The Turin Shroud Secret (11 page)

Gasses and liquids inside her. She might be dead but there are things living inside her – organisms feeding in her intestines
– little parts of Em that are still alive. Life after death. He wonders if there are thoughts still in her brain moving like
the bacteria, twitching in their final throes. Do memories just vanish like a heartbeat or do they hang around after the final
breath and putrefy over hours, days or months? He knows the brain can be kept alive when all other organs are dead. Perhaps
that’s where the soul is.

He slides up alongside her and looks into the empty eyes and says something he’s never said before. ‘I love you.’

It feels good. Saying it. It’s what God wants. God is love. God has brought him Em. She is his. He puts his mouth close to
her face. ‘I do, Em. I love you. I really do.’

VATICAN CITY

Two Swiss Guards accompany the special advisor through the Cortile de Sisto V, the courtyard of Sixtus the Fifth, the former
swineherd turned Pope. Their boots clatter as they briskly climb stone steps to the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. Since
the seventeenth century the ten rooms in front
of them, including a medical suite, have formed the
appartamento nobile,
the official winter residence of the Supreme Pontiff.

The papal secretary shows Andreas Pathykos through the vestibule and leaves him in the small study. The earnest Greek has
known the Holy Father for thirty years. He is his eyes and ears in the outside world. Andreas paces until the doors open and
his old friend enters.

‘Your Holiness.’ He bows, then adds, ‘I trust you are well.’

The old Pontiff smiles. ‘As much as a mere man of eighty ever will be. You told my secretary you had urgent news?’

‘I did.’ His demeanour changes. ‘It is not good, I am afraid.’

The Holy Father eases himself into a high-backed chair. ‘Urgent appointments seldom bring good tidings.’

‘The lady writer – she is dead.’

The Pontiff looks shaken. ‘God bless her.’ He makes the Sign of the Cross. ‘Under what circumstances did she pass?’

‘She was found in the sea close to where she lives in America. It was not an accident. We are reliably informed that the Los
Angeles Police Department is treating her death as murder.’

The Pope lowers his head in solemn contemplation. Later he will pray for her soul. And he will pray that the worst of his
imaginings is not true.

The advisor does not add any more details, certainly not the bloodier ones that he knows – the loss of an eye, the torture.
His Holiness looks up. A pale blue gaze that has seen
much sin and witnessed much wisdom falls upon his trusted servant. ‘Andreas Pathykos, if you have any information that can
help the police catch this lady’s killer, you must inform the authorities.’

‘I understand, Your Holiness.’

‘The Church has done much to unite the factions, the modernists and the orthodox, but we cannot be the friends of extremists.’

‘Holy Father—’

The Pontiff stops him with a raised palm. ‘They mean well but are overzealous. History has taught us this much.’

‘Indeed, Your Eminence.’

‘And the other matter. Is the book now closed on that?’

Pathykos flinches. ‘I think not. I am afraid to speculate that it is just the opposite. This unfortunate death is most likely
to keep the pages fixed open – for some time.’

WALNUT PARK, LOS ANGELES

At 5 a.m. Mitzi begins her new life.

She puts away the whisky, brews fresh coffee and sorts through bills that can’t be put off any longer. The soul-destroying
sift reminds her that the girls are going skiing with the school at the weekend and the final payment for
the trip is long overdue. She can’t afford it but she’ll find it somehow. It feels important that they’re away from home right
now. A break down at Mount Baldy could be just what’s needed.

She opens up the household laptop and starts a trawl for a locksmith and a lawyer. All the barrels on the doors and windows
have got to be changed. It won’t be cheap, but she can’t think about that. And she needs to make an appointment with someone
who can take care of all the nasty official things – the divorce – and the inevitable battle to hang on to what little she’s
got.

Alfie has taken her self-respect, she’s damned sure he’s not taking her home as well.

She goes upstairs and checks on the girls. They’re still sleeping. Good. Maybe the deep rest will erase some of the horror
of the night. She pads barefooted to her bedroom and pulls down a dusty trunk from the top of the wardrobe.

Twenty minutes later she’s sat on it, squashing in as many of her husband’s clothes, shoes and personal belongings as she
can. She’ll bag the rest and dump it in the garage for him to collect when she’s not there. One thing for certain, he’s never
coming in the house again.

In the bathroom she sweeps his razor, foam, deodorant and clutter into a wicker bin and steps into the shower to wash off
the dirt of her experience. A clean start. Never has there been a truer phrase. She towels dry and examines each of the fiery
whip marks on her body. They’ll fade. Given time they’ll all go and so will the memories, the
nagging doubts and the fear that right now are eating her.

She dresses for work. Bright colours today, nothing but bold statements and certain steps. A buttercup-yellow blouse, saturated
blue trousers and matching jacket. Too strong, she knows. Too summery, too gaudy. No matter. She needs the power of the colours
around her, a halo of energy to see her through the day. There are still a couple of hours before she needs to take the girls
to school so she settles at the kitchen table and surfs the internet. First the headlines. Then the gossip. Bored with the
same old same old, she finds herself entering ‘Turin Shroud’ into the search engine.

Half a million entries pop up in a ninth of a second. Impressive. If only they made men as efficient. Give a man a whole day
and he can’t even find where he put his wallet, let alone four hundred and ninety-nine thousand other things. Search engines
must be female.

There are numerous quasi-religious pages and the artefact has its own website, plus offerings from the usual suspects – Wikipedia,
BBC and CNN. She opens Wiki and looks for the first time at the haunting image that so obsessed Tamara Jacobs.

From the accompanying text she learns the photographs were taken in 1898 by an Italian called Secondo Pia. She’s blown away
by how much clearer the negative is than the sepia print. It’s hard to believe they’re the same image.

Mitzi goes to a kitchen drawer and finds a pen and spiral notepad. On a fresh page she makes bullet point jottings, jumping
from site to site.

• Shroud is a large linen cloth seemingly bearing marks of a crucified man.
  
• Kept in special chapel at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin.
  
• 1978 a detailed examination was carried out by a team of American scientists called STURP (Shroud of Turin Research Project).
  They found no reliable evidence of forgery and said it was a mystery how the image had been formed.
  
• 1988 radiocarbon dating was performed by universities of Oxford and Arizona and the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology.
  All independently said the Shroud originated in the Middle Ages, between 1260 and 1390 – all concluded it couldn’t have been
  Christ’s burial cloth.
  

Mitzi sits back from the screen more certain than ever that the answers to her murder lie in Turin. She looks at her watch
and realises she’s been so engrossed in the mystery of the Shroud that she’s lost track of time. It’s eight in the morning.
Face the girls time. Time to tell them that last night wasn’t a dream. That she really has kicked their father out and is
not having him back.

Not ever.

VATICAN CITY

Andreas Pathykos leaves the Papal Palace and walks the five minutes to a café in the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio, off the southern
curve of Piazza San Pietro. He’s been coming here for years. So has the man he’s about to meet.

He orders a large plate of pastries, espresso and water then watches the door for his guest. He doesn’t have to wait long.
Father Nabih Hayek jangles the overhead bell of the front door as he walks in. His thin face lights up as he spots his old
friend at a table.

Hayek is in his late fifties and Lebanese. He can trace his family back to the early days of the Maronite Syriac Church of
Antioch, a unique Catholic order that retains its own liturgy, discipline and hierarchy. Antioch has a special
place in Catholic hearts. It is here that followers of Jesus were first called Christians and after the destruction of Jerusalem
in AD 70 it became a centre of the faith.

‘It is still cold,’ grumbles Hayek as a greeting. He embraces the papal adviser. ‘I long for spring.’

‘Have this coffee, I’ll order us some more.’

‘Grazie.’

The visitor warms his arthritic hands around the small cup as Pathykos signals to the barman to bring refills. He lifts a
Pasticiotti
from the mound of pastries and places it on Hayek’s plate. ‘This one I got just for you.’

‘What’s in it?’ Hayek pulls the plate towards him.

‘Vanilla and chocolate,’ he declares, almost sinfully. ‘Enjoy.’

Hayek bites into the tender pasta frolla pastry cup and relishes the rare indulgence.

The following ten minutes are spent talking food, drink and the frivolities of life. Then Pathykos cuts to the chase. ‘I have
informed His Holiness of the difficulties that are unfolding in Los Angeles.’

‘And?’

‘He expressed his concern.’

‘Explicitly?’

The Greek takes a moment before answering. ‘He demands that if I have knowledge then I should share it with the authorities.’

‘How would His Holiness define “knowledge”?’

‘Justified true belief.’

‘Ah, the Plato definition.’ He licks cream from a finger.
‘The great man
said, for someone to have knowledge of something, it must be true. It must be believed to be true and that belief must be
justified.’

‘It is what most epistemologists accept, and according to such a definition then I have knowledge.’

Hayek is not so sure. ‘You have
supposition,
dear friend. You have supposition not unequivocal confirmation, and therefore, as a consequence of having only supposition,
you do not have truth.’

‘I suppose you are correct.’

‘I know I am correct.’ Hayek looks pleased with himself.

‘Now Andreas, in accepting you do not have truth – in admitting that you do not irrefutably know what has happened, you must
also accept that you do not have
justified true belief
and therefore you do not have knowledge.’

The papal adviser sips his espresso and absorbs the argument. He puts the tiny white cup down. ‘If asked, I will tell the
Holy Father I have no knowledge in the truest sense of the word. If he instructs me to share more than knowledge, then I will
tell you.’

Hayek nods in agreement. It is the most he could hope for. He returns to his pastry and considers how much more to tell the
Greek. Until today it has been easy to be open about these somewhat delicate matters. Given the discussion of the last few
minutes, that may no longer be the case. ‘You have a contact in Los Angeles. Perhaps it would be better if from now onwards
I dealt directly with him?’

Pathykos understands the implication behind the offer.
This way he can avoid any question
of future knowledge.
He can take action now to distance himself from things. But there is a price to pay for such a convenience. Loss of control.
The Greek knows that once he hands the reins to Hayek, he will never be able to get them back again.

The two men sit in coffee-fuelled contemplation for several minutes, both weighing up the possible consequences of Hayek’s
request, not just for their churches but for themselves.

Pathykos finally calls for the check. He settles in cash and writes a name and phone number on a napkin, then passes it hesitantly
across the table. ‘You realise we must not meet again. Not for years. Perhaps not ever.’

Hayek takes the napkin. ‘I do.’

Both men stand. They embrace and kiss each other on the cheeks before leaving and going their separate ways. The Greek walks
back to the Papal Palace knowing one day he will need to seek forgiveness for what he has just done.

WALNUT PARK, LOS ANGELES

Mitzi is red-eyed and so exhausted that she almost calls in sick.

Amber and Jade cry their hearts out over breakfast, then
shout and blame her. Then they cry some more. Eventually everyone holds each other and says how sorry they are before falling
silent with dark thoughts about life as a broken family.

Mitzi gets her shit together. ‘Life goes on,’ she tells them. ‘No one has cancer. No one is dead. And you’re still going skiing.’

The bribe works. But only for now. She drops her key with a neighbour so the locks can get changed, drives the girls to school
and heads into work.