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  The hotel manager pressed his fingertips together and visibly brought himself under control. ‘Can I speak to you in confidence?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m very worried that one of the staff might be involved.’

  Eden waited for him to continue. A pulse twitched in his temple and a sheen of sweat oiled his lip.

  ‘Over the past few months, we’ve had a number of thefts from the hotel.’

  ‘What kind of thefts?’

  ‘Items taken from guests’ rooms. Mostly petty pilfering – a pair of shoes, a DVD, a bottle of perfume.’

  ‘Anything of value? Jewellery, money, credit cards?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. Because it was such minor stuff, I didn’t tell the police. I thought it was more damaging to the hotel to make it public, so I compensated the guests and tried to tighten up security.’

  ‘Anything go missing from the hotel itself?’

  ‘The usual – sheets, towels, toiletries. There’s always some, in every hotel. We’ve had slightly more taken than I’d expect, but not enough to worry. It was the thefts from the guests that bothered me.’

  ‘Who do you suspect?’

  ‘Anyone who has access to the rooms – the chambermaids, cleaners, the porter. But most of our staff have been here for years and this problem is quite recent.’ He paused. ‘I can’t imagine anyone doing this. We like to look after our staff here.’

  Eden sized him up. ‘You need to tell the police,’ she said. ‘If they think Lewis disturbed someone stealing from him, they need to know there have been other thefts.’

  ‘The publicity could sink the hotel.’

  ‘And a murder won’t?’ she said.

  Remembering the letter she’d found shoved under Lewis’s door, she asked, ‘What do you do with guests’ mail?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Do you keep it in a pigeonhole and hand it over when they come in or out, or is it taken to their rooms?’

  ‘It should go straight up to their rooms,’ the hotel manager said.

  ‘And if they’re not in?’

  ‘We slip it under the door.’

  ‘And what time is your post normally delivered?’

  ‘Early. About seven o’clock,’ he said.

  Allowing a few minutes for the post to be sorted and summoning someone to deliver it to guests, the letter was slid under his door about seven-thirty, while Lewis lay dead in his room.

  She worked her thumb under the envelope’s flap and pulled out a single sheet:

  You can’t escape. I know where and what you are

  It had a handwritten white label on it and was addressed to Lewis at the hotel. It was postmarked in Gloucestershire the day before. Was it a bluff from the murderer, sending a letter that they knew would get there after the victim was already dead? Or was Lewis’s death a robbery gone wrong, after all?

  There was no one waiting in Simon Hughes’ offices. Gwen was in her usual place, battering away at the keyboard of a PC, her raspberry-ripple hair bouncing with the effort.

  ‘You seemed to know Lewis Jordan when I was here on Monday,’ Eden said.

  Gwen harrumphed. ‘Oh I know him all right. Lewis Jordan indeed!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Gwen stopped clattering. ‘Lewis Jordan is his TV name.’ Scorn sharpened her words. ‘He’s not Lewis Jordan. He’ll always be Lee Jones.’

  ‘Lee Jones? How did you know him?’

  ‘Let’s just say he was a regular here. Should have given him frequent flyer points.’ She jabbed her finger at a chair against the wall. ‘We could put a plaque on that chair, the number of times he was there, skinny little kid, a bail sheet in his hand.’

  ‘Bail sheet?’

  Gwen’s eyes met hers. ‘You know the type – little sod who makes everyone’s life a misery. Lee Jones was the sort of kid who should have been drowned at birth.’

  ‘Interesting. Someone killed him last night.’

  Gwen’s fingers stole to a crucifix hanging at her throat. ‘What?’

  ‘The police think it might be a robbery gone wrong. But you say he was in trouble a lot when he was young …’

  Gwen swivelled her eyes back to her computer screen. ‘I didn’t say anything of the sort.’

  ‘What sort of trouble was he in, when he was Lee Jones?’

  Gwen didn’t answer. She frowned at her keyboard, where her hands lay motionless.

  Eden waited in silence until Simon Hughes came to collect her. She declined a cup of coffee and settled herself opposite him. Rain squalled against the window and darkened the room enough to need lights even though it was midday.

  ‘Sorry to barge in on you like this,’ Eden began, ‘but I thought I should tell you that Lewis Jordan was found dead this morning. Looks like foul play, I’m afraid.’

  ‘My God,’ Simon said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The police think he might have disturbed a burglar, but …’

  ‘You’re not sure.’

  She shook her head. ‘I want to investigate it myself. There’s the poison pen letters for a start. I’ve been paid a week in advance, and I’d like to see what I can turn up in that time.’

  ‘Most people would just take that money and leave it,’ Simon said.

  ‘I’m not most people.’ She waited for a beat then asked, ‘Did Lewis make a will?’

  ‘Not with us,’ Simon said. ‘He might have seen a solicitor in London, of course. But as far as I’m aware, he didn’t make one. It’s not unusual – some people are superstitious about making a will. Think it’s tempting fate.’

  ‘So assuming he died intestate, who would inherit?’

  ‘His next of kin.’ Simon bounced his fingers against his lips. ‘As far as I know, that would be his mother. I believe she’s still alive.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Tracey Jones. I haven’t heard from her for a long time, but she used to live on Princess Elizabeth Way.’

  ‘Last time I was here, I asked why Lewis chose your firm instead of going to one in London,’ Eden began. ‘You said he had a previous connection.’

  Simon leaned back in his chair. ‘I think it was a case of better the devil you know. He’d used our firm in the past.’

  ‘When he was Lee Jones?’

  Simon looked startled. ‘He told you that? I thought he wanted to hide his previous incarnation.’

  Eden didn’t correct him. ‘So he simply used the solicitors he’d always gone to?’

  ‘Basically.’

  ‘Tell me about Lee Jones.’

  ‘It’s the old story, I’m afraid. No dad around, his mother an alcoholic, unable to cope with him. In and out of foster homes all his life. Shoplifting, petty theft, criminal damage.’ Simon paused to think. ‘He seemed to go straight for a while, had a good foster home, then he went off the rails. His foster mother threw him out and he ended up in juvenile detention.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A burglary, I think. The usual pattern, alas. Start small and get bigger. Shoplifting turns to housebreaking, and next thing you know they’ve been in prison longer than they’ve been out. But Lewis … Lee … was different. When he was in juvenile detention he learned film-making and realised he had a knack for it. And, importantly, he loved it. So, he cleaned himself up, got some qualifications and went to college to study film. Then he reinvented himself as Lewis Jordan and forged a highly successful career as a documentary film maker.’ Simon shrugged at the twisting path that life can take.

  ‘Until someone bludgeoned him to death in a hotel room,’ Eden added.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Wednesday, 28 October 2015

  12:27 hours

  Where was the bloody film crew? They’d told everyone to be ready to start filming at eight, and now it was after twelve and not a peep from them. Maybe they’d decided to shelve the archaeology altogether and go all out for druids and the search for the Holy Grail, Aidan
thought, viciously stabbing an eraser with his paperknife.

  He went to his office door and called to Trev, ‘Get everyone in here, will you, Trev?’

  Trev, Mandy and Andy trooped into his office. They all looked grey and exhausted: the stress of the evening before had left its mark. Aidan shut the door behind them.

  ‘Lisa’s outside having a ciggy,’ Mandy said.

  ‘This doesn’t concern her,’ Aidan said. He pulled his chair round from behind the desk so the four of them were in a circle. ‘You all know we’ve got a problem. Last night, someone took the artefact we recovered with the skeleton.’

  ‘The Holy Blood,’ Trev said.

  ‘We don’t know that it is the Holy Blood,’ Aidan said. ‘But yes, that.’ He took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice steady. It wasn’t easy: a scream of ‘What the fucking hell is going on’ was threatening to erupt. ‘If any of you took it as a joke, or to piss off Jordan, or because you hate me, that’s fine. But please, return it now and nothing will be said.’

  Three people stared at the floor.

  ‘It’s been a crazy couple of days with the film people here,’ he made an attempt at levity, ‘with their bonkers names and obsession with the Holy Grail, so I understand if you forgot what you were doing and took the artefact. And I promise you, there’ll be no repercussions if you put it back now.’

  ‘I didn’t take it, Aidan,’ Mandy said, tears in her eyes.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Trev, ‘though I’d like to strangle whoever did.’

  Andy shook his head. ‘Not me.’

  ‘It’s more likely it was one of the film crew,’ Mandy said, folding her arms tight across her chest. ‘They had no respect for archaeology.’

  Despite the tension pounding in his skull, Aidan smiled at this. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘But think back and see what you can remember from when we were packing up last night.’

  Chaos is what it had been, with equipment everywhere and people tripping over cables, and blokes loading boxes into a van, and that mardy Jocasta glaring at everyone and Xanthe getting in the way and blathering about Twitter. Why the hell didn’t he lock up himself last night? Why the hell did he leave Mandy and Trev to see everything was packed away and the Holy Blood stashed in the safe? Because of sodding Lisa that’s why. Insisting they go out for dinner, and he was so embarrassed he’d given in.

  Months it had taken to get the funding for the research into the skeleton and the artefact. Months of negotiating with the film company, agreeing a timescale, arguing about professional fees and access to the results. And finally he’d brought it all off and what happens? Someone steals the fucking Holy Blood. And now he was going to have to call the police and report it, and the whole world would know he was an incompetent twat.

  He groaned aloud. This was no good. His head was banging and every muscle in his body ached as if he had the flu. He unhooked his jacket from its coat hanger and slipped it on. Despite Lewis’s comments about looking the part, he’d elected to wear a dark blue suit for today’s filming. Stuff Lewis. He had Trev with his horrid jumpers and hair sprouting every which way, and Mandy with her brightly coloured plaits and intensity, that should be enough beardy-weirdyness for any documentary.

  ‘I’m going out for a moment,’ Aidan said.

  ‘What if they turn up while you’re out?’ Mandy asked.

  ‘Tough.’

  He clipped down the street, glad to be out of the stifling atmosphere of the Unit. Andy, Mandy and Trev were hunched and afraid; he’d barely spoken to Lisa since she’d wafted in on the dot of eight o’clock, fully made up and ready to be filmed, not wanting a rehash of the previous evening’s spat. Over the past few hours she’d got progressively crankier, asking every few minutes if the TV crew had arrived until he thought he’d strangle her if she asked again.

  At the corner of the street, he slowed his pace and on impulse went up to the Catholic church. A moment of hesitation, then habit propelled him inside. The smell of incense and dust, familiar in memory, cast him back to his childhood. A prickly collar and a jacket with too-long sleeves. ‘You’ll grow into it,’ his mother had always said.

  His fingers dipped into the holy water stoop before he registered what he was doing. He crossed himself, went inside, and genuflected self-consciously. The church was empty apart from a woman praying in a side chapel. He walked to the front, slipped into a pew, and gazed up at the crucified Christ above the altar.

  ‘I’m in a horrible mess,’ he muttered, half to himself. ‘I’ve lost the Blood. I’ve lost your blood, though we don’t know for certain it is yours yet. But it’s gone, and if it doesn’t turn up, it’s going to be the most embarrassing moment of my career. If I have a career after this. The man who lost the Holy Blood.’ His head sank onto his clasped hands. ‘Help,’ he said. ‘Help me.’

  A woman trying to defy middle age by dyeing her hair in purple stripes walked past and gave him a funny look.

  ‘Sorry,’ Aidan said, mortified. ‘Just talking to … you know.’ He twitched his head towards the statue of Christ.

  The woman didn’t answer, but hurried past him into the side chapel. The woman there greeted her, and they bent their heads together, whispering. A few words carried across the nave, ‘It’s done now, Rose,’ and the other woman sobbing.

  What am I doing here, spilling out my troubles to a bit of painted wood and plaster, Aidan thought. He kept his pleas silent from then on. The words came unbidden into his mind. Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Father, who art in heaven. I believe. He mentally recited a decade of the rosary, the cadences as familiar as the scent of home; the words as soft and comforting as a childhood blanket.

  After a while, a cramp in his leg made him get up. His mind was calmer, tranquilised by ritual and the familiar patterns of words. Even his headache had receded. Maybe, just maybe, a miracle had occurred, and the Holy Blood would be back in the safe when he got back to work.

  It wasn’t, but Eden was waiting for him, prowling round his office with the force of a captured wildcat.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded, shutting the door firmly and leaning against it.

  ‘I went to clear my head,’ he said, not wanting to admit he’d been praying in church. ‘Is the film crew back? No one’s done a scrap of work this morning, they’ve all been waiting for their moment of fame. Trev’s overdosed on coffee just to stay awake.’

  When she didn’t reply, he said, ‘Eden? What is it?’

  ‘When did you last see Lewis Jordan?’

  ‘Yesterday, at the filming. You know that, you were there.’

  ‘Did you see him later that evening? Think very carefully before you answer.’

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ Had she found out that he and Lisa left together? ‘Lewis left about six, same time as you. What’s this about?’

  ‘So you didn’t see him later? Perhaps you went to his hotel room?’

  ‘Why should I? He wasn’t even filming me for the documentary.’

  Eden held his gaze. ‘I found Lewis Jordan dead in his hotel room this morning. It looks like murder.’

  ‘Jesus! What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But his corpse was not a pretty sight.’

  He staggered as a thought struck him. ‘Do you think I killed him?’

  His voice had risen. Eden shushed him and glanced at the door. They both knew Trev and Mandy had big ears.

  ‘I’m only asking what the police will ask you when they put together a timeline of his last hours,’ she hissed. ‘But I’m asking you particularly because when I found Lewis, I also found this.’

  She took an origami swan out of her pocket and tossed it onto his desk.

  Aidan picked up the swan and unfolded it. A flyer for a student production of Measure for Measure. Shit. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Beside the bed,’ Eden said. ‘Is it yours?’

  He swallowed, a fist closing round his heart. ‘No.’

  Her eyes bored into his. ‘
It’s got the same nick in the beak that you did in the swan you made for me.’

  A horrible feeling of dread swept over him and sweat prickled between his shoulder blades.

  ‘I didn’t see Lewis Jordan last night,’ he said.

  ‘And you didn’t make this swan?’

  His breath caught in his throat. ‘No.’

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Wednesday, 28 October 2015

  14:15 hours

  The blocks of flats that lined Princess Elizabeth Way harked back to the golden age of the British Empire: Ceylon House, Rhodesia House, Canada House. The irony wasn’t lost on Eden that the flats were built at exactly the time the last vestiges of the British Empire were claiming independence.

  Tracey Jones – Lewis’s mother – lived in Malaya House, a redbrick building with cream-coloured stone balconies laden with mini greenhouses, old mattresses and bicycles. It overlooked a swathe of soggy grass and two bedraggled weeping willows.

  Her flat was on the third floor, up a flight of stone steps, no sign of a lift. From the state of Tracey’s face, the police had already been round to break the news of Lewis Jordan’s death. Her eyes were puffed up, so swollen her eyelashes stuck out like pins. Her nose was scrubbed raw, and her skin had the skimmed milk bluey hue of deep shock.

  ‘Mrs Jones?’ Eden enquired, softly.

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘Miss Jones. I’m Eden Grey. I was the one who found Lewis this morning. I wanted to come and see that you were OK.’

  Tracey stepped aside and let her into a narrow hall with a busy carpet. She was ushered into a stifling living room with a gas fire burning at full pelt. There was a cream leather settee and chair, a widescreen TV, and another headachey carpet. A single picture was displayed in the room: a large photograph of Lewis in a dinner jacket and bow tie, brandishing an award of some sort.

  Tracey Jones was a dumpy woman of about sixty with a mono-boob, a big square face and coarse blonde hair. She wore a blue jersey dress, thick purple tights and leopard-print slippers. Evidently Lewis inherited his flamboyance from her. She dropped into the armchair and waved at Eden to take the settee. A half empty glass of clear liquid stood on the floor beside her chair.