The Turin Shroud Secret (35 page)

Nic finds himself warming to the scientist. ‘Do you consider yourself more French or Italian?’

Broussard laughs. ‘French, of course, though I have a deep love for Italy. I had wonderful years at La Sapienza University
in Rome and I won a place in the training school of the Arma dei Carabinieri, quite an achievement for a French boy – though
by then I had dual citizenship. Back in those days speaking French and Italian made you very popular with the girls.’

‘I imagine it still does.’

‘I think so too.’ They both laugh. ‘I mastered in biological sciences and then won a scholarship to Oxford.’

‘Oxford, England?’

‘Oui.
Though the English girls were not so impressed with me. Young men studying genome mapping were not nearly as interesting
to them as those studying arts.’

Ursula interjects. ‘You know that the English and French are not easy bedfellows?’

‘I thought Europe was one big happy family.’

‘Not at all. The French hate the English – we think they are vulgar. The English hate the French – they think we are arrogant.
The Dutch hate the Belgians because they believe they should own their country; the Belgians loathe the Dutch because they
are so blunt and make such bad food – and everyone hates the Germans.’

They all laugh now.

Édouard picks up his story. ‘Most of my life was in the scientific investigations wing of the Carabinieri but I would come
home and spend time with my father. It was on a visit that I met Ursula and I knew then I should spend the rest of my life
with her.’

‘We lived in Italy for a while,’ she explains, ‘but I am French and Nice is always home.’

‘For me too. When my father died he left his house and business to me and we moved back.’

‘So you now do cosmetic surgery?’

He looks aghast. ‘No. I would be disastrous. We employ many good surgeons to do that. I just expanded the clinic to include
DNA profiling for French celebrities and VIPS – the ones who are looking to avoid costly paternity cases.’

The car slows as they approach another toll.

‘And you?’ Ursula asks. ‘What made you the man you are?’

‘Death,’ says Nic. ‘Death of my parents. Death of my wife and child. Death shaped me more than anything else in life.’

OAKWOOD, LOS ANGELES

It’s 3.45 a.m. and insomniac Tyler Carter is watching crap on the box, a rerun of the latest
Conan
show. The guy’s nowhere near as funny as he was.

He’s actually pleased when his cell phone rings. Anything to break the dullness of the dead hours between midnight and sunrise.
‘Carter.’

The call takes less than a minute but by the time he hangs up he knows it’s going to change every second of his life for the
foreseeable future.

It’s the call he’s been dreaming about. He scribbles notes on a pad he keeps next to the bed and then rushes for the shower.
Ten minutes later he’s dressed, in his car and breaking the speed limit to get to the precinct.

CARABINIERI HEADQUARTERS, TURIN

It’s mid-morning when Luogotenente Cappelini gets called to Giorgio Fusco’s office. The forty-five-year-old is facing the
wall, his hands clasped, his thoughts troubling him.

‘Capitano?’

He turns and looks stern-faced. ‘Sit down.’

She takes a chair on the other side of his desk.

‘The body of Roberto Craxi has just been found.’

‘Where?’ Her voice is flat.

‘In an old church on the east of the city. A couple of kids found it. It is being brought in to
patologia.’
He looks away, his eyes catching on the Carabinieri crest hung on the wall behind his desk. ‘I’m told he had an iron railing
sticking out of his stomach and his neck had been broken.’ He looks back to her. ‘This man, whatever you think of
him, was once one of Italy’s bravest and most trusted soldiers.’

She flinches.
‘Si,
Capitano, I understand. What of his wife?’

‘No news.’ Fusco starts pacing. ‘Tell Fabio Goria about Craxi and see if that silent mouth of his can now find words for us.’

She nods.

‘The officer at the church says an old tomb had been opened and the remains removed. Craxi’s clothing was covered in dirt
and mould that matches debris from inside the tomb. Someone kept him in there. Held him in that place, then let him out to
kill him.’

She says nothing.

‘Luogotenente, is there something about this case that I don’t know? Something you should be telling me?’

‘No, Capitano.’

He’s not sure he believes her. ‘You asked for resources some time ago, because you thought Craxi was involved in an international
fraud – selling secret information, perhaps about illegal DNA samples taken from the Shroud of Turin – but now we have a murder
in America and three murders here in Italy.’ He moves around the desk so he is close to her. ‘Carlotta, I respect that you
want to protect the good name of the Arma – that is why I sanctioned your case – but I will not respect you holding back information
that could prevent people from being murdered.’

She shrugs innocently. ‘Capitano, I know nothing more
than I have told you. There may be much more behind Craxi’s activities than I have discovered, but so far my inquiries have
not revealed anything beyond his links to Mario Sacconi.’

He stares at her. Cappelini is a flyer. One of the few female lieutenants in the Carabinieri and tipped for great things.
He has to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘Any news of the American detective?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not yet. He will surface.’

‘The Commandante spoke to his superior officer about the interference in the murder scene – do you know what he said?’

She stays silent.

‘He said Karakandez would have had
good reason.
Said he was an excellent detective – one of his best.’ Fusco tilts his head inquisitively. ‘So why would he do that, Carlotta?
Why would one of Los Angeles’s most excellent detectives take evidence from a crime scene in Turin? Could it be because he
didn’t trust the local officer he was working with?’

‘I hope not, sir.’

‘Me also. Me also.’ He waves her out of the office. ‘Go back to work and don’t end the day without bringing me good news.’

FRANCE

The monk has the luxurious black limousine in sight. He’s five cars back. The optimal distance for surveillance. He’s able
to see any deviation from the main freeway in plenty of time but not easily be seen.

Ephrem has been behind the big car ever since it slipped out of the Sheraton Hotel valet line two hours ago. Édouard Broussard
is the perfect driver to follow. He keeps an even speed – ninety – with the odd burst over a hundred when he needs to overtake.

The monk imagines how they’re all sitting. Madame Broussard will be in the passenger seat, the American in the rear – jumpy
and edgy like all cops are. And armed most probably. A small pistol. A gift from the Italian PI. Americans like guns. No doubt
he will know how to use it.

Thoughts of the weapon make him decide against ambushing them on the open road. He’s sure he could kill the cop –
easily
– but the scientist and his wife might make a run for it and out in public that could end up messy.

No, he’ll be patient. They’ll stop. They’ll rest. They’ll make mistakes. People like them always do.

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

‘Where is he?’ The wolf-like glare in Tyler Carter’s eyes conveys his anxiety.

The desk sergeant looks up and sees a detective who seems to have forgotten his manners. ‘Good morning to you too, Officer.
And how are you? It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.’

‘Don’t mess with me, Jim, you know how much I want this guy.’

‘He’s in a single, down in lock-up. I’ll take you through.’ Jimmy Berg lifts the gate separating his desk from the thoroughfare
where cops book in prisoners. ‘Doctor Jenkins is with him right now.’

‘Jim, I said no one was to go near him.’

‘I know you did, but my dear hot-shot friend, it’s my pension on the line if the guy dies in here, and believe me, this fruitcake
needed to be looked over by the doc.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see for yourself.’ They walk the line of cells until they reach the one Berg wants. He opens the metal door and stands
back. A broad smile breaks across his face as Carter pushes past him.

Carl Jenkins, the duty police surgeon, is bent over a man lying flat out on a low bunk.

‘I’m Detective Carter, the principal investigating officer.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ The middle-aged medic holds up a suture needle. ‘But unless you also have a degree in medicine or your
hobby is needlecraft, step outside for a while and let me finish my job.’

Carter gets his first clear look at the patient. ‘Holy shit, what happened to him?’

Berg shakes his head. ‘Outside, Detective.’

Carter is rooted to the spot. The guy on the bed is covered in wounds. His chest is a sticky mass of clotted blood. The cuts
form crucifixes and they’re all over his body, his head, his face, eyelids and cheeks – even down the bridge of his nose.
Carter can’t believe what he sees. The crazy son of a bitch has cut off his own nipples and ear lobes.

FRANCE

Five hours after leaving Nice, Édouard Broussard flicks down the indicator and guides the BMW off the A7. His wife is sleeping
so he speaks quietly to Nic. ‘This is Malataverne. We’ll stop for a quick break in Montelimar.’

‘How far have we come?’

‘About three hundred and fifty kilometres.’

‘What’s that – halfway?’

‘A little further, but it is taking longer than I hoped. The road works around Aix-en-Provence delayed us badly.’

Ursula stirs. Her face is stuck to the leather seat where she cosied down. ‘Are we there?’

‘No, my love. We are going into Montelimar. We’ll take a break for lunch.’

‘Oh good.’

Nic nearly protests. He’d rather they just used a restroom in a service station and got going again.

‘I know a perfect little restaurant there.’ Édouard’s hand comes off the wheel and finds his wife’s. ‘By the Palais des Bonbons
et du Nougat. For ten years it has held a Michelin star.’

Nic lodges his objection. ‘We really don’t have time to linger. We need to get to Geneva and then to the airport.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Édouard, dismissively. ‘We have to eat.’

‘And drink,’ adds Ursula, now fully awake. ‘Sunday lunch is not lunch without a glass of wine or two.’

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

Carter calls Mitzi and tells her to come straight in, then heads down to the bookings desk where Jimmy Berg’s
waiting to show him surveillance footage from the main reception area.

‘Disk just came down from the video unit,’ says the sergeant. ‘I’ve cued it at the point your guy comes up the front steps.’

‘Okay. Let it play.’

Berg sets it going and points a finger to the screen and a black officer manning the front desk. ‘Look at Howie out for the
count, sleeping his ass off.’ He snorts out a laugh. ‘Damn near soils his pants when your fruitcake leans on the buzzer.’

Carter watches the big old officer jerk awake. It’s just like Jimmy said and it makes him smile for a second. The shot is
wide-angled and covers the desk right of frame and the public door on the left. There’s an electronic clunk and the door opens.
A man walks in. He’s barefoot and wearing what looks like a cream cape and underpants. A ridiculous sight. A kind of kick-ass
superhero. Carter suddenly realises what he’s got on. It’s not a cape, it’s a sheet. A bed sheet, like the ones the victims
were covered with. He turns to the custody sergeant.

Berg answers the question before it’s even asked. ‘Already bagged and tagged with his other stuff.’

‘We got a name for this fool?’

He nods to the footage and smiles. ‘He’s just about to tell you.’

Carter’s attention swings back to the monitor. The man has his arms spread wide as he approaches an astonished
Howie. ‘I am God’s helper, I am Deliverance, the carrier of souls.’

Deliverance.

The detective’s spirits sink. The guy is a shrink’s wet dream. A good lawyer is going to dust off a big medico-legal casebook
lying on a shelf in his rich private practice law firm and whip up an insanity plea. He just knows it.

‘I am a vessel of the Lord, a messenger of the Almighty. God has sent me.’

Howie eases his sleepy ass up and out of the chair. ‘Sure he has, brother, but right now the good Lord wants you to go straight
home and sleep off whatever’s got you buzzed.’ Howie spots the cuts as the guy closes on the desk. ‘Man, what you done to
yourself?’

‘My work is over. His work is done.
Dominus vobiscum.
’

‘Shit, are you okay?’ Howie presses a button under the desk to summon back-up.

‘I praise the souls I have delivered.’ The man falls to his knees. ‘The holy souls of Kathleen Higgins, Stephanie Hayes, Lisa
Griffin, Lucy Bryant, Shelly Hughes, Louise Perry, Krissy Patterson, Kylie Gray, Sally-Ann Ward, Maria Gonzales, Kim Bass
and—’

Carter leans closer to the screen. He missed the last few words. Another name. ‘Rewind Jimmy, does he say something there.’

‘Don’t think so.’ The sergeant spools back.

They watch the footage again. Carter still can’t hear anything. It’s like the guy stops himself naming someone.

Why?

Right now it doesn’t matter. The crazeball in a cape just listed all eleven victims in the serial killer case Carter’s spent
years working. Including the newest kill – Kim Bass.

FRANCE

Ephrem follows them off the A7.

He wonders for a moment if there’s an airport nearby, whether they’ve booked a private plane. He’d be left stranded. His fears
are abated as he watches the BMW cruise down the Route de Marseille and pick up signs marked Montelimar-Centre.

Within fifteen minutes the open countryside of southeastern France has gone and they’re enfolded in the concrete arms of a
big city. The Broussards’ limousine cruises gracefully to a roundabout and takes the first exit onto Rue Saint-Gaucher. It’s
a tight narrow street with tourist shops and shuttered homes leaning over a line of asphalt barely wide enough for cars to
pass.