Holy Blood Page 5

  When it came to people who could have a grudge against Lewis, there was no shortage of contenders. One article interviewed an aggrieved ex-wife of one of Lewis’s friends. Not only had Lewis groped her in the kitchen at a dinner party, but she swore that he’d corrupted her husband.

  ‘He was a kind, loving husband who adored spending time at home with me and the children,’ she averred. ‘Then Lewis appeared on the scene and suddenly he was out late every night. Sometimes he didn’t come home at all, just came rolling in next morning, reeking of drink. I found receipts in his pockets for strip clubs and peep shows. That’s not my husband. It was Lewis who took him to these places. When I found cocaine in his things, I threatened to leave him. He just laughed in my face. I took the children and fled.’

  Lewis was an all-round bad boy, leading others astray if this article was to be believed. It wasn’t the only one that claimed Lewis’s high living had swept others along in the current. Other disaffected wives and girlfriends happily spilled the details to the gossip mags. Prostitutes, drugs, gambling; men of high morals and family values inveigled into debt and sleaze.

  ‘We had to sell our home to clear his debts,’ one loyal yet furious wife admitted.

  Were any of these wronged wives resentful enough to send poison pen letters and a wreath of dead flowers, Eden wondered. She tipped the letters onto the table. With what she suspected was a rare moment of perspicacity, Lewis had labelled the back of each one with the date it was received and the address it was sent to.

  ‘You don’t deserve to live’ was sent to Lewis’s flat, and received on 17 September. A week later he received ‘I’ll tell the world what you are’, also at his home address. The next letter was sent to a studio address and was received on 3 October. It read, ‘Keep looking over your shoulder, sick boy’.

  She went back to the gossip sites and created a timeline of Lewis’s misdemeanours, hunting for a pattern between offending the wives and a poison pen letter appearing. Nothing obvious, and some of these sensation stories related to events over two years before. Why start sending the letters now, when the marriages were either dead or the couple had made up and moved on?

  Eden rubbed her eyes, stretched, and went over to the TV. It chuntered away in the background while she re-examined the letters. The writer could handle punctuation, she noted, half-admiring the meticulous placing of the comma in ‘Keep looking over your shoulder, sick boy’.

  The sound of Lewis’s voice brought her head up sharply.

  ‘It’s going to be CSI Hailes Abbey,’ he was saying, his face filling her TV screen. ‘I held that relic this afternoon. Held it my own hands.’ He brought his hands into shot, demonstrating their ordinariness. The note of wonder was back in his voice and his eyes gleamed the way they’d done when he beheld the Holy Blood relic. ‘I had the Holy Blood of Hailes in my hands,’ Lewis said again. ‘The Blood of Christ, in my hands, and I tell you, it made me feel immortal.’

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Monday, 26 October 2015

  13:21 hours

  ‘Hello, you’re through to personal banking, this is Susie speaking. How can I help you today?’

  ‘Good afternoon, I’d like to withdraw some cash, please.’

  ‘Of course. If you just pop into your local branch, they’d be delighted to help you with that.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I want to withdraw rather a large amount of cash.’

  ‘Right.’ Susie twizzled her finger beside her ear to demonstrate to the girl opposite her in the call centre that she’d got a right nutter here.

  ‘And I want to collect it tomorrow afternoon. Can you arrange for it to be ready for me?’

  ‘If I can just take some details.’ She held her fingers stiffly as she clattered them over the keys: her shellacked nails were too long for typing and she disliked the jar of her nails on the keyboard. She waited while the customer’s details came on screen and swallowed an exclamation of surprise. Maybe not a nutter: the account was bursting with money. Adopting a more respectful tone, Susie asked, ‘How much cash do you wish to withdraw?’

  ‘Two hundred thousand pounds.’

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Tuesday, 27 October 2015

  07:01 hours

  A paper swan was on the pillow next to her when she awoke. Eden rolled over, one arm slung over her eyes to blot out the glare of the bedroom light. Aidan was up and dressed, and sitting on the end of her bed.

  ‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ he said.

  ‘What time is it?’ she mumbled.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘God.’ She struggled to sit up. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘Got to get home and changed. Early start today. I want to make sure everything’s ready before her ladyship arrives.’

  Of course. Lisa Greene, the expert on bones that Lewis had drafted in from Oxford; Aidan’s ex-girlfriend.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of Lewis,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know what makes a good archaeologist, or even good research. He just wants some eye candy for his documentary.’

  Aidan snorted and she squeezed his hand.

  ‘So what’s today’s offering?’ she said, picking up the swan. ‘That’s pretty good.’

  ‘If you pull its tail, it bobs its head,’ Aidan said, demonstrating.

  She’d bought him a book of papers and origami instructions for their anniversary. ‘First year is paper,’ she’d said, knowing that the precise lines and geometric shapes would please his mind. He sought regular patterns, counted objects over and over, and even now was drawing an outline round the pattern on her duvet, trying to make it fit into a symmetrical shape. He’d thrown himself into the origami. Every time he saw her now he presented her with a new folded design.

  ‘You remind me of a swan,’ he said. ‘Calm on the surface and frantic paddling underneath.’

  ‘True.’ She thumped the pillow and positioned it more comfortably behind her head.

  ‘Want some coffee?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  He disappeared into the kitchen and she heard him clattering about. Probably rearranging her mugs so the handles all pointed the same way, she thought, fondly. He returned with a tray of coffee and a plate of toast.

  ‘You’re not bad, for a boyfriend,’ she said.

  ‘Look, I don’t want you to worry about Lisa,’ he began. ‘I know last time I saw her she was …’ he hesitated, searching for words.

  ‘A bit of a bitch?’ Eden supplied.

  Aidan winced. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

  Eden sipped her coffee. It popped her eyes open; Aidan always made rocket fuel. ‘I know Lisa’s sort,’ she said, twining her fingers in his. ‘It’ll be alright.’

  ‘See you later?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She reached for her dressing gown slung on the bedpost and shrugged it on, then followed him to the door to let him out of her flat. He kissed her and slid his hand around her waist, the heat pressing through the thin silk robe.

  ‘See you at the coalface,’ she said, and locked the door after him, securing the deadbolt and fastening the chain.

  Her flat was in an Art Deco block of brown and cream brick, and had a balcony. She unlocked the door to the balcony and stepped out, hopping from foot to foot as the chill seeped into her bare feet. Sipping her coffee, she looked out over rooftops to the spire of a church, now converted to a restaurant, and to the hills beyond. The air was cool and delicious, playing delightfully on her skin. It and the socking coffee revived her tired mind and set her brain spinning for the day. Just as she was negotiating her way through the slurry at the bottom of the cup, the phone rang.

  ‘I hope that’s not Lewis,’ Eden muttered to herself. He hadn’t struck her as an early riser. She picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Jackie,’ said a smooth voice.

  She froze.

  ‘I know you’re there, Jackie. Or Eden, as you call yourself now.’

  Ha
mmond. The gang leader who’d found out she was an undercover officer. In her mind she saw his face close to hers, the deadly calm with which he slit her across each arm, each thigh, and then stuck the knife in her stomach. Not to kill her, not right then, just to hurt her enough so she couldn’t escape from the much slower death he had planned.

  ‘What do you want?’ she hissed, clenching her teeth together to stop herself heaving with fear.

  ‘I saw you on television,’ Hammond said, his voice a sensuous drawl. ‘Just can’t keep out of trouble, can you?’

  She couldn’t reply.

  ‘Just thought I’d ring and let you know I haven’t forgotten you, Jackie,’ Hammond said. ‘That’s all.’

  And he hung up.

  She replaced the receiver, her hands shaking. Since testifying against Hammond she’d created a new identity, left London and made a fresh life in Cheltenham. Her parents, her friends, her ex-husband had all been told that she’d died, and in truth her old self had died. It had been too dangerous for her to remain. But now Hammond had seen her on TV. Who else had seen her? Who else knew that she was alive and where to find her?

  09:42 hours

  ‘You ready for today, Eden?’ Lewis said.

  When she arrived at his hotel he was still in the dining room having breakfast, so she joined him at the table and took a cup of coffee. Xanthe was also there, making notes on her iPad.

  ‘Sure,’ Eden said, her mind still churning over Hammond’s phone call. His voice reminded her of all she had lost, and her chest ached with grief. Her parents had been told she was dead. They had a grave to visit and talk to, though who was in it was moot – a John Doe down and out, or strange fruit harvested from the Thames. At least they had closure; for her there was constant fretting whether they were coping, whether they had swum through sorrow and were at the other side, hoping they were, and yet resentful at the same time that she could be forgotten. When her parents lost her, she also lost them, and every day she grieved.

  ‘The crew’s coming from London,’ Lewis said. ‘They’ll film the whole thing, then we’ll go to Hailes and do some mood shots, get some actors playing monks and pilgrims. It’ll be awesome.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Eden said. Put it all to one side, she told herself, deal with it later. With an effort, she smiled at Lewis, poured herself more coffee, and snaffled a banana and a croissant. Just as she was biting into it, the receptionist came over.

  ‘Mr Jordan?’ she asked. ‘This was delivered for you.’

  She handed over a large white envelope. Everyone stared at it.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lewis said, eventually.

  ‘Want me to take a look?’ Eden said, wiping her fingers on a linen napkin. She dug a pair of latex gloves out of her backpack and snapped them on. ‘In case there are fingerprints,’ she explained, as Xanthe goggled at her.

  The envelope was addressed to Lewis Jordan c/o the Imperial Hotel. The address label was handwritten in capitals in black biro, and the stamp was blurred with a London postmark. Eden slid a butter knife under the flap of the envelope and slit it open. Inside was a single sheet of ordinary A4 paper. The message was printed at the top of the sheet and read:

  You should be ashamed of yourself. You don’t deserve to live.

  10:06 hours

  There was an electric blue Mazda MX5 parked outside the Cheltenham Cultural Heritage Unit when they arrived. While they waited for someone to let them in, another vehicle arrived: a people carrier with three people squashed into the front seats. They tumbled out and unloaded case after case of equipment.

  ‘Here’s the crew,’ Lewis cried, high fiving the two men. They were both in jeans, T-shirts and padded navy gilets. The third person was a woman, mid-twenties, with long glossy brown hair caught in a high ponytail so tight her cheekbones squeaked.

  ‘Who’s she?’ the woman demanded, eyeballing Eden.

  ‘My detective,’ Lewis said. ‘This is Eden. Eden, this is Jocasta.’

  Jocasta? What sort of name was that to lumber a child with, Eden thought. She made to shake hands with the girl, but was frozen by the stare she received. Jocasta raked her up and down, taking in Eden’s black slim-fitting jeans, electric blue leather jacket, and backpack.

  ‘Jocasta’s my researcher,’ Lewis explained. ‘Aren’t you, Jo-Jo?’

  Jocasta shot him a murderous look and Xanthe looked up from her iPad, frowning.

  The door opened and Mandy said, ‘Oh!’ when she saw how many people stood outside.

  ‘Hey, Mands,’ Lewis said, pushing past her. ‘I’ve got the whole crew here today. Ready to make TV history, babe?’

  Mandy flushed and pressed herself to the wall to let everyone squeeze past: Xanthe, whose eyes remained glued to her iPad; Jocasta with a disdainful swing of her ponytail; the two technical guys with cameras and boom mikes and cables; and finally Eden.

  ‘Jocasta, Xanthe, these are the archaeologists,’ Lewis introduced the team.

  ‘Xanthe and Jocasta?’ Trev echoed. ‘Funny names you Londoners have. I’m Trev, short for Marmaduke, and Mandy is short for Anastasia. Andy, here, however …’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Trev,’ Aidan cut in, with a despairing look at Eden that made her want to giggle. ‘I think we get the message.’ He turned to Jocasta.’ Don’t mind Trev, he’s from Bristol.’

  ‘Morning, Mandy,’ Eden said, with a smile. ‘It’s going to be quite a day.’

  Her phone rang while they were setting up the equipment. Silver umbrellas, boom mikes, lapel mikes, light readings. Lewis had a laptop open and was running through the filming schedule he’d written, who was to be on camera, panning and establishing shots, back lighting and wild sound. The amount of faffing that was required before any filming could start made her head spin, and when her mobile rang she answered automatically without registering the incoming number.

  ‘Eden Grey,’ she said.

  ‘Eden, it’s me, Miranda.’ Miranda Tyson, her old boss from her undercover days. A fierce, outspoken woman who took no bullshit in a macho world.

  ‘Miranda?’ Eden dropped her voice and scuttled out of the room, searching for a quiet place. The staff kitchen was empty. She dashed inside and closed the door, snapping on the air vent above the sink to drown out her conversation and foil any eavesdroppers. Aidan’s team were a notoriously nosy lot. ‘What’s happened?’

  Miranda calling was never good news. She wasn’t supposed to know Eden: she was from her previous life, the life that was dead and buried, the life before Eden Grey was created.

  ‘It’s not good,’ Miranda said.

  ‘It never is. Hammond?’

  ‘You got it, sweetie.’

  ‘He called me this morning, said he’d seen me on TV.’

  ‘He’s been moved to another prison,’ Miranda said. ‘They had him in maximum security for a while but he’s kept his nose clean, the sneaky bastard, so they downgraded him.’

  Eden blew out her cheeks. ‘Figures. I was on TV months ago. It was odd he mentioned it.’

  ‘Evidently saving it up until he could get to a phone.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Just watch your back, sweetie,’ Miranda said. There was a click on the line and Eden imagined her lighting a cigarette, the flash of the huge tiger’s eye ring Miranda always wore. A deep exhalation and a rattly cough. ‘He’s a vicious bastard.’

  Eden’s scars prickled. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

  Another sharp inhale and puff that ended with a cough. Miranda had been a dedicated smoker since she was fourteen and it sounded like it was catching up with her. ‘Just keep your eyes peeled, hey.’

  Eden was unable to speak. She felt as though she’d swallowed a stone.

  ‘And Eden?’ Miranda said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lisa Greene had elected to dress in full green surgical scrubs to examine the skeleton. With her petite figure and red-blonde hair in a pixie, she cut a dashing and self-important figure next to Trev in his saggy jeans and Metallica T-shirt, and Mand
y in her stripy jumper. Aidan felt a right chump, preparing for TV fame by wearing a tailored midnight blue suit and a pale lavender tie.

  He flicked Eden a smile as she came back into the room. She smiled back, a moment of complicity: she understood how much he hated this sort of fuss. For a second he was grateful for Lisa’s presence there. She might be muscling in on his territory, but she was also going to draw the fire of the filming.

  ‘That’s me ready,’ Lisa told him, smoothing down the scrubs in case he’d failed to notice her attire.

  Before he could reply, Lewis shouldered himself forwards and was pressing Lisa’s hand. ‘I’m so pleased you agreed to star in my documentary,’ he said, raising her hand to his lips.

  Lisa pinked and fluttered her eyelashes. So much for professionalism.

  ‘What beautiful skin,’ Lewis continued. ‘We’ll make sure you’re lit properly.’ He turned to bark instructions to the technical guys and they hustled about with cables and silver light reflectors. Aidan wondered how long it would take to return his basement to normal after this circus. ‘It’ll take a while to get set up,’ Lewis said. ‘How about you check over this skeleton, then we’ll film you giving your conclusions?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ Lisa went to the dispenser on the wall and pulled out two latex gloves. She snapped them on with relish, then turned to Aidan and ordered, ‘I’ll dictate and you make a note. We’ll confer as we go. Alright?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Aidan said. Lisa always was a bossy boots.

  After two hours scrutinising the skeleton, Lisa was ready to make a preliminary conclusion, and the technical guys were happy with the lighting and sound quality in the basement. The camera was set up, a boom mike hovered overhead, and Lewis called for an initial take. Lisa scuttled out of the room and returned a few minutes later wearing fresh lipstick. She also bore a whiff of cigarette smoke overlaid with a squirt of musky perfume. It was not welcome in this enclosed space.