Deadly Sin (19 page)

“You could always write another book if you're bored,” suggests Samantha as she collects the dessert plates. “You've already written about the Man in the Iron Mask.”

“Fat lot of good that's done me,” he complains. “I haven't heard a dicky from any of the publishers.” However, his bulky manuscript has not been shoved to the bottom of every publisher's slush pile. One publisher, at least, is using it as a prop for the window of his dingy garret in a laneway off Leicester Square.

“But what if you solved a whole series of historical mysteries?” Samantha carries on enthusiastically. “Wouldn't that get you noticed?”

“Such as?”

“I don't know. There must be dozens … what about the Bermuda Triangle, the
Mary Celeste
, or the lost Ark?”

“Be sensible,” he protests. “I don't know anything about them.”

But she is not deterred. “You didn't know anything about the Man in the Iron Mask till you found his island.”

“That's true —” he is saying, when she cuts him off with a triumphant yelp.

“I know — Jack the Ripper.”

“Why?”

“Firstly, it was in the same area as the mosque: Whitechapel.”

“That's just a coincidence.”

“Of course it is. But wasn't it one of Philip's relatives who was supposed to have done it?”

“Was it?” asks Bliss with a glimmer of interest.

“Yes,” jumps in Peter Bryan. “It was the Duke of Clarence.”

“All right,” says Bliss with little intent. “I'll think about it.”

With nothing important on his desk, David Bliss takes a detour to work on Thursday morning. However, he isn't seeking clues about the notorious Victorian-era murders of a string of prostitutes as he walks the streets of Whitechapel in East London. He is back at the mosque, and he is not alone. Since the Queen's ill-fated visit the richly ornamented building, with its gold-plated dome, has become a morbid curiosity on the tourist maps and now ranks with the Dealey Plaza book depository in Dallas and the pavement outside John Lennon's apartment in midtown Manhattan.

“I bet you can still see some of her blood,” a ghoulish ten-year-old tells his mother excitedly as he drags her up the steps, but he is quickly disappointed.

“Never mind,” says the woman. “We'll go to the Tower, where they chopped off loads of queens' heads.”

“Brilliant, Mum!”

But amongst the knot of sensation seekers are crucifix wearers, staring with a mixture of wonder and hostility at the opulent new building, questioning why their ancient churches continue to crumble while mosques, synagogues, and Hindu temples seemingly spring up daily across the country.

“They reckon there's five million quids' worth of gold on the roof alone,” sneers one in a combination of jealousy and awe, while another queries aloud, “Do you think they'll put a plaque on the mosque saying ‘Queen Elizabeth fell here'?”

Will anyone ever put a plaque on my wall saying “David Bliss was here,”
Bliss wonders as he stares at the enormous building and questions what legacy he might leave. A handful of lifers will still be doing time, he guesses, then rebukes himself.
What do you expect — immortality? You tried that. You spent years turning up the truth about Louis XIV's nefarious machinations, and another
year writing a novel, and where did it get you?
But he actually has Daphne in mind as he ponders the insignificance of a human life: years of struggling, learning, and working; triumphs and failures; heartaches and tears; laughter, joy, and love. Then your heart or brain fails, or you take a wrong turn and walk into a mugger's knife or a hit man's gun, and it's all gone. Perhaps a few snippets remain, Bliss tells himself, running over the personal items in Daphne's house: photographs and letters; certificates and awards; a painting or two; and a few pieces of embroidery.

“Not much to show for eighty-five years,” he mourns aloud as he realizes that, by the time the wreaths have been taken off Daphne's grave and dumped on the compost heap, almost everything else will have vanished.

At least you will have a grandchild to carry your genes into the future
, he is telling himself as he wakes up to the fact that he is standing on the exact spot where Prince Philip froze to the pavement.
Maybe he saw something, maybe he spotted some kind of danger that made him freak
, Bliss thinks as he spins around looking at the various buildings surrounding him. Then he glances down at the paving slab he's standing on. “Got it,” he breathes and rushes into the road to flag a passing cab. “Scotland Yard,” he calls to the driver as he leaps in, and his tone says
and step on it
.

“Do we have general coverage of the front of the new Whitechapel mosque?” Bliss gushes as he races into the surveillance unit's office and grabs the videographer.

“Yeah — all mosques and Muslim centres since 9/11, sir. We have them all covered.”

“Great,” says Bliss thinking quickly. “The day before … no … two days before the Queen's visit, on the Wednesday. I want everything you've got. Any angle; any quality. My office ASAP.”

“Peter,” Bliss says with a call to his son-in-law an hour later. “I could use a second pair of eyes.”

The surveillance footage is black and white and washed out with bright sunlight. “Best I can do,” said the videographer when Bliss complained. “These cameras are good, but we're not the bloomin' BBC.”

“Watch,” Bliss instructs his son-in-law, once he has isolated a segment. “That's me walking down the steps of the mosque to talk to two blokes who turned up with a truck-load of concrete slabs.”

The camera is positioned directly across the street, on the front of the public library, but the men's pickup truck blocks a full view as the overall-wearing workers unload pickaxes and shovels and begin work.

“And there's us talking,” continues Bliss as he points to a gauzy image of his head and upper torso as he converses with the men. “They reckoned they were relaying the paving slabs so the Queen wouldn't trip,” says Bliss, while the silent conversation continues on the screen. “But they looked smooth enough to me.”

Bliss's figure drifts back up the steps to Commander Fox's briefing as the two men continue digging up paving stones.

“I can't see properly,” complains Bryan. “I can't see their faces at all.”

“One was stocky and darkish with a goatee and glasses and the other was about my height with blue eyes and bad teeth,” says Bliss. “But just watch what happens. You can see enough.”

The polished head of a pickaxe catches the sun as it is drawn back to smash a slab, then a replacement stone is lifted off the back of the truck as Bliss, Fox, and the rest of the officers walk down the steps behind the men and drift out of camera range.

“Now watch carefully,” says Bliss after a few minutes, as the taller man puts down his shovel to light a cigarette.
His cupped hands shield the flame of a match, but they also cover his face as he slowly pivots three hundred and sixty degrees and even cranes around the cab of the truck. “I reckon he's making sure the coast is clear.”

“It's possible,” interjects Bryan as the workman flicks away the matchstick and opens the cab door. With a final furtive look over his shoulder he ferrets underneath the seat and comes out carrying something wrapped in a blanket.

Bliss pauses the tape. “What is it?”

Bryan gives him a quizzical look. “I dunno. An elephant?”

“Don't be silly, Peter. It's square — like a box or something.”

“Well, how the hell should I know what it is? I'm not a bloody X-ray machine.”

“I know, I know,” mutters Bliss. “I've watched it fifty times and I can't figure it out. But look what happens next.”

As the picture restarts the man disappears behind the pickup to the spot where they were digging, and seconds later he throws the empty blanket into the back of the truck. Within two minutes all of the tools and the broken slabs have followed the blanket, and the men jump into the cab and take off.

“Absolutely nothing,” says Bliss, freezing the frame and pointing to the pavement. “Not a trace.”

The two men peer intently at the screen for ten seconds, then they look at each other, and five frantic minutes later, with shovels and a pickaxe from the equipment store and a half a dozen hazard cones from the traffic department, they race to the scene in an unmarked car.

“M
iss Lovelace is not receiving visitors today,” insists Patrick Davenport when Mavis Longbottom finally decides on direct action and turns up on St. Michael's doorstep.

“Look, I've been calling for weeks,” Mavis exaggerates, digging in. “I need to talk to her about her house and stuff. When can I see her?”

Davenport drops his eyes to the power of attorney's papers on his desk and quickly flips them over, questioning, “You're not a close relative or anything, are you?”

“No. She doesn't have any relatives, not as far as I know. That's why I want to make sure she's all right.”

The manager paints on a reassuring smile. “She's fine,” he claims. “She's just having a little difficulty adjusting. Now, why don't you leave us your number?”

Mavis has no choice, but, as she cuts across the lawn on her way out, she hesitates with the feeling that she is being watched and a shiver runs up her spine.

Daphne Lovelace, her old friend, is the person watching. Sitting alongside Esmeralda Montgomery with her eyes focused fiercely on the imaginary centre of the lawn's labyrinth and wanting to cry out, “Mavis. I'm up here.” But she is bound and gagged — not by ropes or chains, but by the presence of Hilda Fitzgerald and the Reverend Rollie Rowlands.

“The poor old soul's had a bit of a fall,” explains Hilda, as if her victim has damaged hearing as well as a bloodshot eye, then she flits around, primping up Daphne's hair and straightening her dressing gown, while the vicar stoops in front of Daphne, pulls what he hopes is a sympathetic grin, and coos, “Oh, you poor thing. Whatever happened?”

The tentacles of a deep bruise spread across Daphne's face in the shape of a podgy-fingered hand, and her left eye is partially closed by the swelling, but she stays silent, focusing intently on Mavis, her friend, as she disappears through the residence's gateway.

“She must've fallen out of bed in the middle of the night,” sneaks in the home's enforcer before Daphne can respond. But she needn't worry. Daphne has no intention of burdening Rowlands with the truth.

“Would you like Hilda and me to say a little prayer for you?” Rowlands prattles on as he sits on his heels at Daphne's feet. Then he takes her hands and peers into her eyes. Daphne's contemptuous stare fails to ward him off, and he begins without awaiting a reply. “Our Heavenly Father. We thank Thee for saving our dear sister Daphne from serious injury when she fell —”

“For God's sake leave me alone,” shrieks Daphne with so much venom that Esmeralda jumps in her seat.

“Oh, dear,” says Rowlands, falling backwards, but Hilda Fitzgerald is quick to grab both him and the opportunity to make her case.

“It's her mind, the poor old thing,” says the woman, dragging the fallen vicar to his feet before tapping her
temple suggestively. “She's like this all the time — doesn't know what she's saying or doing anymore.”

The heavy concrete paving slabs at the foot of the mosque's steps have the two chief inspectors sweating, until a yellow patch of levelling sand, the size of a snooker table, lays exposed.

“It's just flippin' sand,” moans Bliss as he prods at the footings with his pick.

“Maybe it was just a tool in the blanket,” suggests Bryan, but that makes no sense to his father-in-law.

“These things aren't ceramic bathroom tiles, Peter,” he complains, kicking the displaced blocks. “They weigh a bloody ton.”

“Could it have been a spirit level?”

“No. It was square and boxy. And what happened to it afterwards?”

“Beats me,” says Bryan. Then he stops and watches as pedestrians walk past without missing a step and sightseers hop over the disarranged stones to get to the mosque. “Amazing, isn't it?” he carries on. “Two blokes in suits drive up in a civvy car and start hacking up the pavement and no one takes a blind bit of notice.”

“True —” starts Bliss, when the wailing of a police siren cuts him off.

“What's going on here, then?” questions a uniformed sergeant stepping out of the car.

“Who snitched?” asks Bliss, with his ID in hand, and the sergeant gives a nod to the mosque.

“They did,” he says. “They called 999 and said they'd evacuated out the back 'cos you were planting a bomb.”

“We were hoping to dig one up,” mutters Bliss, without explaining. “Tell them not to worry — no bombs today — and we'll put it all back. But for chrissakes don't tell them who we are.”

“Were you really expecting a bomb, Dave?” asks Bryan as they manoeuvre the heavy stones back into place.

“I don't know what I was expecting …” starts Bliss, but he has a very suspicious eye on the grey-robed clerics who have gathered at the top of the steps to stare, then he says, “C'mon. I've got another idea.”

“Can you talk or has the cat got your tongue?” Daphne questions Esmeralda once her tormentors have left, but the other woman's unflinching stare doesn't give her an answer.

“Humph. They've got you have they — the God's squad,” Daphne rambles on. “That's what I call them — God's squad. All high and mighty like butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, but they're a bunch of bloomin' hypocrites. Knocking old ladies around …”

A glimmer of life appears in Esmeralda's eyes, and Daphne catches it. “Is that what happened to you?” she asks softly, but the look in the woman's eyes turns to fear. “You can tell me,” pleads Daphne, laying a comforting hand over Esmeralda's. “I'm not one of them. I don't believe in all that religious stuff. All they ever do is try to kill each other.”