The Turin Shroud Secret (8 page)

‘My boss is the same with his coffee mug – anyone uses and breaks that, they may as well hand in their badge and go kill themselves.’

Out of the swirling dust two frightened women appear. They huddle together. Mourning robes are pulled tight around their bodies
and faces. An angelic voice is heard off camera:
‘Fear not you, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here. For he is risen.
’

Mitzi shrugs. ‘Takes a similar miracle to raise my old man.’

On the big screen, a naked and shapely angel appears. Her long golden hair and feathered wings just enough to pass the scrutiny
of censors. She beckons the terrified women.
‘Come and see the place where the Lord was laid, then go quickly and tell his disciples that he is risen.
’

‘Jeez, why don’t they do something original and have fat angels for once?’ Mitzi turn to Sarah. ‘Or a black angel, or Hispanic
or Mexican – why always the naked white chicks?’

The film freezes and saves the assistant trying to answer. It goes into high-speed rewind and then the screen turns black.
‘They’re changing spools,’ she explains. ‘After this Mary goes into the tomb and finds the sepulchre is empty. There’s just
the burial cloth lying there.’ She stops abruptly, almost as though she’s said too much already and gets to her feet. ‘We
should go now and collect your copies.’

Mitzi struggles out of the comforting hug of the seat and follows her. ‘What happens next?’

‘We go through the back – to the rooms behind the screen – I’m taking you to meet the archivist.’

‘I know that. I meant in the movie. What’s next?’

‘I’ve been instructed only to talk to you about what’s been shot and what you are being given copies of.’

‘Say
what?’

The tone is enough to add speed to Sarah’s stride. She pushes through a soundproof back door into a passage with restrooms
off to the left and a storeroom to the right. In front of her is another heavy door marked ‘John Kaye Snr, Chief Archivist’.

‘Hang on,’ protests Mitzi.

Sarah escapes into a large, cool room almost entirely filled with ceiling-to-floor shelves stacked with cans of film. She
gestures towards the far end, to a worktop desk and a tiny old man perched on a stool in front of three viewing monitors.
Big headphones are wrapped around his completely bald head. ‘That’s Mr Kaye,’ she whispers. ‘He suffers from dwarfism and
his hearing is not good – but he’s a really nice guy.’

Mitzi grabs Sarah’s arm as she sets off again. ‘Be sure of one thing, when we’re done here, Miss Smarty Pants, you
will
tell me everything. Even if I have to drag you by your slim little ankles across the parking lot and haul you downtown.’

The young assistant is shaking as she takes the final steps
to where the archivist is working. ‘Hello – Mr Kaye,’ she says loudly. ‘This is Detective Fallon.’

‘Lieutenant
Fallon,’ Mitzi offers a hand.

Kaye shakes it but looks away. He’s either embarrassed or more interested in the screen than the policewoman. ‘You’ve come
for the rushes. I’m just copying them.’ He glances at a clock high up the wall in front of him. ‘There’s about twenty minutes
left to go on the transfer.’

‘We’ve burned them onto DVDs for you,’ explains Sarah trying to build a peace. She dips into her large Gucci shoulder bag.
‘There’s also an NDA, a non-disclosure agreement, for you to sign.’ She fumbles with two copies of the document. ‘As the material
has not yet been transmitted it makes you responsible for ensuring it isn’t copied, pirated or lost.’

Mitzi takes the paper and looks it over. It’s full of legal mumbo-jumbo that make her and the LAPD responsible for zillions
in damages. ‘I’ll sign when the copies are done.’ She peers at the desk monitors. ‘Is this the movie?’

He nods. ‘What there is of it. They’ve only cut together thirty minutes – about a quarter.’ He points to the footage. ‘These
are rough cuts made by the assembly editors, they won’t make a master cut – a
fine
cut – until the entire film has been shot and the director has had time to consider any changes.’

The screen shows modern-day Italy. A busy street crammed with cars and scooters, Italian signs, shops, stylishly dressed men
and women.

‘What’s this? What happened to Pilate’s house and all that old stuff?’

The assistant doesn’t answer.

‘It’s Turin,’ explains Kaye. ‘It’s where one of the contemporary protagonists is introduced.’ He glances towards Sarah, unsure
if he should say anything more.

She tries to pull off the impossible task of not too obviously shaking her head.

‘C’mon,’ snaps Mitzi. ‘Why all the secrecy?’

Sarah colours a little. ‘Truth is, we all signed confidentiality clauses specifically prohibiting us from talking about the
movie, its content, or anyone associated with the creation of it, and we’ve all been issued with memos reminding us of the
pledges we took.’

‘I’m a goddamned police officer,’ fumes Mitzi. ‘Confidentiality doesn’t apply to me, especially when I’m investigating the
death of the person who wrote your damned movie.’

‘Please understand, we could get fired,’ says the archivist.

‘You could get arrested long before you get fired.’

There’s a mechanical click and beep from under the worktop. ‘They’re done,’ he says, apparently thankful for the distraction.
‘Your copies are ready. I’ll case and bag them for you.’

‘The NDA, Lieutenant Fallon, could you sign it now, please?’ Sarah holds out the papers and a pen.

Mitzi draws a giant cross through each page of legal text, flips a sheet over and scribbles on the back:
I promise to do my best not to lose or show this movie film to bad people. Honest.
She scrawls her name and shoves the paper back in Sarah’s hand.
‘Now cut the secret squirrel shit and tell me exactly what’s going on.’

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

Force Press Officer Adam Geagea perches on the edge of Nic’s desk while the detective finishes a call. He knows he’s an unwelcome
guest. Cops like to keep cases quiet and his job is to tell the world what’s happening. Chalk and cheese.

Geagea is nearly fifty and would love to have been a cop. The only things that stopped him were a shortness of height and
a dubiously foreign surname. If he had a dollar for every time he had been forced to spell it out or tell people it’s pronounced
Zhar-zhar,
he’d be a billionaire. Only the well-educated recognise he shares the same family name as Samir Geagea, the notoriously ruthless
Middle-Eastern Christian freedom fighter. It’s not something he draws attention to.

Nic finishes his call and stares accusingly at the man sat on his desk.

Geagea is fiddling with a flip-over calendar. ‘What is this, Detective, some kind of IQ question?’

Nic’s not in the mood for small talk but tries to be pleasant,
‘One a day – it’s a vitamin supplement for the brain.’

The journo examines a sheet and reads it aloud. ‘What do the following have in common – Chairwoman, Peruse, Anomalies, Antiperspirant?’
He looks across the squad room as he thinks. ‘I give up, what’s the connection?’

‘It’s for clever people, Adam. Best you leave alone. What do you want?’

Geagea takes the insult in his stride. ‘I’ve had
Variety
and the
Hollywood Reporter
on the phone after quotes on Tamara Jacobs’s death.’

‘How do they even know she’s dead?’

‘They’re reporters. It’s their job to know things like that.’

‘I get it, but how? I mean, it’s got to have come from someone – so who?’

‘Not me.’

Nic smiles. ‘Didn’t say it was. Then who?’

‘Morgue. Coroner’s office. A dozen people on the beach when she was fished out. Colleagues at the studio. You want me to go
on?’

Nic surrenders. ‘There’s no statement prepared. Mitzi is over at the studio right now. Tell the media the usual – we’re awaiting
the ME’s report, no comment until then.’

‘These flies won’t blow away so easy, Detective. In LA, dead film writers are newborn celebrities.’ Geagea shrugs. ‘Hollywood
press doesn’t give a damn about them when they’re alive, but dead – well, that’s different, they become
saintly.’
He says the word with irony as thick as grease. ‘The hacks are going to be swarming tomorrow.’

Nic’s desk phone rings. ‘Tomorrow’s tomorrow. Are we done for now?’

Geagea levers himself off the desk as Nic snatches the phone from the cradle. ‘Karakandez.’

‘Nic, Tony Peach. I’ve got news on your car tyres.’

He reaches for his notebook, eyes flicking back to Geagea who’s still hovering near his desk. ‘Shoot.’

‘You’re looking at Maxxis MA-S2 Marauders. High-performance tyres, not cheap, probably around a hundred and fifty bucks a
pop.’

‘They fit a Lexus Hybrid?’

‘Sure would. They’d go on standard eighteen-inch wheels. From the pattern, tread width and depth, we’re talking new shoes
here. These babies haven’t run more than two to three thousand miles.’

‘Time-wise, how does that translate to a normal amount of motoring, T?’

‘Average Joe does twelve thou a year, not as much as they used to because of gas prices. So these babies would probably have
been levered on back in September, maybe mid-August. Could be they were a production-line fit or a recent change up. For a
rental car, story’s different. Rents can easily burn a thousand miles a week. One other thing – you don’t usually find these
treads on a rep’s car, so you maybe want to push salesmen to the back of your filter.’

‘You’re a star, buddy. I’ve got some cops in Robbery doing a little phone-bashing for me. I’ll get them to hit
rental companies first, run down new Lexus hybrids or ones with tyre changes in the last month. I owe you.’

‘I’ll hold you to it. You fixed your leaving drinks yet?’

It’s something Nic hasn’t even thought about. ‘TBA. I’ll come back to you.’

Peach laughs. ‘Better still, I’ll call Mitzi. Take care, man.’

‘You too.’ Nic hangs up and stares at Geagea, who’s still there.

‘Sorry, Detective,’ the press officer points to the quiz-a-day calendar. ‘Before I go, give me the answer will you? Otherwise,
it’ll eat me all day.’

‘Okay. All the words hide countries – Chairwoman contains Oman, Peruse Peru, Anomalies Mali and Antiperspirant …?’ He pauses
to give the hack one last chance to grab a little respect.

Geagea looks blank.

Nic shakes his head. ‘It’s your part of the world, buddy. Iran. As in Ante-persp-
Iran
-t. Now get out of here.’

ANTERONUS FILMS, CULVER CITY

Sarah Kenny makes her wisest decision of the day. She takes Mitzi to a quiet corner of Plunge, an in-studio coffee franchise,
where she starts to spill the beans on
The Shroud.
‘Tamara was very secretive about the script. Not even Mr Svenson knew what the ending would be.’

‘How can that be?’ Mitzi looks confused. ‘I mean, the actors
have
to know, don’t they? How can they play their parts unless they have the lines to learn?’

‘They were all given an outline script—’

‘Which I’m still to get a copy of by the way.’

Sarah ignores the pointed remark. ‘All the cast were warned the ending would be rewritten. They were told it was so secret
a copy wouldn’t be circulated until the day before the shoot and even then only to the few actors taking part.’

‘Why? What’s all the fuss about?’

She scans the coffee shop nervously. ‘Tamara had a contact in Turin in Italy – someone called R. Craxi and he’d given her
certain facts about the Shroud that have never been disclosed publically.’

‘And this film discloses them?’

‘The studio’s marketing department expects all the film’s final publicity to be driven by public disclosure.’

‘Disclosure of what? What are the
certain facts
you mentioned?’

‘I really don’t know. I haven’t seen anything scientific of any kind. I guess they’re to do with the authenticity of the Shroud.’

‘The ending that
was
circulated – what did it say about the Shroud?’

‘It didn’t commit. The whole modern-day section – the
reveal, if you like, was missing. I heard Tamara telling Mr Svenson he would need a scientific setting, a CSI-style lab for
some scenes.’

‘For carbon dating or DNA testing?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe both.’

‘But there were no results in the script?’

‘Not in any version I’ve seen.’

Mitzi thinks it through. The best outcome for the writer would be the most shocking. So Jacobs’s new ending would have had
to be explosive – something that rocked church or country to the core. Which is fine – providing it’s only fiction. But what
if it was based on fact? That would be different. Totally different.

Suddenly, the death of Tamara Jacobs starts to make some sense.

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

The sixty-year-old estranged husband of the dead writer is dressed in a black suit with white shirt and neatly fastened black
tie. Dylan Jacobs’s hair is silver and cut elegantly short and despite crossing continents, he is clean-shaven and alert.
His partner Viktor is sat beside him in the police reception area reading a day-old newspaper. He is wearing cream jeans,
a glittering Dolce and Gabbana T-shirt and gold silk jacket.

Nic clicks open the security door and looks across to them. ‘Mr Jacobs?’

Tamara’s husband rises wearily to his feet. ‘Yes.’

‘Nic Karakandez.’ He extends a hand. ‘My sympathies for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’ Jacobs shakes and motions to the man next to him. ‘This is Viktor. I believe you spoke on the phone?’

‘We did. Please both come through.’

They follow him up a couple of sets of stairs and into a dull interview room that has a table, six chairs and a wall bearing
a large blue LAPD crest, complete with American flag, scales of justice and the motto ‘To Protect and to Serve.’

Nic motions to the seats. ‘Can I get you drinks? Coffee, soda, water?’