Pilgrim

by Devon De'Ath

  “And you’ve a small stash of valuables tucked away there?”

  “Not a fortune, but enough to tide us over. The gym’s not a place thieves hit, so I’m not bothered about it. No awkward questions or procedures to liberate my stuff, like operating a safe deposit box. Besides, they’d be the first places targeted in a crisis. All I need do is walk into the changing rooms with my key, then bag a few goodies for a quick sale. Thinking about it, we can shower there, then stop at a greasy spoon for breakfast. No need showing up at a homeless charity.”

  Vicky attempted to find some comfort in the warm embrace of her sleeping bag. “Less contact with people who’ll remember our faces?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. It’s by the river, close to Greenwich Power Station.”

  “Then what?”

  “I can’t get that hooded figure with the glowing eyes out of my mind, Vicky. Martha Tomlinson said there was some Templar academic up here. I thought we might pay him a visit. You know, to see if he can shed any light on the symbol or how Baphomet fits into the picture.”

  “Professor Faust.”

  “Good memory.”

  Vicky snorted. “Who could forget a name like that? Isn’t it a dangerous gamble?”

  “I joined forces with a female investigator looking at a private insurance job, once. We had to get close to the key players, so using our proper names was out of the question. The same legend should work for us. You’re Jenny Sloane, I’m Chris Keeling. Avoid questions, unless you want a lot to remember. We can claim to be friends with Martha Tomlinson. If he phones her after the fact, we’ll be long gone.”

  Vicky hugged herself to keep warm. “What will poor Martha think when she learns about DS Quarry and finds my name linked to his murder?”

  Bill rolled onto his side. “Having met the woman, I’d say she’ll be preoccupied with how it affects Katie.” He yawned. “I’ve got to get some sleep. Try to rest. I know it won’t be peaceful, but if we have to run, we’ll need our strength.”

  The noise of Bill unzipping the tent caused Vicky to stir. A dawn chorus of birds sung with hearty enthusiasm. Early, yellow daylight crept between the branches above to cast spiderweb shaped silhouettes on their domed abode. Vicky pulled herself up to a sitting position. She’d managed three restless hours. Cool air wafting through the flaps teased her body with welcome refreshment. “What time is it?”

  Bill looked round. “After five. Gary’s old gym opens early for bods seeking a workout before the day job. We’ll slip in while it’s quiet, to freshen up. Can you remember where that Faust bloke worked?”

  “Temple Church. It’s down the river between Blackfriars and Embankment.”

  “Are you a London tour guide in your spare time?”

  “No. I had some professional dealings with a barrister from the Inns of Court there.”

  Bill sank his teeth into the juicy green flesh of an apple from Terry’s bag. “Want one?”

  Vicky ignored the talking and slurping with his mouth full. She grabbed an apple of her own.

  Bill sat in the tent doorway, pointing north. “Greenwich Pier isn’t far from the gym and a half-decent cafe I know. We can catch a river bus to Blackfriars or Embankment there.” He thought for a moment. “I like it. With these packs we’ll blend in with the tourists.”

  Vicky shuffled forward on her bottom. “If we get caught, it’s only a stone’s throw to The Old Bailey. Convenient.”

  Bill eyed her with a half-smile. “Keeping your humour? Good. We need that.”

  “If I didn’t laugh, Bill, I’d cry. How are we going to get out of this mess? I’m half tempted to march down to the courts or nearest police station and turn myself in.”

  “That’s not the Victoria Lambert I know. She’s no quitter.”

  Vicky wiped moisture representing a momentary chink in her armour from each eye. “Thanks. What can Professor Faust tell us that will do any good?”

  Bill tossed his apple core away into the bushes. “We won’t know until we ask him. Listen. You’ve got to stop taking a long-term, negative view on our present troubles, okay? I learnt that the hard way on the streets, watching friends succumb to despair and end up on a slab. Focus on getting through each moment as it comes, for now. I know that goes against your tidy, organised personality, but it’s essential.”

  “Okay.”

  Bill stood up and shook his sleeping bag. “If you feel the weight of all this pressing down upon you, remember the anger you felt after we buried your cat. That should re-ignite the fire in your belly. Or the death of your own family, for God’s sake.”

  “That and the memory of finding DS Quarry on your office floor. Or that poor homeless man murdered at Otterden.” She clambered up beside him.

  “Damn straight. The more they take away from us, the less we’ve got to lose. It's surprising how that clarifies your thinking.”

  Vicky leaned against the rear handrail of a westbound Thames river bus. A boiling mass of foam churned up in the engine wake, turning the brown, muddy surface of the treacherous tidal watercourse into something resembling a trendy coffee.

  A hot, soothing shower at the gym had eased some tenseness in her muscles. It amazed Vicky to discover an appetite for the fatty, cooked breakfast devoured afterwards in a cheap cafe her companion knew. Prior to the change of law prohibiting smoking in public places, any errant fag ash dropped in that eatery might constitute a serious fire hazard. The fried bread dripped with so much grease, she dreaded how solid her arteries would now become. But it warmed her up and filled an aching hole.

  Bill joined her at the handrail. “It feels like we’re in for another fine day.”

  Vicky examined a bright blue sky above the smart business structures of Canary Wharf to starboard, as they rounded a bend towards Limehouse. “Did you retrieve enough of your treasure hoard to see us through?”

  Bill tapped the front of his jacket to indicate an inside pocket. “We’ll liquidate these while we’re in the city. I know some places to try.”

  Vicky smirked. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? I suppose using our bank cards at an ATM is out of the question?”

  “Unless you’d like to stick a giant pin in a map to announce we were here, then mail it to the police. Why not send them a postcard while we’re at it?”

  “I know we’re talking about murder, but will they be that on the ball?”

  Bill leaned over the rail and spat into the water. “It doesn’t matter. They can obtain historic records after the fact, to work out where we’ve been. It’s another reason I wanted you to kill our phones, even before they setup a live trace. The fewer pointers to our whereabouts, past or present, the better.”

  “So, I’m Jenny Sloane. What do I do for a living?”

  “You’re a civil service administrator.”

  Vicky sucked in a breath of cool morning air. “In which department?”

  Bill pushed away from the rail. “Try to avoid any conversation drilling down that far. If it does and you can’t change the subject, make something up. Just be sure to remember what you said. To be honest, I chose that job role because the title will make most people’s eyes go dull.”

  “It sounds boring, I’ll grant you that. Who’d want to know more?” She switched places with him to get a better look at passing river traffic. “What about you, Chris Keeling?”

  “We work together.”

  “Convenient. So, why aren’t we at work today?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you think Professor Faust might find it odd that two civil servants are lugging laden backpacks around Temple Church on a work day?”

  “Excellent point.” Bill stopped, gazing into the distance behind them.

  Vicky turned.

  A black, high-powered rigid inflatable roared up close to the river bus. Its prow raised high against repeated impacts from bouncing across the choppy swell. Armed police officers, dressed in black, sat in two neat rows. Each clutched an assault rifle, while attempting to si
t tight in the jostling craft. At the rear, another officer span the wheel, turning to port near Pacific Wharf.

  Bill’s shoulders slackened. “We’ll tell him we’re performing a wide-ranging ‘Secret Shopper’ study of public transport infrastructure. But we’re combining it with our shared interest in visiting historic places. Crumbs, Vicky. You work for a local council. I’m sure you can conjure up some corporate bullshit waffle until the man loses interest.”

  Vicky folded her arms. “Don’t sugarcoat your opinion of what I do for a living, will you?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who moaned about sitting through pothole presentations.”

  Vicky winced. “I did, didn’t I? Okay, I’ll feed him a line of crap if he pushes the matter.”

  They picked up their bags and walked along the inside cabin for a forward view.

  The river bus rounded another right-hander, revealing the iconic outline of Tower Bridge ahead.

  A city boy sporting a navy suit so sharp you could cut your finger on it, fiddled with his half-Windsor tie knot. After listening to a voice on the other end of his expensive mobile phone, he barked a harsh response, oblivious to the volume of his angry voice. “I don’t care if it’s had a second price monitoring extension, Danny. I tell you that equity will soar. Either we jump on board now, or get left behind once the market works out which way the wind’s blowing.”

  Vicky and Bill shifted to the starboard side of the craft to catch the Tower of London slip by. As they moved to sit down, Vicky noticed a twenty-something redheaded woman flicking through the BBC news app on a compact tablet computer. Breath caught in her throat at two photos, side by side, of her and Bill. She gripped his arm and made a subtle motion with her head.

  Bill shot a sideways glance at the article, absorbing a bold text intro: ‘Fugitives on the run after murdering Kent detective during drugs operation gone wrong.’ He nudged Vicky further back along the starboard aisle, away from the redhead. His voice came calm and subdued. “Keep going. Act natural.”

  Once they found a quiet bank of seats, Vicky leaned close to him. “Boy am I glad I didn’t take you up on that offer to leave me at home.”

  Bill grunted. “We have our answer, now. If it had only been me pictured in that news story, it would be another matter. We could write it off as the police doing their job after finding Tony Quarry in my office. The fact they’re after you too, speaks volumes.”

  Vicky rubbed both hands on the legs of her jeans. “There’s no going back now. Only forward, for both of us.”

  Bill scratched an errant patch of stubble he hadn’t bothered to address during their ablutions at the gym. “My favourite direction.”

  The river bus churned onward beneath span after span from London Bridge to Blackfriars. Vicky and Bill alighted at the next stop, lugging their packs up a steep set of steps to the Victoria Embankment.

  The noise of London traffic faded beyond the gates leading to Middle Temple Lane. Its tree-lined greenery and bollard bedecked cobbled thoroughfare, led them to an exquisite two-storey arch slicing through the middle of a six-storey building. A multitude of statues and stone carvings watched over pedestrians ambling between the warren of elegant buildings comprising various court chambers. Vicky and Bill followed the gentle incline uphill until they reached a large, black lantern above a narrow black and whitewashed passage to Pump Court. Another archway later they admired the crenellated, sandy stone grandeur of Temple Church.

  Bill scanned the round nave like a circular wedding cake connecting to the later, rectangular chancel. “I see what that information board was banging on about in Dover. It’s a consistent design.”

  Vicky set off towards an entrance in the chancel closest to them. Inside, Purbeck marble columns supported the round church on their left, drawing the eye upwards in a space flooded with light.

  Bill touched her thigh, then pointed. “Look.”

  Beyond the effigies of four knights set into the floor, a familiar symbol plastered the far wall in bright red paint. Police tape surrounded a cordoned off section, while a Crime Scene Investigator clad in white overalls photographed the vandalism.

  Vicky scanned either direction up and down the church, senses alert for any other police presence. She spoke in hushed tones, lest the reverberating structure betray her words to unintended listening ears. “We’d better not get too close.”

  Bill watched a white-haired man in his late fifties, who looked like he could use a nutritious meal. A bag of skin and bones, he fidgeted on a spot beyond the exclusion zone. “That forensic worker won’t be looking for us. Minimal risk, I’ll wager. A tenner says that worried looking bloke is our man.”

  Vicky observed the fellow fiddle with a threadbare, pea-green cardigan. “I won’t take that bet, since I agree with you.”

  The CSI packed away his camera and cleared the tape. “All done, Professor.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have a maintenance crew remove it.”

  Vicky and Bill caught the exchange during their approach to the nave. They remained calm while the overall-clad individual passed them by, oblivious to their identity.

  Bill cleared his throat. “Professor Faust?”

  The slender figure wheeled about. Vicky almost fancied his bones clicked during the process. More likely it was somebody striking a match nearby to light a rack of votive candles.

  The white-haired man bathed the approaching pair with strained, watery eyes. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Bill extended a hand in greeting. “We’re sorry to interrupt. I’m Chris Keeling and this is my colleague, Jenny Sloane. We’re friends of Martha Tomlinson from Kent.”

  Henry Faust’s forming frown retreated like a melting glacier. “Do you work at her trust?” He accepted Bill’s hand for a limp shake.

  “No. Jenny and I are travelling around studying public transport infrastructure reliability for a civil service report.” It pleased him to notice the academic’s eyes glaze over. “Along the way we’re combining that rather dry task with our passion for historic sites.”

  If Professor Faust previously appeared like giving up the ghost, fresh life now kindled in his eyes. They sparkled like those of the risen Christ at the Holy Sepulchre, on which this church was modelled. “I see. I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad time. Vandals broke in last night and did this to the wall.”

  Vicky found an opportunity to join the conversation at last. “Yes, we helped Martha with similar incidents at Temple Church in Dover and the manor at Strood. She sent you an advisory about it.”

  Faust tutted. “For all the good it did us. I laid on extra security after her e-mail, but someone still knocked a guard out cold and defaced the building.”

  Bill slackened his posture. “Did they leave anything else behind on the wall, along with the paint?”

  Faust licked a dry mouth. “Such as?”

  Bill took in the fine, religious structure, choosing his words with care. “Such as an intimate, male emission?”

  Those strained, watery eyes narrowed a touch. “I see Martha has confided the specific details of these sickening debasements. Yes, police discovered the same residue here. Their crime scene gentleman collected a sample for genetic testing, in case the perpetrator is known to the police. Now we’re left with the onerous task of correcting the damage, while that criminal goes off to strike goodness knows where else.”

  Bill inspected the symbol. It appeared identical in every way. He retrieved a compact, palm-sized digital camera from his holdall. Not a patch on the deceased SLR, but it would be enough to capture a decent image in reasonable light, should they need it. He’d always kept it in the bag as a discrete fall-back for casual snaps in crowded places.

  Vicky motioned to Bill. “Is it okay if Bi-, sorry, I mean Chris takes a couple of shots. We promised Martha we’d look into these heritage crimes on our travels, in case a pattern emerged to catch the vandal.”

  If Faust registered her momentary slip of the tongue, it didn’t show on his face. “P
lease. I doubt we’ll hear anything further from the police. We seldom do after they record incident details.”

  Bill’s small camera beeped. He closed a sliding lens protector and popped it away. “Thank you, Professor.” Crowds milled closer to their position. “Might we have a chat? There are some things I’d like to clear up.”

  “This way.” Faust set off towards the entrance with the pair at his heels. Weak and wiry though he appeared, there was purpose and energy in his pacing. He grumbled in part to himself, but also to his guests. “I don’t like what the world is becoming. When I was a lad, we were always taught to let history make its mark on us. We respected it and treasured ancient monuments and places of worship. In recent years the tables have turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees. It doesn’t bode well for the future, if only an ageing and flagging few stand up for history.” He halted his impromptu tirade at a smart, blue wood-panelled door in one of the regal surrounding office buildings. One bony hand rummaged in his right trouser pocket to remove a ring of keys. “Here we are. We can chat in my study.”

  They climbed three flights of stairs to a small, comfortable chamber housing an aged mahogany desk beside a sash window. Its view across Temple Church proved a feast for the eyes. Floor to ceiling bookcases occupied every wall, filled to bursting with gold-embossed leather-bound volumes of history, language and classical literature. Faust lifted a glass decanter of amber liquid resting on a table beside the desk. “Scotch?”

  Bill nodded. “Please.” He’d learnt never to pass up a good thing. If that good thing was free, even better.

  Faust glanced at Vicky. “Miss Sloane?”

  She wasn’t one for spirits, but today it seemed easier to go with the flow. “Thank you.”

  Faust poured out three measures of whisky into crystal tumblers. He passed two to his guests. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Vicky and Bill positioned themselves on a faded blue, shabby-chic Chaise Longue across from the desk by the window. Bill imagined the professor liked to recline here with a good book from his collection during quieter moments.