. When the last of the golden locks had been cut, she waited patiently as the stubble was shaved from her scalp. Fragrant oils were smoothed over her skin and she was helped up to face her fellow sisters. A wrap of purest white silk, the mantle that would be the only type of clothing she would wear for the next ten years was draped over her shoulders and wrapped around her body before the surplus was draped down her left side. A white lace veil was placed gently over her head and hung down over her shoulders to be fastened over her left breast with a Suffibulum, a broach of pure gold.
When they had finished, the high priestess handed Rubria the cushion. This time it was laden with her old clothing and topped with her shorn golden hair. They left her alone in the cell for a few minutes, a beautiful vision in white, until once again the voice of the Pontifex Maximus boomed out.
‘Acolyte, you are summoned.’
This time, after taking a deep breath, Rubria stepped forward to leave the cell and carrying the remnants of her old life before her, walked toward the roaring flames of the fires of Vesta.
----
Chapter 4
London 2010
‘What do you mean, not working for the police?’ asked India, trotting to keep up with Brandon, ‘you said you were a police officer.’
‘No I didn’t,’ he said, ‘you assumed I was. I am working with the police, not for them.’
‘Now, you’re not making any sense,’ she said, opening the car door, ‘you were with the police by the library, that constable brought me to you.’
‘Ah yes, Wendy. She’s the one who tipped me off about you and the necklace.’
‘Is that legal?’
‘Well, it’s not very professional but in my game, it pays to have a lot of, shall we say, inside contacts.’
‘And what exactly is your game?’
‘I suppose you could call it private investigation,’ he said, ‘but it is a little bit more complicated. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘on occasion, shit happens. Usually our great police force can sort it out but occasionally something happens that is beyond their means and they call in certain agencies that have the skills to delve deeper.’
‘Like MI5?’
‘No, not really, they are too engrossed in national security.’
‘MI6?’
‘Pen pushers.’
‘SAS then. They can do anything.’
‘Hairy arsed soldiers with no subtlety,’ he said dismissively, ‘that leaves people like me, someone who can use the infrastructure of the government to find out things that certain people would rather keep out of the public eye.’
‘And these investigations, I suppose they are out of the ordinary?’
‘Usually and quite often impossible to solve. Think of this assignment as mission impossible,’ he smiled, ‘and I’m your Tom Cruise.’
‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ she mumbled and climbed in to the car.
----
Two hours later, India was back outside the library, sitting in Brandon’s car. The fire brigade had long gone and a couple of council workers were putting up some temporary fencing.
‘So, now what?’ she asked.
‘Right.’ he said, ‘first of all, we need that necklace. You said it’s in the safe?’
‘Yes, I put it there myself.’
‘Do you keep much money in the safe?’
‘No, why?’
‘If you did, then the chances are the council would have had it removed. If it’s used for small change, then it’s probably still in there.’
‘And you want me to get it?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘What about him?’ she asked, pointing at the lone police officer standing guard on the steps, waiting for a locksmith to arrive.
‘Leave him to me.’
‘You’re not going to kill him, are you?’
‘Nothing quite so dramatic, I’m afraid, I was thinking more of using this.’ He flashed a false warrant card.
A few minutes later, they stood in the foyer of the library, having been allowed through the broken front door by the police officer.
‘The office is over here,’ she said, wading through the wet aftermath of the blaze, ‘it looks like the fire brigade caused more damage than the actual fire.’
‘Where’s the safe?’ asked Brandon.
‘Under this desk,’ she said crouching down, ‘damn.’
‘What’s the matter?’
She looked up from her position on the floor.
‘Someone’s beaten us to it.’
He stooped down and saw the safe had been wrenched open.
‘What sort of stupid safe is that?’ he asked angrily.
‘The sort needed for a petty cash tin and a purchase card,’ she said, ‘it’s a library, not a bloody bank.’
‘Point taken.’ he said, standing up, ‘this necklace, did you get a close look at it?’
‘Briefly but I don’t know what all the fuss is about, it was worthless and certainly not worth dying for.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Look,’ she answered, ‘this is all very exciting but can we do this somewhere else? We have conned our way into a crime scene that stinks like a bonfire, close to where someone was murdered. I am not exactly comfortable here.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘we’ll go to my place.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for a start, I only just met you and for all I know, you could be a mad axe murderer, luring me back to your lair.’
‘It’s hardly a lair,’ he laughed, ‘why don’t you reserve judgement? It’s about ten minutes away.’
‘Probably a slick bachelor pad full of Ikea furniture and Barry White albums,’ she mumbled.
----
It was nearer twenty minutes when they stood outside Brandon’s home. The car had been parked in a double garage next to a jet ski and they had both crunched across the Cotswold gravel driveway to stand in front
of the cottage.
‘You have got to be joking.’ gasped India, staring in awe at the chocolate box scene before her. The cottage was made of white painted stone, with deep-set, leaded windows framed by swathes of climbing ivy. The sweeping roof was thatched and a heavy oak door sat snugly inside a porch, covered with the obligatory roses. ‘I’m in the wrong job,’ she mumbled.
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a cliché really,’ he said, ‘not really my scene but Mrs Walker loves it.’
She spun around.
‘Mrs Walker?’
‘Yes, come on. I can hear her out the back, let me introduce you.’ He led off around the side of the beautiful house, passing rows of carefully manicured flowerpots. After a few seconds, India ran after him and grabbed his arm.
‘Wait a minute,’ she hissed, ‘you never said you were married. What’s your wife going to think about you bringing another woman home first thing in the bloody morning?’
‘Ask her yourself,’ he said, ‘but could you do me a favour and curb the language a bit?’
‘Language’ she said in astonishment, ‘I’ll show you fuc…’
‘Ahem.’ interrupted a voice and India spun around to face a woman swathed in a heavy duffel coat and green wellington boots.
‘Hello, dear,’ said the woman sweetly, ‘my name is Agnes, Brandon’s mother.’
----
India and Agnes sat in the farmhouse kitchen drinking coffee as if they had known each other for years. Brandon had disappeared into the depths of the cottage.
‘So,’ said Agnes, ‘it’s not often he brings a lady home. What’s the occasion? I don’t suppose there is any good news on the horizon is there?’
India paused for a moment before realising what she meant.
‘Oh no,’ she gasped, ‘nothing like that, Mrs Walker. We are not… I mean… Brandon and I are work colleagues.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said the woman, ‘never mind.’
‘Mother.’ said Brandon coming back into the kitchen, ‘leave her alone, this is strictly business.’ He turned to India. ‘I’ll show you to your room, we can both catch up on some sleep and then get down to business.’
‘My room?’ queried India
‘Yes, dear,’ said Agnes, ‘you will be using Brandon’s room. Don’t worry, I’ve already made it up. There’s clean bedding and I have run you a nice bath.’
‘I don’t understand, how did you know I was coming?’
‘Oh, Brandon sent me an e-mail a few hours ago,’ she said, holding up a touch screen phone, ‘he is good like that.’
India glared at Brandon.
‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ she said sarcastically, ‘and where will Brandon be sleeping exactly?’
‘Don’t you worry about him,’ said Agnes, standing up and finishing the last of her coffee, ‘he will have the couch in his den.’
----
India stood in the doorway feeling a little awkward. She had slept for six hours and made her way downstairs in a fresh pair of jeans and a baggy T-shirt. Brandon was already up reading a newspaper at the kitchen table.
‘Hi there,’ he said looking up, ‘you look better. Hungry?’
‘Famished,’ she said.
‘Mother,’ he shouted, ‘India’s awake, could you bring us something to eat.’
‘Will do,’ a distant response came.
‘Do it yourself, you lazy git,’ hissed India.
‘It’s okay,’ he laughed, ‘she loves it really. Come on, we’ll go through to the den.’ He stood up to lead India through a side door. To her surprise, it opened immediately onto a staircase leading downward.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, ‘the bat cave?’
‘Something like that,’ he said and pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs.
India stared in shock. She was not quite sure what to expect but she hadn’t expected this. The room was how she had imagined the private offices in the houses of parliament might look. The ceiling was oak panelled and bookcases containing hundreds of hard backed reference books covered the walls. Subtle wall lights emitted a gentle glow and there was a log fire crackling in a hearth. The furniture consisted of two deep red leather winged armchairs and against a wall was the most comfortable looking, battered leather settee she had ever seen. A glass coffee table supported by a metal dragon lay in the centre and the only nod to technology was a laptop on a desk underneath a stained glass window. As the only source of natural light, India realised it must have been just above ground level outside. The smell of polish hung in the air and the whole thing felt warm and comfortable.
‘This is your den?’ she asked.
‘That’s what my mother calls it,’ he said, ‘I like to think of it as my office.’
‘Some office.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is really. After my father died, I bought this cottage for mum and had the cellar done out.
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
‘Cancer,’ he said, ‘anyway, make yourself comfortable, we have work to do.’
‘Sandwiches,’ called Agnes as she pushed the door open with her foot. Her hands were occupied with a tray of afternoon treats and after fussing for a while, she left them both alone, closing the door behind her.
Brandon poured the tea while India took a bite of a ham and cucumber sandwich. Finally, she sat back and putting the crust on the table, put one teaspoon of sugar in her cup.
‘So, Mr Walker,’ she said as she stirred her tea slowly, ‘let’s start again, this time from the beginning. What is all this about?’
----
‘Do you watch the news, Miss Sommers?’ asked Brandon, sipping his tea.
‘Of course.’
‘Did you see the story about the dead girl found a couple of weeks ago in Victoria station in London?’
‘I remember seeing something about it. She was found in a toilet, as I recall.’
‘That’s right, she was fifteen years old. Do you remember what the cause of death was?’
‘Drugs?’
‘Drugs are the cover story. The details weren’t released to the media for the truth was too horrible for the sensitivities of the great British public. She wasn’t found in the toilet either, she was found deep in the underground complex, in a side tunnel.’
‘But the news said…’
‘Forget the news, India,’ he said, ‘the news tells us what the government wants us to know. The truth is she was found by a maintenance team locked in a side room, far down one of the disused tunnels and she was naked.’
‘Sexual assault?’ guessed India.
‘No, she had been beaten and whipped repeatedly with a nylon cane, until the skin hung from her back in shreds.’
‘Oh my god,’ said India, ‘that poor girl. She must have died in agony.’
‘Not quite,’ he said, ‘there was evidence that she lived for a while after her beating. There were a few crisp packets and an empty bottle of water in there with her. It seems she had been left there in the dark and eventually died of thirst.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said India quietly. ‘Do you know who she was?’
‘Yes, her name was Diane Thomas, a fifteen year old girl from Reading. She was abducted from her home a few months ago and hasn’t been seen since, at least, not until her body was found.’
‘And is that why you are here, to find her killer?’
‘Not exactly, we know the killer. He was a rail worker from Hammersmith called Bennett. He used to help feed the homeless around Victoria Station.’
‘So if you know the victim and you’ve got the murderer, why are you involved?’
‘We need the motive.’
‘Can’t you ask him?’
‘He’s dead. He killed himself with some sort of poison as the police broke down the door to his flat.’
‘Poison?’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s all a bit too Agatha Christie for me as well but that’s what happened.’
‘So how am I involved?’
&n
bsp; ‘Well we interviewed all the other workers but as far as they were concerned he was perfectly normal. However, there was one thing about him that a few people noticed. He always wore a particular necklace. It seems like he was a bit paranoid about losing it as well and often said it belonged to his mother but when we found him, it was missing. We searched his flat top to bottom but there was no sign of it. Apparently he had been the victim of a burglary the week before and we think it was stolen then.’
‘And you think it was the same necklace that Mr Jones brought in to the library.’
‘We do, though at the time we failed to realize its significance.’
‘How can you be sure it’s the same one?’
‘Your Mr Jones posted a picture of it on the net last week.’
‘That’s right, he did. I remember him telling me but I still don’t understand the importance of one coin. What possible relevance could it have?’
Brandon took a deep breath.
‘What I am about to tell you stays in this room,’ he said. ‘Last Friday, a young girl was abducted from a local hotel. Okay, you may say that this sort of thing happens sometimes but this was different. First of all, the girl was a daughter of a very important person and before you ask, I can’t tell you. Secondly, there is a blanket ban on any news being released about the abduction. Again, I can’t tell you why but let’s just say the father has some serious clout and has instructed a total news blackout. Thirdly and most importantly, we have a picture of the abductor.’ He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a picture, passing it over the table. ‘It just so happened, a secretary was monitoring the security cameras when the girl was taken and zoomed in for a closer look.’
She stared at the black and white image of a man wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses, holding his hand over the mouth of a struggling young girl.
‘Can’t see much,’ she said, ‘most of his features are covered.’
‘Forget his features,’ he said, ‘look at his hand.’
She looked again but this time at the man’s hand. On the middle finger, he wore a ring made from a coin and staring back at her was the face of Phillip the Second of Macedonia.
----