The Turin Shroud Secret (24 page)

He weighs her up. Seems every bit as smart as Matthews said. ‘Okay, but listen, this isn’t public knowledge. When the Creeper
kills his victims he strips them, puts them on the floor and covers them.’

‘With what?’

‘He takes a sheet off the bed. Drapes them head to toe. Tucks it behind the back of the skull and lifts their feet. They look
just like they’ve been wrapped in a shroud.’

TURIN

Erica Craxi is still shaking. And with good reason.

Goria leaves the fifty-four-year-old with his colleague Dario, while he talks to Nic. ‘Her husband is not here.’

The American looks worried. ‘The phone call, did I—’

‘No. It wasn’t that. He’d gone before you called. His wife says he heard something and went outside with his gun to investigate.
He told her to go out the back door and hide in the woods until he came back.’

Nic nods towards Goria’s colleague. ‘What did Craxi hear, your man moving around?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, not him. Dario heard something too but didn’t want to break cover. He saw Craxi come outside and
he went to follow him. Someone cracked him over
the head and stuck a sedative in his neck. Now he thinks I will sack him for being useless.’

‘And will you?’

‘Probably, but not tonight. Tonight there is still much work to do.’

‘So where’s Craxi now?’

‘The wife doesn’t know.’

‘And your men – your team – they didn’t see anything?’

‘Doesn’t seem that way.’ Goria falls silent. He’s been outwitted. Made to look foolish. Now the LAPD officer with powerful
FBI friends will start questioning his value. ‘Let’s go inside and speak to the signora. Maybe she can help us.’

Nic wonders who answered his call, who was listening to him when he thought Craxi was on the line. Goria uses his walkie-talkie
to call the rest of his team out of their surveillance positions. The lodge is small and basic. Bare board walls and scatter
rugs are warmed by a wood-burning stove that cradles the last charcoal embers of what an hour ago was a blazing fire. Two
sofas covered with thick red blankets face off across a low, junk wood table covered in tabloid magazines and old paperbacks.

Erica Craxi settles in a dent on a sofa and Nic can tell this is her usual place. A lipstick-marked mug of almost-finished
coffee on the floor by her feet confirms it. Goria sits next to her. She wraps a blanket protectively around her knees and
tries to control the shaking as he talks softly in Italian. Right now she looks much older than her fifty-four years. Grey
hair is clumped and matted with soil and shredded leaves.
Her eyes are darkened by tears and smudged mascara. Dario appears from the kitchen with a glass of water and a wet hand towel
to clean the scratches on her face.

Goria keeps his voice low as he briefs Nic. ‘The signora says Roberto was convinced there were people closing in on them.
He thought he saw something moving outside, took his gun and went to look. He told Erica to hide in the woods until he returned
because he knew she’d be a sitting duck if anyone entered the lodge. Anyway, after he’d gone she hesitated.’ Goria half-laughs
then whispers even more quietly, ‘She wanted to go to the toilet first. While she was in there, she heard a phone ringing.
The one we’d dropped through a window. It frightened her, especially when it went for the second time and she heard someone’s
footsteps inside the lodge. The phone rang again. She stayed tight and listened to the intruder walking with it through to
where we are now. That’s when she made a break for the woods and when we arrived.’

‘So we just missed whoever was here?’

‘Sounds like it.’

Nic turns his attention to the wife of the man he’s tracked thousands of miles. ‘Signora, I came here to speak to your husband
about a Hollywood writer called Tamara Jacobs – do you know who I mean?’

She doesn’t speak, just looks at him with frightened eyes and nods. It’s a small gesture, but Nic feels a wave of relief wash
over him. ‘Mrs Jacobs is dead,’ he says. ‘She was murdered.’

Erica Craxi holds a tissue to her nose. Her trembling
fingers close around the Saint Christopher locket hanging from her neck.

‘Your husband Roberto received a series of substantial wire payments from Mrs Jacobs. Do you know what she was paying him
for?

Erica dips her eyes. ‘I know exactly what he was being paid for.’

Nic’s heart thumps. ‘What was it?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not with these people here. Ask them to leave and I will tell you.’

Nic nods to Goria and the Italian ushers his men outside. Erica takes a deep breath and looks trustingly to the American.
‘My husband was on special assignment, part of a detail to protect the Holy Shroud, when it was last exhibited in public.’

‘Back in 2010?’

‘Si.’
She needs a beat to compose herself. ‘Roberto was persuaded by a scientist he knows …’ She gives a sad laugh. ‘… A so-called
friend, to scrape blood and fibre from the cloth.’ She hangs her head in shame. ‘He did this – he damaged the cloth and passed
on samples to be tested.’

Nic waits until she looks up and faces him. ‘I need to know who that scientist is, Signora – why he wanted to test the Shroud
and what he did with the results.’

Her face crumples. ‘I am afraid.’ She reaches behind her neck and unclips the chain holding the locket. She puts it to her
mouth, closes her eyes and begins to pray.

DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES

JJ isn’t surprised to find Jenny Harrison hanging around the factory floor after the rest of the mob have headed out into
the Friday night blackness to begin their weekends.

She walks between the machines and gives him a hopeful look. ‘Did you manage to find out anything about Kim?’

His face says he hasn’t. ‘It was like you said, Jenny. No one in the station has any record of her being arrested.’

She bites nervously on a fingernail. ‘Who did you talk to?’

The question throws him. He hasn’t talked to anyone and has no intention of doing so. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember their names.
There was the woman who answered the phone, someone in custody and then someone else in the investigations unit. They’re not
very friendly or helpful, are they?’

She huffs out a sarcastic laugh. ‘No cops ever are. Did you call East First Street? Was it an Officer Reed?’

‘Might have been. I didn’t make a note of his name. Didn’t want to ask too much in case I got your friend into trouble.’

The comment silences her. Kim Bass has piles of trouble stacked in every corner of her life. She sure doesn’t need anyone
like Fish Face tipping them over by asking the wrong questions to the wrong people. Harrison slings her bag over her shoulder
and zips her jacket. ‘Thanks.’

He watches her head to the door. She’s going to cause problems. He knows it. It’s what women like her do. ‘Jenny, wait.’

She turns around.

‘I’ll make some more calls tonight. Give me your cell number. If I can find anything out, I’ll call you.’

She hesitates. ‘Like you say, maybe it’s best not to dig around too much.’

‘Okay, but give me your number in case anyone calls me back and says she’s in a lock-up somewhere.’

She swings her bag round, finds a pen and scrawls the number on the end of a cigarette pack. ‘Call me at any time. I don’t
care how late.’

‘I will.’ He almost leaves it at that, then remembers it’s not how he should act. ‘Take my number too. Let me know if you
hear anything.’ He reaches into his back pocket and produces a business card.

‘Thanks.’ She looks at it, then wanders off again.

This time he lets her go. God has helped him. Having her phone number is a blessed surprise. If he rings it when he’s inside
that big old house of hers, he’ll know exactly where she is. One call – that’s all it will take to stop Jenny Harrison being
a problem.

TURIN

Roberto Craxi is feeling all of his fifty-nine years and it’s annoying the hell out of him. He’s gathering his thoughts as
he regains consciousness, piecing together how he’s been attacked and so easily beaten.

There was a time when no man was his match. In his prime, he could outsmart, outmanoeuvre or outmuscle the biggest, quickest
and most savage of opponents. But things have changed. The metal garrotte someone pulled tight around his neck had been a
sure sign those days are over. He never even saw his enemy.

Right from the start he suspected the sounds outside the cabin were a trap – but what choice did he have? Sit there in the
dark with his guns cocked hoping his wife didn’t get caught in the crossfire? No chance. And what fears had the night held
for Roberto? None. Darkness was his friend, an old companion with whom he’d shared long battles and much bloodshed. It was
in the darkness where he felt most alive.

Until tonight. Until he met his match.

The man holding him captive had known exactly what he’d do. How he’d slip out low and silent from the cabin and circle it
clockwise – unhurried, meticulously, ensuring
his wife was safe before disappearing into the undergrowth parallel to the main approach.

At first he thought he’d just brushed against a hanging branch, at worst a wild, straggling rose growing in the thicket. Then
it had snapped around his neck. As soon as the high-tensile wire gripped his windpipe he realised he was in trouble. One swift
pull and he was dead.

‘Don’t move and I let you live.’

He’ll never forget the man’s first words. It’s what he would have said. What he
has
said, more than a dozen times. A clear, professional instruction from someone who is already in control and knows it.

But of course Roberto had moved. He’d tried to grab his attacker but the garrotte was unlike any he’d ever known. Instead
of the wire being tethered to two small wooden handles, it was more like a lasso attached to the end of a long metal rod.
Roberto couldn’t even get near his attacker, let alone fight him off.

The man in the shadows had simply held tight at the other end, hauled him choking to the floor and jammed a sedative in his
neck.

The painful memory of the attack races through Roberto’s mind as he lies on his side in a small, black, cramped space. He
doesn’t know where his enemy is, but he’s damned sure he knows what he wants and what he’s prepared to do to get it.

CARSON, LOS ANGELES

JJ understands what he has to do the minute he opens his front door. The smell of the decomposing corpse can’t be allowed
to get any worse. It’s going to attract attention.

He doesn’t even take his coat off and hang it on the round post at the foot of the stairs like he normally does. He goes straight
to the bedroom. The smell up here is stomach-churning. JJ has created death. Seen death. Handled death. But he’s never smelled
death. Not the brutal rotting stench that only death can bring.

He steps gingerly across the floor and covers his mouth as he gets close to the white linen sheet in which he’s wrapped his
precious Em. A part of him aches to look at her but he’s frightened of what he might see. Best perhaps to remember her as
she was that first night when he brought her home.

He sits on the edge of the bed and considers what to do and how to do it. Her home is overlooked. Even with the keys from
her purse, returning her to the house is going to be risky. But she’s worth it. She deserves it. She must be put to rest.

TURIN

Erica Craxi tells Nic everything she knows about Tamara Jacobs, why the payments were made to her husband and who he was working
with.

The revelation shocks him. He goes over the details several times. It’s the kind of information you have to double-check.
You do everything you can to make sure you’re not going to make a dreadful mistake. Finally, after repeated assurances, she
agrees to allow Goria in the room so Nic can make sure he has not misunderstood anything.

He hasn’t. By the time she’s done she feels exhausted and anxious – very, very anxious. ‘What will happen to me now?’

Nic watches her bite on a nail as she waits for his reply. He looks towards Goria and the Italian’s eyes give him the answer
he’s looking for. ‘We can protect you.
We
being the LAPD, along with this man’s men. I told you I trust him, and I do. We will make sure you are kept safe.’

‘No Carabinieri.’ She looks frightened.

‘No – no Carabinieri. I promise. Fabio and his team will keep you safe until we find your husband.’

The PI crouches, takes her hand and says something in Italian that makes her smile briefly. She glances down at her cell phone
then at Nic. ‘Can I call Roberto again?’

‘Of course.’

He watches as she speed-dials her husband and nervously paces the room while her call goes unanswered. She dials again. Nic
knows the chances of Craxi returning safely have all but disappeared. His wife of twenty years closes the phone and walks
to Nic. Tears are rolling down her cheeks as she takes both his hands and looks into his eyes. ‘Please find him – don’t let
Roberto die.’

He squeezes her hand. ‘We’ll do our best.’

She puts something in the palm of his left hand and whispers, ‘It is Saint Christopher, the patron saint of all travellers.
May he guide you to my husband and all that you’ve come for.’

Ephrem works quickly. Methodically. He knows his task is far from complete. Under the pale moonlight and falling temperature
he busies himself hiding the car he moved his captive in. He’s covering his tracks. Laying traps for anyone who might be on
his trail.

The untraceable cell phone in his pocket vibrates. ‘Hello.’

‘Do you have him? Is he still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Molto buono.
You have served the Lord well. You know what to do – what is expected of you?’

‘I am in no doubt.’

‘Good. The Americans have sent a lieutenant from the Los Angeles police force to find Craxi. He is called Karakandez. When
this call is finished I will send you a photograph and details about him. Be careful. He is very experienced and determined.’