The Turin Shroud Secret (19 page)

‘I’m very grateful for your help,’ says Nic, aware he’s being brushed off. ‘One thing before you leave.’ He nods to the
glass and the cloth-covered casket. ‘I’d like to see the Shroud, the actual cloth.’

‘I am sorry, that is not possible. The Holy Shroud is locked and sealed in a metal and glass container.’

‘Seals can be broken. I’d like it opened please.’

‘I am sure you would but it is not possible. Only the Pontiff himself can order an exposition of the Holy Shroud.’

Nic’s face reddens. ‘You mean only the Pope can break the seals and open up the container?’

Di Rossi tries to keep anger out of his reply. ‘No. The Holy Father is not the custodian of the keys. That is not what I told
you. But he is the only one who can command any viewing of the Sacra Sindone.’

Nic looks to Carlotta. ‘I guess that’s not true – the Carabinieri could order the Shroud to be opened up for inspection, couldn’t
they?’

She looks nervous at being put on the spot. ‘I think this is not even something I could request. It would have to come from
our Generale.’

Without asking, Nic knows that would be a drawn-out route. He turns back to the verger. ‘So if the Pope isn’t the keeper of
the keys, who is?’

‘This I cannot tell you.’

‘Cannot or will not?’

‘Signore.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘Security is of utmost importance to us. I act under instruction from the Archbishop, and
he in turn from the Pontiff himself.’

‘Then I need to see him.’

‘His Eminence is not in Turin at the present. I will pass your request to his secretariat.’

Nic’s had enough of being jerked about. ‘Then I’d like to speak to him on the phone. Today.
Now
if possible.’

The verger’s eyes turn as cold as the statues around him. ‘I regret this meeting is now over. I have tried to be of assistance.
Give your details to the Luogotenente. I will pass your request to His Eminence.’ Di Rossi’s black cloak swirls as he turns
and walks away, leaving Nic staring at the bulletproof glass separating him from one of the biggest mysteries of modern times
and maybe the answer to his homicide case.

Beneath the leaden sky of Piedmont’s capital, eighteen kilometres of arcades cover the sidewalks and shelter innumerable cafés.
The sit-and-watch-the-world culture is a legacy from the time Turin was ruled by the House of Savoy and established as one
of the arts capitals of the world.

In a bar populated more by locals than tourists, Ephrem realises the target he’s been following since the man parked an hour
ago is about to make his first mistake.

He’s heading to the restroom.

The monk could take him there. It would be messy but possible. His hand finds the dental floss container in his
pocket and he imagines the thin wire it conceals being stretched around the throat of the man he’s hunting. Too risky. Too
impetuous. Too public.

He dismisses the thought. Patience is a virtue. He must wait.

After a few minutes the man emerges. Ephrem slips from the cover of the arcade entrance directly opposite where he’s been
pretending to make a phone call. The target moves cautiously, like he senses he’s being watched, like he knows this is the
time anyone tracking him would have to break cover and fall in behind in order to pick up his trail. Ephrem is impressed by
the caution – the confidence – the casual and controlled way the man walks about, looking around without any discernible effort,
taking in all three hundred and sixty degrees of his environment without being obvious. He too shows no sign of hurry or nerves.
They are worthy enemies.

The monk varies the distance he tracks from, sometimes coming within touching distance, often hanging so far back the target
is just a dot in the distance. He swaps his black woollen hat for a green baseball cap, reverses his coat to change from black
to green.

Over the course of an hour Ephrem becomes at least four different people, each with their own different way of walking and
holding themselves. He is tourist, businessman, shopper, late-for-a-date boyfriend. Anyone other than who he really is.

A trained assassin closing in on his prey.

PIAZZA COSTELLO, TURIN

Nic and Carlotta take a table at the rear of the Baratti and Milano café with a view into the grand marble-floored atrium
of a high-class shopping gallery. She hands him a menu across a table topped with fresh flowers and a crisp cotton cloth of
burned orange. ‘Di Rossi – he is only following instructions. It is best to remember the Catholic Church is a law unto itself.’

He takes the menu. ‘No, it isn’t. Nothing anywhere in the world is a law unto itself. This guy is not even going to talk to
the Bishop and ask for me to see the Shroud, is he?’

‘Archbishop,’ she corrects him. ‘Why is this so important for you?’

He lowers the menu. ‘Where I come from making cases means finding out what people don’t want to show you. When someone snow-blinds
me like your verger did, I know there is some kind of a cover-up going on.’

A waitress arrives and Carlotta talks in Italian, occasionally pointing at Nic. The girl gives him a studied look and then
slips away.

He realises Carlotta just ordered for him.

She smiles almost mischievously. ‘This place, it is famous for espresso and hot chocolate. I also order their
tramezzini –
small sandwiches of ham, mozzarella, salmon, tuna and vegetables. And the
Torta barattina.’

‘Tart of the House?’

‘Very good.’ She laughs at him. Another time, another place, he might even be fun to be with. ‘Thick chocolate tart, with
cream and raspberries.’

‘You think I have a sweet tooth?’

‘There must be
something
sweet about you. I am hoping the food will change your mood. In Italy when men are sour-tempered, we feed them things to
make them sweet.’

‘I think I have good reason to be sour-tempered.’

‘Perhaps.’ She notices he’s playing with the wedding band on his finger, twisting it round and round. It’s a chance to change
the subject. ‘You and your wife have any children?’ She nods at the ring.

Nic stares through her. He heard the question but at the back of his mind he’s still processing information about the verger.
The guy’s behaviour was odd. Not quite right in some way, but he doesn’t yet know exactly why.

‘Children,’ repeats Carlotta, wondering if she mispronounced the word.
‘Bambini
– do you have any babies?’

‘No. I had a son, only a few months old. He was killed with his mother.’

‘Oh.’ She can see pain in his eyes. ‘I am sorry. I feel stupid for asking.’

He twists the wedding band again. ‘I can’t bring myself to take this off. Probably never will.’

The waitress arrives with their food but Carlotta can tell
that for once the sweetness on the plate isn’t going to alter the mood of the man opposite her. ‘Turin,’ she says, changing
the subject, ‘is divided into two cities. The place where the Shroud is kept we know as the Holy City. Not far away, under
the Palazzo Madama is what we call the Satanic City.’

‘Sounds like tourist claptrap.’ He picks a dainty sandwich from the fine china plate. ‘From my experience, true evil doesn’t
advertise itself. It stays hidden and moves like a criminal on the run.’

‘It is not an invention to part foreigners from their money, it is a piece of our heritage. Beneath the ground are the Alchemist
Caves in which during the first century Apollonio of Tyana, a great occult wizard, hid a powerful talisman. The scientists
of Savoy thought it was the Philosopher’s Stone and even Nostradamus came looking for it.’

Nic stops eating. ‘And apparently didn’t find anything. What’s your point?’

She sips her hot chocolate. ‘Turin likes to keep its secrets. We have a long history of it. Just be aware that your search
may be as fruitless as theirs.’

SANTA MONICA, LOS ANGELES

Amy Chang yawns as she opens the curtains. She pads across the living room in her short white robe and takes a prod at the
heap on the floor by the couch.

Mitzi groans.

‘Morning. Just checking you’re alive. So many of the bodies I find on a floor aren’t.’

‘I
aren’t.’

‘Then stay dead a while longer. I’ll make coffee.’

Mitzi willingly does as she’s told. Just thinking about moving her head is a terrible proposition. She closes her eyes and
runs a mental replay to see if she needs to apologise for anything. Save finishing a bottle of wine on her own, she thinks
she’s in the clear.

‘You want some water too? Maybe breakfast?’ Amy turns on the coffee machine. The sound of the beans grinding is enough to
make Mitzi pull the covers over her head.

‘Just coffee.
Quiet
coffee.’

‘Anything
in
the quiet coffee?’

‘Just black.’ Mitzi sits up and pulls the covers back. ‘What time is it?’ Blood floods her head and she feels like she’s on
fire.

‘Seven-fifteen. I’m afraid I’m an early riser.’

Mitzi struggles to her feet and staggers to the bathroom in her bra and knickers.

She uses the loo, then swears at the sink, an elegant designer bowl with a mixer tap and no obvious way of turning it on.
She twists the tall gold tube, feeling like she’s strangling a chicken. It suddenly spurts cold water so forcefully into the
basin it splashes over her bare stomach.

She pulls a towel off the edge of the bath and dries herself. In the mirror she sees her sorry reflection. Beneath tired eyes
and alcohol-flushed cheeks are the scars of her marriage – marks from Alfie’s belt. Shameful purples, browns and reds spread
across her stomach, arms and legs. Hands dangling by her side, she stares at herself. ‘Shit, girl, how did you let all this
happen?’ She examines a couple of welts in close-up, turning one way and then another. No wonder she nearly killed him. She’d
kill someone who treated a dog like this, let alone another person.

She straightens up. Cautiously fills the basin and washes her hands and face. Towels dry and avoids the mirror. She’ll sort
her hair out later. Amy’s busy in the kitchen area when Mitzi reappears. ‘Coffee and chopped fruit on the table. Be good if
you eat something.’

‘Yes, Doctor. Thanks.’ She pulls on her clothes so her friend doesn’t see the bruises. ‘How about I eat some Ibuprofen with
this?’

‘Not on an empty stomach.’

‘I
need
it.’ Mitzi holds out a hand.

‘Pathetic. You get any sleep?’

‘First straight six hours I’ve had for a while.’

‘Good.’ Amy passes over a foil strip of tablets and a glass of water. ‘Here you go.’

Mitzi pops two pills and swills them down with water. ‘Thanks for being there last night.’

‘No problem. I’ll always be there.’

‘I know. Me too – should you ever need me. Not for this kind of shit, though. I’ll kick your ass if you let any guy mess with
you like I did with that jerk.’

‘You’re going to move on, right?’

‘You bet. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.’

The pathologist smiles. ‘An oldie but goldie.’

‘You gotta believe it.’ Mitzi takes a sip of newly poured coffee. ‘Did I mention the Turin Shroud to you last night?’

‘Sort of. You said it was why Nic was in Italy but you didn’t make much sense after that.’

‘Okay. Here’s the thing – we think the Shroud has something to do with the Tamara Jacobs case and we can’t yet figure out
what.’

‘So how can I help?’

‘Not sure. We’re just opening every door and seeing what’s behind them. One thing that keeps coming up is whether the Shroud
really was Christ’s. If I send you some high-def pics, could you tell me whether you think the marks on the linen are consistent
with crucifixion injuries?’

‘Wow.’ The request takes Amy totally by surprise. ‘You want me to PM the Son of God?’

If Mitzi’s head didn’t hurt so much, she’d laugh. ‘Sort of. You’re bigging up your part a little.’

‘I know. But I still get to file a report marked “Jesus Christ”. How many medics can say that?’

TURIN

The desk jockeys in Carlotta’s office link one of Nic’s numbers to the apartment of a Roberto Craxi in a block off Piazza
Castello near the Quadrilatero. It’s in the historic heart of the city, inside the perimeter of the ancient Roman
Castrum,
and bears the same address as several restaurants he found receipts for in Tamara’s apartment. It takes a junior lieutenant
called Fredo Battisti five minutes to drive them to the place and twice as long to find a parking spot on the busy cobbled
streets.

They may as well not have bothered. Not only is Nic’s main lead not there, but according to neighbours, he and his wife haven’t
been around for more than a month. Apparently they just vanished. Never said goodbye to anyone. Simply disappeared.

Carlotta and Fredo question neighbours on other floors while the landlord, Paolo Llorente, shows Nic around the empty apartment.
Llorente, who is almost eighty-five, is
dressed in unironed black trousers that hang four inches short of his shoes and a crumpled white shirt and saggy blue cardigan.
Hip and knee replacements mean he shuffles more than walks but despite his appearance, his mind is still sprightly. ‘In my
youth, I had many American girls,’ he says, flashing a nostalgic grin. ‘I worked in Venice as a gondolier.’ He mimes a punting
motion. ‘American girls drink a lot and they teach me bad words and good times.’

‘I’m sure they did. Lucky you.’ Nic pushes open the door to the living room.

The place is empty. Not a stick of furniture but spick and span. Polished oak floors, clean white walls and large patio windows
lead to a neat balcony filled with terracotta pots and plants. Two bedrooms are similarly denuded and sparkling clean.

In a small but spotless kitchen Nic opens cupboards and finds them bare. No pots, pans, cutlery or crockery. It’s like no
one has ever lived here. All trace of the Craxis has been wiped away.