The Baptist Gospel

Anyone who attempts to construe a personal view of God which conflicts with church dogma must be burned without pity.

Pope Innocent III

It has served us well, this myth of Christ.

Pope Leo X

Fear is the basis of the whole-fear of the mysterious, fear of defeat, fear of death. Fear is the parent of cruelty, and therefore it is no wonder if cruelty and religion have gone hand-in-hand.

Bertrand Russell

INTRODUCTION

THE HOLY INQUISITIONS

Holy Inquisitions were ecclesiastical courts and processes instigated by the Roman Catholic Church for the purpose of discovering and punishing all forms of heresy. It exercised immense power and wielded brutality throughout medieval and modern times. Its aim was to repress all so called nonconformists, taking not only their human rights, but their estates and assets, which became the property of the Catholic treasury. These acts were inflicted upon anyone who not only spoke against the Catholic Church, but even those that appeared to think differently to its ideals. This became a legal framework for close to six centuries throughout most of Europe, and at its height extended into Africa, Asia and the Americas.

The word ‘inquisition’ transformed from its original connotation of the verb ‘to inquire’ and became synonymous with other, more sinister terms such as murder, robbery, torture, hypocrisy and cupidity No other single word conjured up such fear and abhorrence yet it was primarily affiliated to the Holy Church of Rome!

Once an inquisitor arrived in an alleged heresy-ridden district, there would be a 60 day period of grace on most occasions which allowed all who wished to confess by recanting their beliefs. After this time, the accused inhabitants would be summoned to appear before the inquisitor. Imagine the fear felt by those poor souls, called before the so called representative of God.

The earliest version of these atrocities was the ‘Papal Inquisition’ which began in the early part of the 13th century and was initially opened by Pope Innocent III. The Council of Toulouse in 1229 adopted a number of cannons intended to give permanent character to the Inquisition as an institution, making this the starting point of what would become a protracted reign of terror. Pope Gregory IX in August 1231, placed the Inquisition under the control of the Dominicans, an order especially created for the defence of the church against heresy. This lasted until the infamous ‘Spanish Inquisition’ took control in 1478 which in turn endured until 1834. This Spanish judicature remained under the approval of the Vatican, with Pope Sixtus IV at the helm at its conception. The first Spanish inquisitors were appointed by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, who tasked them to unearth the wealthiest heretics before any other in order that their respective fortunes be shared between the Catholic throne and their own. Even if the unlucky victim were to be spared and released, enough of his or her property was taken to cover the inquisitor’s costs.

There was similarly a ‘Roman Inquisition’ which operated from 1542-1700. During this time, the Catholic Church underwent a reformation, in part to defy the Protestant Reformation opened by the German priest Martin Luther who dared to challenge the accepted Catholic dogma of the time, in particular the idea that God’s forgiveness could be purchased with money. Other conflicts of the period included the French civil war and the Dutch revolt which occurred as a direct result of the Catholic Church’s attempts to rid themselves of all Protestants.

As early as 1244 at the Council of Harbonne, it was decreed that if a man was to be found guilty of heresy, his wife would be also, and vice versa. Likewise, if a child were sentenced, the parents would suffer the same fate. A girl as young as nine and a half and a boy, ten and a half were considered old enough to be liable to inquiry. The inquisitors followed various manuals which used incriminating and leading questions which would often trick the uneducated victim into confessing to their supposed deviation.

In 1252, Pope Innocent 1V officially authorised the creation of the horrifying torture chambers. Acquittal of those imprisoned was almost impossible, and with a license from the Pope himself, the inquisitors were free to inflict the most inhuman acts of horror and cruelty. Dressed in black robes, cowls covering their heads, they could extract confessions from just about anyone. They invented every conceivable device to cause as much pain and suffering as possible, slowly dismembering and dislocating the body.

All victims legally murdered by the Roman Catholic Church.

In all, the total period of this torture and murder spanned 600 years. It cannot be calculated how many people died as a result of its various forms, but conservative estimates are around one million. However, this figure does not take into account the relatives of the accused that were also put to death and it is impossible to know how many perished as a result of the conflicts throughout Europe between Catholic and Protestant.

Conversely, it is easy to speculate that those at the pinnacle of the Catholic faith throughout the centuries must surely believe that their New Testament Gospel stories are flawed and as a result, have taken many a drastic step over the years to ensure that the Christian populace does not deviate from the Catholic way of thinking.

In this book, I will put forward one hypothesis as to why that may be.

ONE

JUDEAN DESERT, JUNE 1921

The dust cloud enveloped the bus like a dirty shroud for every one of the ten miles since leaving Jerusalem, virtually obscuring the view entirely. The oppressive heat inside the vehicle was physical torture but preferable to sitting on the upper deck in the relentless, searing heat. Although motor buses had been in use in England for almost twenty years, this automobile was the first to be introduced to this area. Judging by the cacophony of noises it was emitting, this particular crate appeared to be one of the first ever constructed.

Thanks to British rule following World War 1, small changes such as this mode of transport were pioneered, for which Father Stewart Smith was grateful. The thought of riding atop a camel after all the miles already covered by sea was almost too much to contemplate, and he uttered a small prayer of thanks when, upon disembarking, he realised that he would be riding in a motorised carriage.

Whilst at the port, he had very much wanted to visit the nearby town of Bethlehem where Jesus had entered the world, but there was no time to do so as there was just one departure each day to the monastery. Nevertheless, he hoped that during his stay, there would be time enough to see the sights this wonderful place afforded. He especially wished to see the Church Of The Nativity, a place that every priest would surely love to witness during his lifetime. He was aware that it had been constructed in the fourth century long after Jesus’ birth, commissioned by Constantine the Great’s mother Helen, but it was built upon the site above the cave in which his Saviour was born. Used by Emperor Hadrian as a place of worship to the God Adonis around one hundred years after Jesus’ death in what was an attempt to wipe out His memory, ultimately Christianity prevailed and the priest was certain that he would feel even closer to God if he could visit such a wondrous place. However, before he could take in such sights there was much work to be done.

He chose to sit on the edge of the lower deck of the vehicle, believing that he might get the benefit of a breeze on his face as they traversed the undulating paths of the desert.

He had been entirely incorrect in his reasoning.

The veil of dust motes seemingly driven by the devil himself, attempted to invade every orifice, crease and wrinkle on his newly weathered face. Thankfully, he’d cut his course dark hair to a shorter length than usual whilst on board the ship that carried him to these strange shores, an act that emphasised his large nose but ensured that the build-up of sand was kept to a minimum. His facial features were counterbalanced with vibrant, bright blue intelligent eyes. His appearance often caused people to look twice, but he never knew if they were staring at his sizeable nose or his remarkable eyes.

He settled down to endure the journey in a sweltering silence. His fellow passengers seemed to be locals, but took no notice of him despite his attire, his black robes contrasting with their light coloured garments that no doubt reflected the heat more efficiently than his darker garb. He assumed that they were used to seeing the monks who inhabited the place that was their destination, who dressed in similar attire.

Although the distance was relatively short, the vehicle appeared to have little in the way of springs to cushion the constant jarring of his spine. The road was awash with large cavities, the location of which the driver seemed uncannily aware, taking automatic evasive action, swerving from one side of the tiny road to the other. The ride proved to be uncomfortable and frightening in equal measure, due in part to sections of the mountain path becoming so narrow that the priest closed his eyes and gripped his rosary beads with dusty, yet sweaty fingers, repeating the Rosary prayer for safe deliverance. When he was able to open his eyes, there was precious little to capture his imagination. Once outside the bustling town of Jerusalem, the landscape was an arid deserted panorama with all colours other than various shades of beige bleached from the scenery by the unremitting sun.

Attempting to take his mind off the image of the bus plummeting down the hillside, the cleric began to reflect upon his passage to this foreign land.

A few weeks earlier, his bishop William Godfrey, a short round faced man, knocked at his door unannounced. Father Smith’s home in Milborne Port, Somerset was a parish that he had lived and worked in for over ten years. He loved the place and he believed that most of it loved him in return. He retained steady numbers in his congregation at St Luke’s, but thanks to the nature and size of the village, their sins rarely amounted to more than a drunken fight or of having carnal thoughts of another’s husband or wife. He felt that he had their confidence and trust should they ever need him for more than a simple confession.

Times had been especially hard during the war years when people needed their faith to help them through the hardship and losses that they had endured. Never had the ideal of ‘love thine enemy’ been more difficult to preach at a time when most had hated theirs.

The two men shared a glass of good red wine and chatted of nothing of consequence before the bishop came to the purpose of his visit. He informed Father Smith that the Archbishop of Winchester had requested his presence two days hence at his home in Winnall, a northern suburb of Winchester. The priest’s face must have shown alarm at the mention of Archbishop Francis Bourne, now also a cardinal, so the bishop quickly continued. ‘Don’t worry Stewart, you have done well during your time here, and thanks to your language skills, you were the obvious choice.’

‘Choice for what?’ Alarm was replaced by cautious excitement.

‘His eminence has been in communication with the monks who reside at Mar Saba monastery in Palestine which is located between Bethlehem and Jerusalem. Apparently, they have an extensive library that has never been catalogued! Just think of it father, hundreds of manuscripts, codices, scrolls and texts, some of which no-one has looked upon for hundreds of years! If I possessed your skills, I would jump at this opportunity. It is the chance of a lifetime.’ The bishop’s smile was warm and genuine and his usually florid cheeks flushed an even deeper shade with the excitement of his news.

It was true that the younger man enjoyed extensive knowledge of ancient languages including Ancient Greek, Tamil, Hebrew, Sanskrit and Aramaic, with a smattering of Akkadian, Canaanite and the most ancient of languages, Samarian. He had been raised in a family of intellectuals and was always encouraged to read and to take advantage of the extensive library kept within their home. His father was a doctor and his mother came from a moderately wealthy family. She in particular, always encouraged her son to broaden his knowledge. By the time he was fifteen, he had decided to become an Egyptologist, thanks largely to a holiday the three of them had taken there some years before. He thought often of the wondrous sights he had seen, the magnificent stone pyramids rising up symmetrically from the desert floor, vast triangular prisms dominating the landscape, mesmerising the small English boy. The disfigured face of the sphinx captured his imagination rather than alarming him. He was entirely fascinated by the Valley of the Kings, marvelling at the size of the Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut which appeared to him to have been constructed just yesterday.

He also loved to learn a new language, possessing a natural talent for them. He studied hard and had almost completed his Ph.D. in Egyptology when suddenly and inexplicably (according to his parents), chose to switch his course to a bachelor’s degree in religious studies, plus a graduate degree from the Catholic Allen Hall Seminary in London. He could never fully explain his decision to his mother and father. They were not religious in any way, and wanted their one and only child to make a prosperous living like his father, not to be stuck in a remote village somewhere tending to the mundane spiritual needs of its inhabitants.

How could he explain his conversion to them? He was unsure of it himself. A hallucination? A miracle? Words could not convey to them how he felt when he stepped into St Mary’s church in Loughborough where he was busy studying at the newly established Technical Institute. He’d been loosely translating a text from ancient Greek as he strolled along Ashby Road and was drawn into the church for no reason that he could comprehend. He had never before been inside a church of any denomination of his own volition. He’d attended church a total of five times during his life up to that point, for one wedding, a Christening and three funerals, none of which were Catholic services. But on that exceptional day he entered the building, passing the pillars of white stone, reminiscent of an old colonial building, with a feeling of geniality spreading throughout his body, his text now forgotten at his side. He passed the stoup at the entrance, a small bowl of holy water used by the congregation, unaware of its purpose. He knew nothing of this religion, other than what most non-Catholic’s knew or presumed to know about it. He looked around the large interior where the pillars continued to rise in perfect symmetry to the plain flat ceiling. Despite the lack of ornate architecture, the whole of the interior seemed to resonate bright, clean warmth that was not felt in any physical sense, rather as an inner temperateness that he had never experienced before in any other church, nor indeed in any other context.

He walked slowly down the nave, drinking in the small stained glass windows that allowed the abundant sunshine of the day into the darkest of recesses. What he experienced was so different to the previous occasions, when he had reluctantly mouthed his way through unknown hymns or stared at the backs of his two friends saying their vows to each other, or strained to hear what the vicar said as he competed with the unbelievably loud crying of the baby during the Christening. At each of those occurrences, he experienced no spiritual feeling, no inner warmth. Even the church buildings themselves felt distinctly cold and unwelcoming.

Not this time however. This building was full of optimism as well as sunlight, a distinctly hospitable atmosphere that radiated from every corner, angle and curve.

When he reached the north and south transepts, he absently registered that this area intersected the nave converting the shape of the whole interior into a cross, the symbol of all Christian religions. Stewart’s focus was firmly on the altar and he stepped up onto the chancel, where the priest would stand whilst conducting a ceremony, then moved forward a few more paces so that he could take in more detail, the scene that held his attention.

Jesus was upon the cross and appeared to be looking down at three figures beneath Him. Such was the sadness and anguish on His face that Stewart was inexplicably moved to tears which threatened to escape onto his upturned face. He could see every muscle detailed on the body of Jesus, His slim frame being pulled apart as His arms were stretched wide. There was a small wound in His side, and heavy nails pierced His hands and feet. Below the suffering man stood a woman looking up at Him just as Stewart had done. This must be His mother Mary, he thought. She was beyond sadness. She was a mother bereft, her only child dying in front of her eyes and she was helpless to save Him. There was another woman kneeling, clutching the base of the cross, her long undulating hair flowing down her back. Stewart couldn’t be sure, but thought this may be Mary Magdalene, remembering from lessons learned at school that she was always portrayed with a flowing mane. She seemed younger than the other woman but she too looked up at Jesus in such a way that her love was plain to see.

There was a man beside the older Mary, comforting her, his concern palpable. Stewart was unaware how long he stood transfixed by the scene before him, feeling more inner calm and peace than at any time in his life. There was so much to see in this simple, almost monochrome scene and every time he moved his gaze, there was some other detail to wonder over.

Yes, it was wonder! He could think of no other word to describe it. He realised that the tears which had threatened to overflow onto his cheeks had done just that and he wiped them away so that he could more clearly absorb the radiance that flowed from the group of figures in front and above him.

‘It’s a very potent scene, isn’t it?’ Before Stewart could compose himself or turn toward the speaker, the voice continued, ‘Joseph of Arimathea‘s concern looks so genuine doesn’t it?’

The voice was quiet, yet deep and mellow, and Stewart now turned to face it, feeling slightly embarrassed at the naked emotion that must be visible on his face. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here. Is it alright?’ He registered that the man standing next to him was a priest, and was unsure if he were breaking any rules. The priest’s face seemed to match his voice, it was open and friendly and the younger man liked him immediately.

‘Of course! I would never stop anyone from appreciating this wonderful work, and I can see that you have been moved by it more than most.’ He raised his hand to Stewart’s face who realised that the tears were freely flowing down his cheeks but somehow he no longer felt abashed or self-conscious in front of this man of God.

He smiled and asked the priest, ‘Do many people have this reaction?’ The cleric matched his smile, his white even teeth making him almost handsome were it not for the crooked nose that dominated his features.

‘Not as many as you would think actually. It is a common enough landscape in many churches, but some like you, true believers, stop to take in all the emotions that this tableau conjures up.’

That was all it took. At once, he truly did believe, he knew that there was a divine being, and he wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to join this church, and for his life to be dedicated to it. He would often think back over the years to this moment that at once changed his life forever.

His parents initially thought he was going through a phase, that he would eventually come out of it and pursue a worthwhile career. However, they eventually accepted his decision to enter the church, but as he told them many times, for him it was never about choice. It was his destiny to serve God and to do what he could to help others in any way that he was able. They attended his investiture. His mother wept, his father shook his hand and offered a small smile. He hoped that in time they would realise that his life would be a worthy one.

That hope had never materialised. His mother and father were killed the following year when their train from Paddington to Slough ran into the back of a local train at Slough station. Stewart inherited quite a bit of money and used what he didn’t give to the church on completing his language studies, then undertook a short sabbatical to re-visit Egypt, taking in some of the same sights as he had when holidaying with his parents many years before. It felt like paying homage to their memory.

He took a short cruise sailing from the ancient city of Thebes, the town itself being practically an open air museum, along the Nile as far as the Aswan Dam and back. He had planned to travel the five hundred miles to Bethlehem, then on to Jerusalem, but when the boat returned to port he received a telegram with an invitation to take up his first appointment as village priest.

Disappointed, yet thrilled to begin his life’s work, he never dreamt that he would get a chance to live and study in this most holy of Christian places, combining his faith with his passion for ancient languages.

As he stepped down from the gangplank of the SS Jerusalem, the unfamiliar surroundings evoked an amalgam of feelings within the Englishman. He saw men of various ages, most dressed in the full length abaya. These ranged from the very plain to more intricate designs, designating the man’s status within the community. Most adult men also wore the keffiyeh, a cotton scarf worn around the head, again in a multitude of colours and patterns. He could smell spices, cooking meats and delicate fragrances, but in contrast came the smell of decay from at least two dead dogs that he could see in the gutter, along with the odour of animal droppings from asses and camels that were visible on the quayside. When he spotted a white face, the priest asked for directions to the monastery and was only too pleased to be ushered away from the smorgasbord of aromas.

He was brought back to the present, sensing a shift in mood within the carriage. The other passengers began to pick up their belongings, which for most didn’t amount to much, so he did the same, clutching his travelling bag against his chest and peering out through the particles of sand that were still intent upon surrounding them. As the bus wheezed down the final hill, the priest’s vision cleared a little and he gained his first glimpse of the sprawling buildings that lay both below and above the automobile.

‘Oh!’

The word escaped his mouth without any conscious thought. The structures came into focus, hanging precariously from the walls of what he knew was the Kidron Valley, but as the monastery had been suspended there for almost fifteen hundred years, the priest assumed that they were much safer than they appeared. He had read as much as he could find about this ancient place both before and throughout his voyage. The monks, who now numbered less than thirty, had originally lived on the site in caves emulating the lives of Jesus and John the Baptist during their time alone in the wilderness. It had been one such monk, St Sabbas (Mar Saba in Arabic) who had founded this desert hermitage in the fifth century. The multiple openings in the walls of the buildings resembled narrow caves within the rock, their slit-like eyes peering blankly out into the hillside.

What must a life of total solitude and prayer be like? To leave worldly distractions behind, seeking God in the middle of the desert, giving your whole life to Him, not just a part of it as he, himself had done. Since becoming a priest, Stewart Smith still considered his life to consist of outside interests, despite his role within the church. He had friends who were not Catholics, he went to social events, attended non-religious celebrations and read many books of fiction including those by Jane Austin, Lewis Carroll, even Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’! He guessed that the monks here would not indulge in such trivialities, believing such things irrelevant and a hindrance to worship.

He identified two of them walking toward the vehicle now that it had rattled to a halt, and he felt humbled by their obvious piety. He stepped down from the vehicle with a silent prayer of thanks to God for delivering him safely over his three thousand mile journey, and looked up again at the imposing clutch of constructions before him. Now that he could see the buildings clearly, they seemed more reminiscent of a fortress than a monastery. He had read that the monks had seen plunder of their home by Persians, Turks and Bedouins over the centuries so it seemed fitting that this imposing place should bear a resemblance to a stronghold.

He was aware that women were not allowed to enter the monastery and the few women that were on the bus with him were unburdening themselves of their goods, giving what looked like provisions to the two monks who had emerged into the fierce heat from the shade of the buildings. He stepped forward and addressed the older of the two monks, ‘Excuse me brother, I am Father Stewart Smith. I have been sent by Archbishop Francis Bourne to catalogue your library. Can you help me please?’

‘Of course father, we have been expecting you.’ The younger of the two men replied with a brilliant smile that reached his dark eyes. His face was tanned by the sun, although the priest speculated that he was of Mediterranean descent with features such as deep olive skin, dark brown eyes and a slightly aquiline nose. His hair was jet black, of which there was an abundance, which he attempted unsuccessfully to brush behind his ears. He held out his hand and as he shook it, the older man could feel many calluses, presumably from the hard manual labour that the monks carried out in their life of almost complete self-sufficiency. The habit of rough black serge looked hot compared to his own soutane which was of a lightweight material, and which incorporated the thirty three buttons down the front symbolising the amount of years that his Lord had spent on earth. The clerical collar proved to be the most difficult to wear in the heat, snugly encompassing his neck, but he guessed that he wasn’t as yet accustomed to the temperature. He would have plenty of time to get used to it and the by now familiar tingle of excitement in the pit of his stomach surfaced once more.

‘I am Brother Antony, and this is Brother Erik. Welcome to Mar Saba father. We will show you to your cell.’ said the handsome young monk. The older of the two monks also smiled warmly, not shaking hands due to his burden of packages left by the women. The priest detected a slight accent from Brother Antony, which he took to be Italian but the tone of the voice was mellifluous for one so young. The smile that he presented was so genuine that the priest felt immediately at home in his company. Watching the receding form of the older monk, the priest saw that he too was dark skinned but unlike the younger man, possessed very little hair, only in part due to the tonsure that all monks received, leaving the top of his head a burnished copper. The act of tonsure was performed to emphasise the monks’ devotion and humility. Brother Antony’s was almost invisible thanks to the mass of thick flowing hair that surrounded the smooth round patch of skin. The priest smiled and followed the two men.

Both monk’s, now heavy laden with armfuls of provisions, turned toward an opening between the buildings and beckoned the priest to follow. The entrance to the monastery was a low door in the western wall which led to a stepped passageway that descended into a central courtyard. The respite from the sun felt splendid, and for the first time in a while the priest felt himself relaxing. The reprieve from the heat was brief as they soon emerged into the sun once more. The priest attempted to shade his eyes with his free hand as he caught sight of a hexagon shaped structure with a bronze coloured dome sitting at its peak like a crown, and which rose magnificently before them.

The older of the two monks turned back to him. ‘This was the tomb of St Sabbas, father. His remains were taken from us to Rome during the Crusades, but we hope to have them back one day.’ His voice also carried an inflection that Stewart could not recognise, but his face, as weather-beaten as his bald pate, displayed a calmness that leant the observer a feeling of serenity.

‘Remarkable construction, just remarkable’, he muttered as they passed the crypt. The tomb itself appeared newly completed yet it was almost fifteen hundred years old. Stewart was beginning to feel as if he had come home after being away for a lifetime. These buildings had appeared unwelcoming from high up on the hillside, in fact they seemed to be preparing for an assault by an unknown enemy, but once inside the bastion, the priest’s sentiments were transformed. He felt as though he was being welcomed by the stone structures themselves and not just by these two affable monastics.

They passed a small basilica with a blue dome, the priest wide eyed and silent as he followed his new companions. They continued on, into a large hallway along which Stewart noticed doors on either side which led into the monks simple rooms where they no doubt spent many hours, either in prayer, meditation or asleep. Half way down the long passageway, Brother Erik turned into one of the rooms, identical to the others and said. ‘This will be your cell father. Please take your time, have a wash and a rest. I will come back for you at five o’clock and we will eat. It will be cooler then too.’ He smiled again as he observed the sheen of sweat on the priest’s face.

‘Thank you, brother. That would be most very welcome.’

Stewart moved into the small room and looked around as the two men made their way quietly about their business, no doubt eager to unburden themselves of the heavy sacks that they were carrying. The priest had expected something basic and simple and he wasn’t disappointed. Some would say the room appeared austere, but he preferred to call it uncomplicated. There was a single bed with a clean white sheet upon it, one pillow, and one blanket. He knew that nights could be very cold in the desert, although at present one could be forgiven for being unable to imagine this place being in any way chilly, although the temperature inside the small room at the moment was pleasant.

Against the far wall was a wash-basin and jug and above the bed a simple wooden cross. There was a small chest for his belongings and not much else, unless you counted the bare window with a lacy web in each corner.

He looked out of the small window and once again felt an uncanny sense of belonging. The area that the monastery covered was vast, over a mile, the sprawling collections of buildings hugging the hillside in the midst of this Judean desert. The straight lines of the constructions mingled with domes of blue, bronze and grey, interspersed with a dash of green where the odd olive tree struggled for life. The scene afforded the vista many shades of gentle pastels and the priest thought that it resembled Turner’s final painting of Rome, ‘Campo Vaccino’, the shades understated and quietly elegant, the landscape merging with its man-made attendants.

He suddenly felt exceptionally tired and dropped heavily onto the hard bed and exhaled slowly. He was at once cool and calm. A smile spread across his face as he contemplated what he would discover in the coming weeks and months in this incredible place.

TWO

PRESENT DAY

He took a last look around the low ceilinged room.

The months of hard labour that had been required to make the terrible devices showed clearly in the craftsmanship. He gazed in admiration at the predominately wooden structures, created to free not just his own soul, but those of the whole of Christendom.

The contrivance nearest to him reclined two feet from the floor but was solid and strong, the white oak wood polished and measured to accommodate the tallest of men. His hand stroked it as a lover might caress the object of his desire, running his long fingers down its length with a sensitivity never bestowed on another person, its sleek smoothness sending a pleasant shiver through his body.

His smile was genuine. Not the one used to maintain the façade of his public image.

He knew that he was attractive to both men and women alike, but never felt the physical need for either. He continued to smile as his pale grey eyes wandered over the rest of the apparatus. The rope ties were fashioned in such a way that no matter the strength of the man, he would never escape. The rollers were initially difficult to find to fit his purpose but he was amazed at what was available to buy over the internet. He correctly theorised that if one could find a video showing how to make an explosive device on ‘You Tube’, then anything was possible. He taught himself how to assemble the system of ratchet and pulleys using the online tool. For this, he was grateful that he lived in this modern world, but conversely it also dismayed him. Today, people possessed no values and fewer morals, even those who chose to follow a so called ‘higher’ path. Still, he was going to show them all that they had chosen badly, that it was possible to lead a good life, not the one that had been forced on so many in the name of something invented by man.

He scrutinised the entire span of the structure. This was his first, and he was proud of what he’d created. A modern day Frankenstein perhaps, creating not a monster, but a monstrous tool to help bring about the truth at long last.

He refocussed his attention onto the next device, much smaller but no less expertly made. It could have been constructed using metal alone, but his new found love of working with wood surpassed tradition. The item stood thirty six inches from the plate at its base to the top of the screw at its apex. It was simple but just as deadly as any piece in his collection.

The third was much larger and more intricate. It had taken the most time to construct and consisted primarily of wood, but it also demanded the use of over one thousand small pointed iron spikes. He marvelled at the patience it had taken, but believed that no craftsman could have done better. He could easily have chosen the life of a craftsman, and considering his passion for working with wood, maybe even a carpenter. How ironic! A grin sat happily upon his attractive features.

The final mechanism was larger still and rested in the centre of the room like a round table waiting for its knights. The diameter measured approximately six feet and it stood two and a half feet from the floor having six spokes at regular intervals. He could have purchased this one almost ready-made, but the zeal for manufacturing his own instruments had by this time taken hold and he fashioned the whole thing himself with impeccable precision. He’d required a specialist iron hammer for the assembly of this appliance and so he had ingratiated himself into the Blacksmith’s Guild to obtain what he needed. He could be especially charming when he wanted something, a trait his mother told him he inherited from his father.

A father he had never known. He still could not bear to think of the revelations divulged by his mother as she lay dying in her hospital bed, the anger still raw, causing his hands to shake. This was not acceptable. Not when he was so close to beginning what he now knew was his destiny. He brought himself back into a state of calmness. He knew he was ready. He was about to embark on what he now saw not only as his true calling, but as his quest, something which would right the wrongs of his life up to this point and fulfil all of his so far, wasted potential.

Everything was in place down here below ground level, out of sight in what he had begun to refer to as his ‘chamber.’ Here, he would dispense the justice that the world deserved. If the offender admitted the error of their ways once they learned what he held in his possession, he had the power within himself to grant a reprieve. After all, they were at best fooling themselves as he had been, they in turn responsible for duping others into believing the falsehoods portrayed by those who surely knew the truth as he now did. But unlike the men who had used such devices as these all those years ago, he would only be attesting to the truth, not a version of it that was forced upon its undeserving victims.

Before he left his wooden masterpieces, he opened the wall safe and gently lifted the codex from inside. He sat on the stairs that led down from the upper floors to look once more upon the previously inconceivable words that had set him upon his quest. Since his mother’s passing, he’d read the ancient writing many times, marvelling at the events they depicted, amazed at how the world had been fooled for so long.

Well not for much longer he mused, as he closed the small volume protectively and gently returned the artefact into its hideaway for the last time before it would assist him in dispensing the justice that the world had been waiting for.

THREE

‘So why did St Paul in his letter to the Galatians not talk of Jesus the man? Oh wait, I know why. Paul’s case for Jesus being divine rests on his dreams and visions, not on actual accounts as he never met him! But surely he must have spoken to others that did so why nothing about this in his letters?’

Sam saw her best friend’s shoulders slump as she splattered his back with her questions. She knew that he must be sick of her relentless interrogations regarding the canonical Gospels and the doubts that nagged at her, but she couldn’t help herself. She loved Chris more than anyone in the world, but as he was not only her best friend but also a catholic priest, he should be able to reassure her, convince her that all her questions had some kind of answer. So far, over the past twenty or so years that they had known each other, he had been unable to do that. He placated her, as he would any other sceptic, but that wasn’t the same as giving her the reassurance that she craved. She would go away, read another text book and come at him afresh with more unanswered questions.

She watched him pour a second small glass of Merlot for her, his own standing virtually untouched on the table, and she wished for the umpteenth time that he wasn’t a priest. She found her eyes admiring his slender frame, undeniably sexy even in tatty jeans and T-shirt. As he turned toward her she glanced again at the motif on the front that made her smile when he’d answered the door. It read, ’Need an Ark? I Noah Guy!’ The words stretched across his toned torso, forcing her to turn her head away guiltily. She had tried briefly to dissuade him from entering the clergy shortly after they met but it was clear that she could never have hoped to succeed. His faith was absolute, even when they were young and immature at university. Yet they remained great friends despite Sam’s constant doubting of her own faith.

Her career moved quickly after she made her choice to join the police force, too quickly for any long term relationships to develop, and at thirty eight she held the rank of DCI, yet remained single. She made a conscious effort to hold on to her faith, but some of the atrocities she’d witnessed over the years made her think that if there was a great and powerful ‘Jes-Oz’ up there, he, she or it, should try to prevent some of the carnage that man seemed hell bent on inflicting on his fellow man.

Chris sat down at the table with that infuriatingly implacable calmness that he possessed and gave her an impish smile. Although, he too was heading for forty, he could still look so innocent, which she supposed in a way, he was. On the other hand, he didn’t have to attend crime scenes in the early hours to see copious amounts of dead bodies found in various states of putrefaction. Neither was he required to attend the post mortem of a dead child after a parent had systematically tortured and killed them. God, I’m surprised I don’t look sixty, the things that I’ve seen she thought, then realised that Chris was responding to her latest question.

‘I don’t think Paul was in the habit of recording the life and times of anyone other than his own,’ answered Chris, thinking that would suffice in part as an answer to her question. ‘The Acts of The Apostles were more a biography of himself.’ He continued. ’He also believed that the world would end in his lifetime. You could say he was the first of the ‘end of the world is nigh’ brigade. Yet he was probably more influential than anyone in setting up the early Christian church. Ironic no?’

The playful smile slipped as she countered his argument with, ‘But even you must admit that the Gospels were altered, amended and added to, especially given that they would have been copied time and again due to the fragility of the papyrus? It must have been like Chinese whispers with the original text having all but disappeared!’

‘I don’t necessarily dispute that Sam, but the essential truths are all there.’ Chris had heard all this before from Sam, but in the main tolerated their discussions with a forbearance that most priests possessed. If anything, the debates helped sustain their close friendship, irrespective of the subject matter.

’Well I for one, am thankful that at long last different ideas as to what really happened back then are being put forward, and I don’t just mean the Da Vinci Code! Remember ‘The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail’? This fantastic book was the first to explore the historical facts around the possibility that Jesus and Mary were married with children, and although it inspired Brown to write his book, that earlier one wasn’t fictional!’

‘Yes, but that was published over thirty years ago and has been widely condemned.’ Chris countered.

‘Everything that doesn’t fit Catholic doctrine is always discounted by the Vatican, you know that Chris! There have been many challenges to Catholic policy over the centuries that they have endeavoured to cover up or just denounce as rubbish. All recent finds from the last century have been rejected, the Turin Shroud was dismissed out of hand, even before the carbon dating because it projected an alternative viewpoint to theirs. Good grief Chris, it was illegal not to believe in the Roman Catholic version of events up to around a hundred and fifty years ago!’ She finally ran out of steam.

‘My word, you have been reading your little arse off haven’t you?’ Chris grinned, which as usual stopped Sam in mid-flow. He was so handsome, yet displayed none of the characteristics of someone who was in any way aware of their attractiveness. Does he ever think of women? Or men for that matter she wondered. It never seemed the right time to ask, and she had seen no signs of either.

‘So, anyway, do you still believe in God, or has all this stuff you’ve been reading killed that off altogether?’ he asked.

‘You know I will always believe Chris. There’s too much beauty and wonder in the world to even consider the possibility that there’s nothing spiritual out there.’

She moved her gaze somewhat reluctantly from his face to the garden of the house where he had lived for ten years. It was early June and recently there had been rain and sunshine in abundance leaving his south facing back garden alive with a plethora of flora and fauna. Large ethereal clouds bumped along close to the horizon threatening more rain later but for now the light was soft and kind, the world at peace in this small place, despite her questioning nature of God. The surfeit of colours of the many differing flowers, trees and shrubs combined together to make an artist’s pallet.

Close to the patio door through which she was surveying the colourful vision, an industrious spider employed its shiny gossamer thread to weave an intricate pattern to catch its prey, similar she imagined to certain not too distant European countries who still hung comparable, but much larger man-made webs to entrap small song birds to sell at market. The British would never do such a thing, she thought, no matter what the state of the economy. They loved their animals and birds too much. This was one of the many things that Sam admired about her fellow Brits. They were, in the main, soppy about their pets and the wildlife around them. Due to the nature of her job however, she was not ignorant of the minority that were cruel and heartless to humans and animals alike.

Despite the time marching relentlessly along to seven o’clock, there were still blue tits in flight, diligently visiting the bird feeders, hanging on with tiny claws, or flapping hummingbird-like to get a morsel of mealworm or sunflower seeds which she knew Chris had placed there.

How could there not be a creator of all this?

Sam had been raised a Catholic but was disillusioned at an early age when her parents divorced. She and her mother Pauline were no longer welcomed into their church despite her mother’s dutiful attendance for many years. It seemed to a young Sam, that the church would be happy to let her mother pray in their house of worship displaying the obvious signs of regular beatings from an abusive husband, but not if he left her to fend for herself and her daughter alone. How could that be right?

She was an only child and had no-one to confide in during those lonely years. She didn’t make friends easily, was painfully shy, and always stood out due to her size. From the age of seven she was a head taller than most of the class, with long gangly legs, skinny arms and too many teeth. She out-performed the other children in sports as well as academia, alienating herself even further.

Her mother was born in Strabane, Northern Ireland, which boasts a catholic share of over 70% even today. She came to England as a young girl and married at a very young age. She seemingly accepted her husband’s behaviour believing that was the way all men behaved. She appeared to weaken and decline, particularly after her father began to drink heavily. She played with her daughter less and less, thus isolating the shy young adolescent into an ever more solitary existence.

Although her mother improved to some extent after her father’s departure, she was never the woman that Sam recalled as a small child. When she was around the age of five or six they would make Christmas decorations from tinsel, cotton wool and toilet roll tubes and her mother would never say no to a game of Monopoly or Ludo. They went to the beach together during the summer holidays, and despite sand in the sandwiches, the freezing sea, and the swimming costumes that were never long enough for Sam’s frame, they unfailingly had a great time and Sam believed that those early years helped to prepare her for the bad times that were to come.

They attended the local Catholic Church, her father too before drinking on a Saturday night became the norm. Sam attended every week with her mother, come rain or shine until they were shunned following her parents’ separation. St Bartholomew’s was a small church, full of dark corners that promised unseen dangers. She never felt any God-like presence within the cold stone walls in all the Sunday’s she attended. She did however, love the flowers that were arranged so beautifully each week, and she enjoyed singing the hymns despite for the most part being unable to understand their meaning.

Sam was uncertain why her parents had eventually parted. She knew without a doubt that her mother would not have been the one to instigate the separation; she was too fragile, too timid and too Catholic. Someone at Sam’s school told her that they saw her father with a woman and a young child at a nearby school, but she had no desire to seek him out. He had hurt her mother too much for Sam to be sad that he wasn’t part of her life any more. She never saw him again.

After Sam left for university, her mother’s health deteriorated, and the guilt at leaving her alone plagued her even now. Pauline insisted that her daughter gain a good education so that she didn’t need to rely on a man to provide for her as she herself had done.

Pauline was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer just after Sam attained her degree. She felt sure that her mother had been ill for some time but chose not to consult a doctor until it was too late. She had looked increasingly frail every time Sam came home. The fact that her mother may have wanted to slip away from what she saw as a wasted life was a question that Sam felt compelled to ask as she lay in the clinical surroundings of the local hospice, barely making a ridge in the spotless white sheets and covers that cloaked her tiny frame. Pauline attempted to reassure Sam that she had simply been unlucky. The younger woman watched her mother drift off to sleep for the last time before lapsing into unconsciousness. She wept as she took in the sunken cheeks, the way her grey waxy skin stretched too tightly over the skull which threatened to emerge from within. Never a big woman, this shell of her mother was almost ethereal. She stroked her mother’s thinning grey hair, and after a few more minutes, the breathing simply stopped, a quiet peace filling the room. But it was a peace that did not last long.

Sam began to question this God that her mother had worshipped each week. He had allowed her to be hurt by the man who had stood in a holy place all those years ago and vowed to ‘love and cherish’ her ‘till death do us part!’ This God who permitted the life to be sucked out of her until there was nothing left to fight the disease which had eaten her up from inside, and a church that turned its back on her when she no longer fitted into its ideals. Her questions continued over the ensuing years, but she believed that by questioning her friend, whom she considered her official representative of God on earth, she may get answers to at least a few of her uncertainties.

She focussed her eyes once more on the resplendent garden when a red flash appeared at the feeder.

‘Look, a greater spotted woodpecker Chris!’ The sight of this beautiful and relatively rare bird lifted her spirits immediately.

‘Yeah, he comes every evening around this time. He knows that I’ve put a fresh fat stick out for him, it’s his favourite. There’s a female that comes to feed as well. You can tell the difference coz the male has a red cap toward the back of his head and the female doesn’t. They both have red under the tail though. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ He leaned over, close to her so he could see the bird more clearly and was near enough for Sam to take in his musky smell that made her yearn for a man’s touch. It was far too long since she’d felt another person beside her in bed. For goodness sake, stop thinking of Chris or any other man in that way. It’s making me feel desperate, even to myself, she thought. Back to religion, a much safer topic of conversation. She turned toward him and launched into yet another anti-Gospel tirade.

’Chris, you know as well as I do that it has never even been agreed who exactly wrote the Gospels, or when, in spite of the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls and those at Nag Hamadi. We do know that Matthew, Mark and John were written in Koine Greek, but the New Testament that we read today has had the grammar corrected as there were different tenses in the same sentences due to mistranslation for goodness sake! In other words, they have always been open to abuse and change.’

‘All that doesn’t exactly prove anything though does it Sam?’ Chris took a large swallow of his wine that had improved immensely now that it was up to room temperature. He thought he may need the fortification it could provide.

‘But it does prove that the texts were changed to improve the stories, don’t you think?’

‘That still doesn’t take away the fundamental meaning of the Gospels.’ Chris was one of those priests who believed in the Gospels with an almost blind, if not literal faith. Sam didn’t think he would believe anything different even if he found a page in the back of the bible that read, ‘Only kidding!’

‘What about the story of Jesus asking the crowd who were about to stone the woman who had committed adultery, if there was anyone without sin among them to cast the first stone?’ She challenged.

‘What about it?’

‘This passage wasn’t seen until after the twelfth century version of the bible! It was clearly added coz it’s a good morality tale. How many others are there within the Gospels that have just been invented?’

‘That still doesn’t make it untrue though does it?’ her friend retorted good naturedly.

Sam was beginning to feel frustrated as she always did around this point in their discussions because she could never force her friend to acknowledge any point that she made. She sighed heavily.

‘No, I guess not,’ she conceded knowing there would never be enough evidence to back up her theories, yet she continued, ’but you can’t deny that there was a lot of playing around with the texts until the sixteenth century when the Catholic Church decreed that no more amendments were to be made. They must have been happy with their final version! However, it raises more questions than it answers. Mark’s Gospel has been acknowledged as the earliest yet it is not claimed to be written by anyone who knew Jesus the person, yet Matthew, that has over fifty percent the same words as Mark, is supposed to have been written by someone who followed Him! How does that work?’ And why was the virgin birth absent from Mark’s Gospel if this was written first? It seems ludicrous that this most significant part of His life was not included. Hell, this author doesn’t even include the resurrection!’ Realising that she had blasphemed, something that she knew annoyed her friend, she quickly apologised and waited for him to respond to her questions.

‘There are always going to be things that we cannot explain Sam. I don’t know why you insist on pulling the Gospels apart anyway, even I know that they were written and included into the bible by mortal man who, unlike Jesus, is flawed, so they would never have been perfect no matter when, or by whom they were written.’ Sam guessed that Chris was hoping that she would tire of the subject, but she wasn’t quite done yet.

’But as I’ve said before Chris, although Matthew has a lot of the same words as Mark, it also has differences. These same dissimilarities match up with Luke’s Gospel, so it’s understood that these were from a common source known as ‘Q’, from the German Quelle, which literally means ‘source.’ These two Gospels have many sayings reportedly spoken by Jesus, yet Mark has none, as I’ve said. And what about John? This is completely different, missing many crucial elements, telling Jesus’ story in a completely different light because it was written to appeal to the Roman audience, who by this time are reading the stories.’

Sam was aware that she was not waiting for any kind of response to her multiple questions before continuing but she was on a roll and waved away Chris’s attempts to join the conversation. ‘You must know that the earliest version of Mark’s Gospel that is in the British Museum doesn’t contain any post-crucifixion passages? Also, it was clearly written before the first Jewish revolt, so earlier than 66CE, making it the first record of Jesus’ life, and within only thirty or so years of His death. Don’t you think that the resurrection, which is of course the foundation of our religion, would be included?’ She knew her face was flushed, and thought maybe she had overstepped the mark with her last outburst, but she need not have worried. Her friend wore his usual open smile.

‘I know that you’re passionate about this Sam, and I love you for it, no matter how much you seem to be taken in by everything you read.’

She couldn’t get angry with him; she loved him too, more than he would ever know. However, she decided to persist just a little longer simply because she could, but modified her tone.

’I’ve just read another really informative book about the Gospels by Lynne Picknett and Clive Prince called ‘The Masks of Christ.’

An audible groan of exasperation from Chris.

Sam grinned and pushed on. ‘You need to examine all sides to the Gospel stories Chris, you can’t just use blind faith against what is often evidence that is hard to discount!’ She continued, deliberately ignoring the look of vexation that finally sat on her friend’s face. ’Have you read about the secret Gospel of Mark? It was alluded to by the American Professor, Morton Smith after he visited the monastic library of Mar Saba in 1958 while he was studying for his Ph.D from Hebrew University in Jerusalem. In this library, he found a copy of a letter written by Clement of Alexandria within the endpapers of a 17th Century edition of the works of Ignatius of Antioch, and although this copy was from the seventeenth century, the content dated from Clément’s time, the second century. It states that Jesus used ‘special’ teachings only conveyed to his inner circle, probably his disciples, which were more pagan than Christian.’ A quick glance at Chris’s frowning face, and she quickly added, ‘I know that the Roman Catholic Church says that the letter and the secret Gospel are forged, but they would, wouldn’t they? More recent research shows that the words within the extract taken from the secret Gospel mentioned in the letter are so similar to canonical Mark that it looks more and more like this was the original, earlier edition! What’s more, I think it’s obvious that the version that’s in the bible has been altered to prevent the masses from believing that Jesus followed any pagan ideals or rituals, which by the way, included hypnotism!’

‘In which reference book did you read about this secret Gospel then?’ asked Chris, with more cynicism than he meant to convey in his voice. Occasionally he felt a little exasperated at Sam’s relentless questioning of his faith, but he would be happy to read the book himself as he had with most of the others that she often quoted, so that he could show Sam that there were always two sides to a story.

The secret Gospel reference, of which she was unaware before the other day, had almost literally fallen into her lap. Returning from viewing a particularly bad post mortem, Sam was for once glad to have a couple of hours of paperwork to get stuck into following an hour of observing a pathologist dissect the tiny body of an eighteen month old child who had died unexpectedly following routine surgery. She’d slumped into her chair and loaded up her computer whilst trying to rid her mind of the details of the PM.

As the icons were loading onto the desktop, she noticed some coloured paper sticking out of a pile of files that didn’t belong. She pulled them out and glanced at the glossy pages. There were just two sheets and they contained a couple of pictures in addition to the text. The first showed an elderly bald man with those very large ears that some older people seem to acquire, a small tight smile and glasses that gave the impression of a war time gas mask as they covered most of his face. Under the photo was a name, ‘Professor Morton Smith.’ The other picture declared that it was an image of the Monastery at Mar Saba located in Israel between Bethlehem and Jerusalem. To Sam, the huge collection of buildings looked more like a set from a biblical story. The sandy coloured stone with narrow black slits that served as windows could have been taken centuries ago, not 2011 as the caption underneath advised.

She’d read the article, then read it again. This kind of thing always fascinated her, challenging the accepted catholic dogma, offering more clues to the life of the man that had meant so much to her mother, and who still did to her best friend. The article informed her that Morton Smith had reportedly found a 17th Century copy of a letter written by Clement of Alexandria who lived from 150-215CE, to a man called Theodore. It contained fragments that were to become known as the ‘Secret Gospel of Mark’, informing the reader that Jesus held back some aspects of his teaching to a select few and that he used rituals and rites from other religions. Morton Smith reportedly said that the library was partially catalogued in the early 1920’s, something he had observed during his first visit there in 1941, but since that time had remained untouched. So in 1958, he attempted this himself. The transcript was widely condemned as a forgery, but this was not due to any carbon dating. In fact when Smith was asked what he had done with it following the publication of his find in 1973, (due to various delays, it took 15 years to publish), he said it was probably still in the library where he left it! He simply took photographs of it to study. The offending pages were never seen again.

Sam was fascinated at learning of this new piece of the puzzle and had wanted to tell Chris about it, but now that she had mentioned it to her friend, she knew that he would never believe that his Jesus was anything other than the divine Son of God as portrayed in the New Testament Gospels.

The official ones chosen for inclusion anyway.

She decided to drop the subject, at least for today. She really didn’t want to fall out with Chris, over something that was surely a load of old rubbish, just another story in a throwaway periodical. The tingle of excitement that she felt whilst reading about the secret Gospel story ebbed away. The fact that she had no idea where the pages came from, or how they made it onto her desk also slipped from her mind.

She looked up into his beatific face and said, ‘Oh, forget it, I’m just a frustrated old cow with too much imagination.’

‘You, old! I think not, coz that would make me old too. Frustrated, maybe, too much imagination, certainly!’ He teased.

‘So, you’re saying that I am a cow then!’ she retorted, a smile escaping the confines of her lips. They both laughed and sipped their wine happy and at ease with each other once again.

FOUR

As he strode down the lane toward the serious looking red-bricked church, he wondered why he once felt drawn to these cold, heartless buildings. This particular one was built just after the Reform Act in 1841, ten years before the reintroduction of the Catholic hierarchy, and had the look of a protestant preaching hall church rather than a Catholic place of worship. The west end of the church had its severity ameliorated by a modern extension in the early years of the 21st century, but to him, it might as well be made of plastic, the design giving him no pleasure. What it looked like meant nothing anyway when it was filled with such hypocrisy.

Only three years ago the priest from a nearby Catholic church was arrested on suspicion of having sex with a child thirty years previously. What a bunch of charlatans these men were! Mind you, he thought, look at the example set by those who were even higher up the food chain of the Holy Roman Church. Even those at the very pinnacle over the centuries had indulged in every sin that could be imagined. Were today’s popes any better? Probably only by degree, he fancied. These types of endemic crimes will continue unabated whilst Catholic doctrine states that all priests should be unnaturally celibate.

As he walked, he absently quickened his pace such was his anger at the action, or rather inaction of the church of which he once considered himself an integral part. He was oblivious to the cycle of nature that surrounded him as he strode along. The wild dog rose tangled with the hedgerows, forever striving for life giving light, pregnant with multihued blooms that would soon adorn the landscape. He also failed to spot the late brood of blue tits tentatively peering over the top of their nest among the borders of the footpath beside him, wondering if today would be their day to take to the skies.

As he approached the church via the path between the graves, he checked his pace, aware that he must hold himself in check, remain disciplined for the momentous tasks that lay ahead. As he slowed, his gaze wandered to a large simple cross upon a dirty yellow lichen-covered pedestal just to the left of the path. He stopped to read the inscription;

‘Pray for the Souls of the Jerningham Family, whose bodies were brought from the chapel in Costessey Park and buried here on November 18th 1953.’

Having researched this church and parish, always thorough in everything he did, he was aware that this family had been instrumental in the construction of this church and he felt like shouting at the long dead bones that lay under this parody of faith. He wanted to bellow out loud, tell them all that no ‘Saviour of Man’ dwelt within this place or any other! That it was just bricks, mortar and emptiness. He felt his face burn with rage and shame at living as its servant for so long. But, he reminded himself, that would all change very soon. His plans were complete.

Once again his emotions were under control, his anger put away to be replaced by nervous, excited butterflies that quivered inside his stomach at the thought of what lay ahead of him on his journey that would lead to the redemption of all Christians. The priest of this church was to be his first witness to the reality withheld by the few for epochs. His fingers lightly brushed against the vellum of the small codex that lay within the folds of his long tailored top coat that he wore despite the season. His fingers slid inside so that he could better feel the power contained within the pages of parchment and a pleasant thrill surged through his body.

He moved purposefully once more toward the wooden church door. As he neared the building, there was no sense of the familiar belonging that he had felt for so many years. The incongruous angles, spires and turrets held no fascination for him now. He was not sorry for his loss, knowing that he had been duped by the institution that had nurtured his desire for something he was never able to express.

He entered the church vestibule and walked quickly and confidently through the narthex and into the main body of the church. He passed through the sanctuary where the faithful came to pray at least once a week, the place where they listened to a man spewing words at them that even he was too stupid to see were lies. His surroundings forced a cynical smile from his lips, creasing his striking features. The sanctuary! The word itself conjured up a romantic notion of the church offering protection to criminals or other wrong doers, a practice lasting until a mere twenty years ago! The things man did in the name of religion were truly ridiculous, he mused, but he guessed that if anything is repeated enough times it becomes the norm, no matter how absurd.

He was confident that he was alone, the priest assuring him that he would not be back until three o’clock and it was now just two thirty. So, he stepped with confidence into the sacristy, the room where the priest would don his surplice over his cassock for Mass and other services. On top of the robe would come the cope, a circular cape reaching to the floor, completing the ensemble. He sat down at the cleric’s simple desk and removed the codex from the folds of his garment and placed it in front of him.

He still found it miraculous that he had been given the codex at all, and for the hundredth time he wondered at his good fortune. Maybe he was chosen because he alone would know what to do with the knowledge and power that it bestowed upon him. The previous caretakers of the documents had done nothing and he was ashamed because of who they were.

When his mother was admitted into hospital for the last time, she gave him a package, the contents of which changed his life. It was left in her safe keeping by his father before he had passed away.

His father! A man who had never seen his own son, had asked her to never to open it, and she had kept her promise. The fact that she knew his father at all astounded him because she always maintained they were essentially strangers. As she lay near death, he discovered why she had been so reticent when it came to his father’s identity.

He had been a priest!

This fact alone had been enough to shock him to the core. No wonder his mother was so supportive of his own decision to enter the priesthood. She had, at one time been intimate with a priest and it had led to his birth! He began to read the contents of what lay within the package as he sat in the relative’s waiting room at the hospital. The doctor spoke to him briefly to inform him that his mother was unlikely to survive the night, having suffered another heart attack at the time of being admitted and that her heart was simply too weak to survive this second assault.

He sat by her bed as she slept, re-reading the translated pages that accompanied the ancient texts, occasionally glancing at the originals, fingers trembling as he gently touched them. His first emotion was confusion, followed by distress and finally anger. He wanted to run away from the hospital, even as his mother lay dying. He stood over the bed, looking down at the woman who had unwittingly raised him to believe in a false God, so much so that he wanted to devote his whole life to Him. As he looked down upon her grey skin and hollow cheeks, he felt something fundamental shift within him.

He remained quivering with rage, his knuckles white as he gripped the side of the bed rail. His faith, his life, now shattered by the words contained within the brown paper package. There was no doubt in his mind that the words were genuine. He felt all other emotions drain from him, compassion, empathy, even the love that he held for the woman who was losing her battle with death. His feelings ebbed away along with her life.

As if his thoughts were a physical force that touched her skin, his mother opened her eyes. She glanced at the papers that were on the bed cover, and looked up into his face, mistaking his fury for pain that she was soon to leave him. She raised her slender hand to his, attempting to calm him despite her own discomfort. She whispered that she wanted to say something about his father before it was too late. Despite his inner turmoil, he realised that he wanted to know about this man who had fathered him, but who could never have been a real father in any sense of the word.

She insisted that he had been a good man and a devout priest, but that he had not accepted the Catholic view that priests should not love a woman. In fact, he told her that it was unnatural not to have feelings of love for another. He believed that a priest could nevertheless serve God despite rejecting this statute. This rule he said, was devised by man not God and for Jesus, as a Jew in the first century, it would be most uncommon not to have a spouse. This was especially true for a Rabbi. She believed his words and had taken him into her bed. She became visibly weaker as she spoke, but he was unable to offer any comfort, such was his emotional unrest. Her voice came in short, breathless spurts as she gasped for one more lungful of air.

She managed to tell her son that she had loved this man until his death, and that he even resembled his father in both looks and depth of faith. He looked down at her with pity, but without love as she smiled weakly for the last time. She clearly believed every word that she had spoken but she had not read the text that he now placed carefully back inside its packaging.

Neither spoke again, and within a few more minutes she slipped into unconsciousness, her mouth opening wide as if desperate for the oxygen she would need to make her final journey.

As he sat in the half-light of the side room, he began to reflect on all the information that had been imparted to him during the past few hours. He realised, not without a sense of irony that he always believed he was destined for something greater. Once he became a priest, he imagined that rising up within the hierarchy of his church would be his destiny. Now he knew better. His future was intractably interwoven with this small codex he had been given. The rubrics that governed much of the everyday lives of Christians for so long must now be changed. How, as yet he couldn’t fathom.

He stood, needing to be alone to digest everything that was in the parcel, the texts and the letter from his father that as yet lay unopened. He lowered his eyes once more at the unfortunate, deceived woman whom he had loved, the only person that he had ever cared for and felt only sadness that she had never been told the truth about her religion. His anger made an unwelcome return as he studied her pathetic features and overall cadaverous appearance, the angry looking bruises under the wafer-like skin on her arms, caused as a result of the rat poison she had been prescribed since her first heart attack.

He said a quiet goodbye to her and left the side ward without looking back, holding the package to his chest with one hand, pulling at his dog collar with the other, symbolically ridding himself of the hypocrisy he’d been living with all his life. He didn’t notice the puzzled looks on the faces of the two nurses as he passed their station. A priest, leaving his dying mother alone?

As soon as he arrived home he carried the package to his bedroom and opened the envelope upon which his name was written in an elegant hand. The letter surely penned as a result of the guilt that his father had felt, having done nothing with the information he possessed. He looked down at the words written by a father he had never known.

Peter

This is the most difficult and humbling letter I have ever written in my life. As you read this, you will of course be mourning your mother as she made a promise not to give you these things until after my death and her own.

I hope that my absence has not been too much of a burden throughout your life, but I pray that you are able to imagine how thrilled I was to hear that you too chose the church as your vocation. To say that I am proud of you would be an understatement, but I realise that this is somewhat hypocritical of me as I have not been with you as you have journeyed through life and into the priesthood to become a man of God.

I enclose what I believe to be the most sensational set of documents ever discovered, and I feel that I must entrust them to you as they were to me. However, you will find some of what is contained within the papers hard to bear, especially as you have chosen to be a part of the church, but I hope that it will not change your fundamental belief in God. I was shown these documents before I myself chose to enter the priesthood but my faith withstood these truths as I am sure will yours.

I feel that I must tell you a little about myself, and hope that you can forgive me my sins. I was born to a Jewish mother in Bethlehem in 1945. She fell in love with a British Army officer, but before she realised that she was pregnant, he had already left the country. She was of course, shunned by her family, primarily because at that time there was a Jewish insurgency against the British in Palestine. She had nowhere to go for her confinement so she walked from her home in Bethlehem to the monastery at Mar Saba where there were a number of monks living. She was told that they may give her sanctuary as they held no political beliefs and had a reputation for kindness.

When she arrived at the monastery, she was informed that no women were allowed within the monastery walls, which is still the case today. Nevertheless, due to her desperate situation, she was permitted to stay in the ‘Women’s Tower’ and was befriended by an English priest who had been living at the monastery for over twenty years. He was around sixty years of age at this time, and possessed much compassion and did not turn my mother away.

When her time came, despite having a licenced local midwife in attendance, she died within an hour of my delivery into this world. The priest faced a choice of giving me to a local orphanage which may have been very dangerous, as non-baptised Jewish children often ended up in concentration camps at that time, or keeping me within the walls of the monastery. He decided on the latter, and baptised me as soon as he was able, naming me Peter. This was a practice which the pope, who at the time was Pius XII, welcomed. In fact, the pope intervened personally in some cases to ensure that baptised Jewish children remained in a catholic environment.

I remember the priest very well and with much affection. His name was Father Stewart Smith and he not only raised me, but also he instructed me in the ways of the Church, so it was no surprise to him that I desired to become a priest. However, on the day that I informed him of my intention, he told me the reason why he had never returned to England and to his parish or indeed why he had not formally completed his itemising of the library, the reason he had been sent there all those years ago. I had often wondered why this was so, but he would avoid my questions until that day.

He arrived at Mar Saba in 1921 and was completely taken with the place. I can tell you from growing up there that it was truly a remarkable collection of domes, churches, domiciles and prayer rooms. The founder is Saint Sabbas, a monk born in the fifth century, whose relics were finally returned by Pope Paul VI in 1965, the year that I left and I was lucky enough to see the placing of his bones inside the tomb that had been empty since the Crusaders took them to Rome in the twelfth century.

Imagine, if you can my son, this great man who founded many monasteries and who lived until he was over ninety years of age, being returned to his beloved Mar Saba to rest for all time. I do not mean to test your patience Peter, I merely feel that I should provide some background to my story and myself.

It was an exciting time for all Catholics as you are probably aware, as Pope Paul had just closed the second Vatican council which of course helped to bring us closer to modern society. However, with the knowledge that they must have which I will now impart to you, more changes could have been made, but that is just my opinion and I will let you make up your own mind.

Father Smith knew that he was very ill at the time he revealed these documents to me, which was another reason for me to see them before I left the monastery so that I was able to choose to either continue in my calling, or to do something else with my life once I knew the whole truth. There are only three pages left of the original codex dating from the first century and one other from the sixth. Father Smith told me that once he translated the pages, he sent small samples to the Vatican for authentication, along with copies of the translated words from each page. Of course in the twenties, there was no such thing as carbon dating, but I paid for a small sample of two of the pages to be dated myself in 1979, when it was possible to date a document to within ten years and I was told that they were indeed from those two centuries, the first from approximately 35 AD, the second from around 510 AD.

Father Smith urged the pontiff to release the contents of the pages to the world, via an envoy, who came to the monastery but he was ignored and was instructed quite forcibly I believe to keep quiet and to hand over the texts. They forced a substantial sum of money upon him to keep quiet. He was truly afraid for his life and that of the monks whom he loved, so he reluctantly accepted the money in exchange for his silence. However he took a great risk and only handed over six of the pages that he possessed, keeping these four you have now my son. I do not know what, if anything he originally intended to do with them, but finally he simply kept them safe at the monastery. He believed that the Vatican already knew of the existence of this lost Gospel which was no doubt a much larger work in its original form. The pope’s representative left for Rome, telling him that his silence would help to protect the masses from the harm that the documents could do.

This was the reason he did not complete his work in the library. He had lost a part of his faith, that of the Mother Church, and chose, possibly at the insistence of the Vatican, to stay and live a humble and simple life with the monks at the monastery. He told me at the last that he still believed in a God everlasting.

Unfortunately, Father Smith passed away within just a few short days, and before I read the texts. I, of course wanted to stay by his bedside, he had been kind and loving to me throughout my life. I believe it was God’s will that he passed before I had a chance to read the documents, as it forced me to make up my own mind about the content of the extraordinary pages.

I did not read them, or the letter he left for me, for a few days after his passing, so distraught was I about my beloved father’s death. He was both father and Father to me you see Peter.

Eventually I read his translations of the texts in utter astonishment. At first I wondered why he remained a priest at all, but then upon reflection I could see that one could still have faith and could love God, but I could also understand why he chose to remain at Mar Saba living out his life and remaining in the service of the Lord.

His letter informed me that although the Vatican had refused to allow the texts to become public knowledge, Pope Pius had, during the year following his envoy’s visit, issued an encyclical, which is a papal letter sent to all bishops in the Roman Catholic Church. It is called, ‘Studiorum Ducem’ and it singled out the Pontifical University of Saint Thomas Aquinas as the pre-eminent institution for the teaching of Aquinas himself.

I did not know who Thomas Aquinas was at the time, but Father Smith explained in his letter that he was a thirteenth century friar and priest who was the foremost proponent of natural theology, a type of religious study that provides arguments for the existence of God based on reason and ordinary experience of nature. This opposes the traditional revealed theology which is based on scripture and/or religious experiences, and this publication was enough to convince Father Smith that the pope believed in the so called ‘lost Gospel’, but was unable or unwilling to publish it for fear of a possible collapse of the Christian Church.

I hope that after you too have read the codex you will continue in your vocation as I did, but whatever you decide to do, I would ask that you tread carefully. The Holy See has many eyes and ears and still wields much power, and I have no doubt that should you try to convince them to tell the world the truth, there will be consequences, and I would not wish any harm to come to you.

All I ask is for you to keep these treasures safe and the knowledge secure within your heart. We must try to forgive those who elected not to include what I believe is the earliest Gospel ever written, into what has been at the heart of our religion since the concept of the New Testament. I am sure that those men did what they thought was best for mankind, even though they withheld information that would surely have changed the outlook of all Christians the world over. I know that you will do the right thing and when your own time comes, you will hand these pages to someone that you know in your heart will follow our example.

I realise that these are difficult words for you to read and maybe even to believe, but having known your mother who was such a kind and generous soul, she will have raised you to do what is right. Please do not think badly of her Peter, for she was always in ignorance of these texts. She has the money that the Vatican gave to Father Smith which has never been touched and details of this will be among her belongings, and as such, will pass to you. I was forced to tell her small lie, that the money was an inheritance of my own. My father assured me that the monks at the monastery had little need for it, as they live a very simple existence, so I hope that you will use what must by now be a substantial amount of money wisely should you need it.

So, I will leave you with these few remarkable pages that I believe are part of the original version of St Mark’s Gospel.

God be with you, your loving father,

Peter Smith

It had been many months since Peter had learned to control his anger at the thought of his father, a man who had been given these astonishing revelations and had done absolutely nothing with them! The letter had long since been destroyed and the money used in pursuit of his mission. Today, finally he was about to take the first step which would lead to enlightenment.

The door to the sacristy opened. He got to his feet, his smile as big as his confidence, extending his hand in greeting.

‘Father Matthew! How lovely to meet you. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you.’

FIVE

Driving home, Sam took in the flat countryside that surrounded her. Despite the lack of undulations so common in other counties, Suffolk was still beautiful in its own way. You can see for miles on a clear day which, now that the promised rain had arrived, would not be today. The landscape, seen through the windscreen despite the irate wipers, brought to mind a Monet painting, smudged colours bleeding effortlessly into one another. It matched her melancholy mood. She enjoyed being with Chris, arguing the toss about religion, but now that she was alone, that was just how she felt.

Lonely.

The house that she called home held nothing but possessions, no partner, not even a cat. With her long working hours she felt that having any kind of pet would be a selfish choice.

Most evenings when she was not at work, she settled for reading a good book or watching the television. Occasionally she took a sneaky look on Facebook to see what her virtual friends were up to, a guilty pleasure that she kept to herself. She liked to see what pouty face some of them changed their profile picture to this week, or maybe even see what some of them were having for dinner. She loved to pour scorn on their banalities, even if it were only to herself. It made her lack of social life seem slightly less dull.

Not that she never dated or went out for fun, she did. But so far she’d only had one long term partner, and that had ended badly two years ago. In hindsight, she knew that she should have given more of herself to him. In the early days, it was Damon who had been more self-absorbed, and it had been his job, a doctor in the local busy A & E department that got in the way. But after a while, she realised that most of the problems were of her own making, shutting him out more than she needed to. She hadn’t spoken to him since the day he walked out, and on days like today, part of her wished he was still there. A warm body to hold and to be held by, the smell of him next to her in bed, waking up with him, touching his warm exposed skin.

‘Enough already!’ she said aloud to no-one. Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help, so she turned the radio on and listened to a play on Radio 4 for the remainder of the journey as the curtain of rain wrapped itself around the windscreen, causing the automatic wipers to react furiously.

As she turned into the small drive of her house in the pretty village of Somerleyton, she was unexpectedly comforted by all things familiar. The too bright shade of red that she’d painted her front door in the spring, the concrete statue of two of the ugliest concrete children you ever saw in the front garden complete with ugly concrete dog at their feet, sheltering under a concrete umbrella. Very wise of you two today she thought, still wondering why she had purchased such a hideous fountain in the first place.

She pulled up as close to the door as she was able, the driving rain already producing a flood in the few flower beds causing her spring bulbs to float miserably on the surface when they should be sheltering safely under the ground. The rainwater created puddles wherever the ground was uneven, fat droplets bouncing up from the pavement high enough to soak her knees as soon as she left the sanctity of her car. She shouldered her handbag and hurried to the door holding her briefcase over her head as a makeshift umbrella. As she plunged into the hallway, dripping and cursing the weather, she suddenly thought how things change when you become an adult.

As a child she loved the rain. The way that it transformed the smell of certain things remained a vivid memory, especially recently cut grass. Even the trees were different, more vibrant and effervescent, the moist air providing a denser medium for particles to diffuse, instigating the intense delectable odours. She recalled one particular occasion when she was around five or six, absent from school with some minor ailment, sitting on the floor in the doorway at the front of the house with a blanket and a strawberry jam sandwich simply watching the rain as it fell. The smell of the newly mown lawn filled her senses, pervading her nostrils with its unique fragrance, a smell she now knew resulted primarily from soil dwelling bacteria. Conversely, she had read that some scientists believe that the smell of wet grass is so pleasing to humans, because our ancestors relied on wet weather for their survival. Oh, the things we discover as adults to ruin our childhood memories she thought.

But not this particular one. She could still taste the sweetness of the jam squeezed between two slices of soft white bread, two things she rarely ate any more. She remembered the exact way the delicate splashes of rainwater had dripped onto the mesembryanthemums in her mother’s garden, the pinky-purple daisy-like flowers raising their heads high to embrace the life-sustaining liquid. The yellow banana petals of the laburnum tree fell heavily to the ground when the weight of the rain became too much to bear. This memory was so special to her because it was before things had gone so wrong, when she still took pleasure in such simple things.

She glanced at her sodden reflection in the hallway mirror. Considering that she’d been out in the rain for less than a minute, she was soaked. Her light blonde hair, which she typically wore up for work now hung lifeless about her shoulders, the shine no longer visible. She usually liked her hair, it was one of her better features. It looked professional when she styled in different ways, but on days like today, when she got the chance to see friends, she let it do its own thing. It was slightly wavy and naturally blonde, and when the light caught it, it appeared almost silver. Her face was almost classically beautiful and her large hazel eyes with their long brown lashes looked back at her with an intellectual intensity that she was aware, helped to intimidate some of the scumbags she was required to deal with on an almost daily basis. Her lips were still plump and sensuous and her smile infectious when she chose to use it. Lately it had not been used nearly enough.

She didn’t go to the gym because the concept of repetitive exercise was too boring, preferring to walk or cycle the countryside at a good pace. That way, she got to see nature at its best, taking time to watch the birds, squirrels and other small and not so small mammals that she encountered. Her weight remained pretty much the same since she was a teenager. She didn’t over eat, rarely consumed sweet food, preferring savoury, with the exception of the occasional Mr Whippy ice cream at the seaside. She possessed what used to be known as a ‘voluptuous’ body, despite her five feet ten frame, which most men she encountered seemed to prefer. She realised that she would never be size 6, let alone a zero, but she didn’t desire or need to be one. The idea of women starving themselves so that their bones would be on show was abhorrent, but indicative of the relentless pressure of the media. She was aware that she looked a little ‘hippy’ in skin tight jeans but she also knew that she still looked good in a bikini.

Today however, she just looked like a drowned rat. What a stupid phrase, she thought. Rats can swim can’t they? Her mind was working overtime on nothing, so she decided the best thing would be a hot shower, catch some car crash telly, then to bed with her latest book, ‘Lamentation’, a fictional novel of murder and intrigue set at the time of Henry the Eighth and Queen Catherine Parr. The Catherine in question had actually written a small book entitled, ‘The Lamentation of a Sinner’, a work for which she risked her head, as it was in stark contradiction to her husband’s current decree concerning what his subjects should believe about religion, especially around the holy sacrament.

During that barbaric time, if you could not wholly accept that the bread and wine truly represented the body and blood of Christ, you could be tortured and burned alive. But with Henry’s ever changing stance on religion, it was difficult to keep up with what was safe to believe and what was not.

An intellectual book with a good story was just what she needed to end the day. So, she shucked off her raincoat, and headed up the stairs for a long hot shower to warm herself up and to hopefully improve her mood. She was usually content with her lot and was rarely depressed. She knew she was luckier than many others. She loved her job despite its obvious drawbacks. At times it could be the most rewarding of professions, especially if she was instrumental in preventing a crime or catching a particularly nasty lowlife.

After showering, she donned her typical eveningwear for a night in, a onesie, which today featured a Dalmatian pattern, complete with a hood that had ears and a pink nose! She slipped her feet into matching spotted slippers and descended the stairs feeling better. She decided on a microwaved baked potato for supper with low fat cheese and low sugar beans. God, it was hard being healthy, she thought. She ate at the kitchen table while checking the latest rubbish to appear on Facebook, then moved into the living room, turned on the TV and was pleased to see that ‘Big Brother’ had just started. Chris had been appalled when she said that she loved the show calling it the most inane drivel on television, but which had proved yet again to be avid viewing for millions including Sam, and with a glass of good wine, it was heaven. There was no more need to think, just chill out and let the ‘inane drivel’ wash over her. If those hard nuts at the nick could see me now, watching this shit, dressed like an oversized soft toy, I’d probably lose any street cred I ever had, she thought with a wry smile.

She managed to get to the end of the show and left the companion series running as she began to feel her eyes drooping. Rylan Clark-Neal was excitedly interviewing an evictee, white teeth flashing, when her mobile vibrated on the table.

‘Oh no,’ she groaned. This could only mean work. She picked up the handset, the caller ID showing DS Waters’ mobile. Tommy was her right hand man and she instantly knew he would not be bothering her if he didn’t have to, aware that it was her day off.

‘Yes Tommy. This’d better be good, I was just going to bed.’

‘Guv, I’m sorry, but this won’t wait.’ His voice sounded shaky, totally out of character for him. Sam felt an enigmatic thrill of alarm and excitement.

‘OK, what is it?’

‘We’ve found a body boss. It’s really bad.’ The voice almost broke. Sam had never heard her sergeant sound as disturbed as this during any of the previous cases they had worked on together. And they had seen some terrible things over the years.

‘Go on!’ Sam now sat up, fully alert and in control, her voice harder than she had meant to convey.

‘It’s a priest, and it looks like he’s been tortured to death.’

SIX

MAR SABA MONASTERY 1922

Father Stewart Smith had been living with the monks at Mar Saba for over a year experiencing spiritual inner peace on a daily basis. The valley embraced the monastery like a protective parent, but as the area was almost uninhabitable, they shared their desert refuge with no other denizens. The large jagged stone wall that encompassed the monastery had endured since the seventh century Persian invasion. Its protection was no longer needed, but it served as a warning to all those who would do wrong in this place of serenity and worship.

The monks’ lives remained virtually unchanged during the fifteen hundred years of their occupation of the collection of buildings. The only vagaries were the times of the daily routines as the seasons came and went. However, all practices ceased at sunset as they had since the monastery’s conception. Father Smith attended daily Mass at 6am but was excused all other communal prayers, manual labour, service to the brethren and hospitality to outsiders, in order that he devote his time to the library for which he was very grateful, especially when he observed the way the older monks held their backs whilst toiling in the meagre soil during the prolonged heat of the day.

During the first few months the priest had taken time to explore every church, tower (including the southern women’s tower), halls and passageways. He had walked a little way in the searing temperatures along the Kidron creek which flowed endlessly but sporadically, toward the Dead Sea. This life giving water had been one of the reasons why Saint Sabbas had chosen this location for his first hermitage. The fresh running water from the mountains helped to breathe life into the arid desert.

The priest’s favourite place of all, apart from the library, was within the hexagon shaped dome, the original tomb of the monastery’s founder. The cupola itself appeared luminous when touched by the sun, its smooth surface glinting in the sunlight that was reflected from its bronzed façade. Despite the fact that the holy man’s relics no longer resided within the dome, Father Smith still felt moved within this particular construction. Upon entering the small building, he felt immediately overjoyed by the scenes of colour and magnificence, enough even to rival the Raphael rooms within the Vatican, or so he had been told.

The ceiling is adorned with depictions of monks in a circle inside which there appears an inner ring of angels, and in the centre Jesus looks down in an abundance of colour and majesty. Once you slide your eyes down to the walls, there is no area that is not alive with colour and imagery. When the priest initially gazed upon the painted scene of Saint Sabbas resting in death with monks all around him, he felt his very soul touched by tranquillity and self-possession.

Although he felt that this was the most remarkable place within the walls of the monastery, and was the place that he preferred in which to meditate and prey, he was nonetheless equally impressed with the main church which was called, ‘The Annunciation of The Virgin Mary.’

The first thing to notice when entering this building is that the floor seems to be reflected in the ceiling. The monks use Kerosene wax to transform the surface into what appears upon first glance to be an ice skating rink. The only light filters in from the skylights above, giving the church a feeling of sacredness captured by natural light, rewarding those travellers who journey to see this astonishing place. One of the other churches, St Nicolas, which was constructed inside the cave where St Sabbas originally founded the monastery, holds the skulls of those monks who have been martyred at various points during the past fifteen centuries. How afraid must these peace loving men have been during those times of war and revolt?

There were of course other amazing buildings along with much Greek-Orthodox art and paintings to see and discover, but once Father Smith had finally begun to delve into the masses of parchments, texts, manuscripts, codex’s and scrolls inside the vast library of Mar Saba, he found that there was little time to spend admiring the artistry and radiance of the place that he now called home.

So, he had begun cataloguing the vast collection, attempting to put the documents into chronological order as much as possible. Most of the information that he was able to gather from the earliest works concerned the social, legal and political status of Jews rather than Judaism itself, but nonetheless he found his work to be interesting and rewarding, combining his faith and his interest in ancient literature. Occasionally, he found hymns, rules, prayers and psalms which were fascinating insights into the world of the Jewish and Christian religion from a bygone age.

Some years previously, he’d read the work of Solomon Schechter, a Moldavian-born American rabbi, entitled ‘Fragments of a Zadokite Work’ which concerned scrolls found in the Cairo Genizah, a storage area in a Jewish synagogue. These were written in Hebrew, Arabic and Aramaic on vellum, paper, papyrus and cloth. In addition to containing Jewish religious texts such as Biblical, Talmudic and later Rabbinic works, the Genizah portrays a detailed picture of the economic and cultural life of the North African and Eastern Mediterranean regions, especially during the 10th to 13th centuries. How wonderful it would be to find something even half as valuable as that, he mused.

The July heat throughout the area in and around Bethlehem, especially in the Kidron valley is always oppressive, but this year would see the hottest temperature ever recorded,

in Libya with a high of over fifty five degrees. Here in the Judaean desert it was climbing to well over forty degrees by ten in the morning. Even after 6am prayers, when the priest emerged from Mass into the white hot sunshine, he had to quickly pull his straw hat down to shade his eyes. Despite not lingering in the sunshine, over the past year his appearance had changed. His dark brown hair that was now too long was streaked with golden highlights and his formerly pale complexion was almost as dark and weathered as the other monks. His darker skin allowed his pale blue eyes to stand out more than usual, lending him an ability to capture the attention of anyone he conversed with.

He walked as fast as the heat would allow toward the library where sanctuary from the roasting temperature awaited him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he observed the monks even now, calmly going about their daily routines without appearing to notice the intolerable heat, just as they had for centuries, some already tending to their scant crops that this summer would yield even less than usual.

He entered the long building that held the precious tomes, its high ceiling soaring above him. No elaborate portraits, landscapes or other vibrant scenes adorned these walls, just row after row of the written word of those who had gone before. He brought a light lunch with him, consisting of bread, olives and grapes and he’d filled a carafe of water from the sparse kitchen so that he could spend all day within the cool walls of the athenaeum.

He’d found a particularly interesting document the day before that appeared to be, on first inspection, older than his previous finds. As far as he could tell, it was a letter written by Ignatius of Antioch, an Apostolic Father and a student of John the Apostle and who had lived in the first century. Father Smith knew from his own research that the unfortunate Ignatius had been martyred on his way to Rome by being fed to wild beasts, but his reputation for writing about a variety of subjects thankfully was how he was mostly remembered, rather than his the gruesome manner of his death.

The letter that he’d discovered was addressed to the Romans and concerned his upcoming martyrdom of which he seemed to be aware. He believed that he would only find enlightenment with his own death at the hands of the Romans, and he had welcomed it. Father Smith could not understand such a principle, but was excited at the prospect of finding other letters from the time period. He had read that Ignatius was born in approximately 35AD, which was of course close to the time of Jesus’ crucifixion, and that he had lived a long life before his own execution at the age of around 75. This implied that the letter he had found was surely as old as late first or early second century which would be a significant find if it turned out to be an original and not a copy written much later which he knew, was a strong possibility.

As he made his way to the bookshelf where he had left the paper, he was surprised at just how excited he felt. He was not given to flights of fancy, and silently reprimanded himself. He might never find another document as old as the Ignatius letter and felt it was foolish to feel butterflies in his stomach, yet there they remained, patiently fluttering waiting for what, he knew not.

He found the letter where he had left it, and carefully placed it upon the desk where he had sat day after day for many months. He decided to re-read the letter as a way of settling his unexplainable emotional state. After half an hour of scrutiny he heard a faint knocking at the door of the library. He frowned. He was not usually disturbed during his long days with

in these walls, and he felt slightly irritated at the intrusion. Almost immediately, his feelings changed to those of guilt for having such thoughts. The monks that dwelt within the monastery had shown him nothing but kindness and friendship during the months that he had lived amongst them. He still had much to learn from their patience, resilience and fortitude that they displayed in their daily battle with the elements.

‘Yes, come in please,’ he called to his unknown visitor. The door opened and in slipped Brother Antony. Father Smith had liked the young man from the first and after getting to know him better over time, it had only reinforced his feeling of warmth toward the monk. He was only twenty five years old, yet notwithstanding his vocation, still had that youthful exuberance that the young possess. He carried out his duties with cheerfulness and possessed a fierce devotion to his faith, a fact that shone from his open, beatific face at all times.

‘Father, please come. I have found something that I know you will want to see.’ His tone was even more impassioned than usual and his smile broader, his even white teeth gleaming at the older man. There was no reason to think that this was not some fancy of the youthful monk, yet the priest felt his already nervous stomach lurch in anticipation.

‘What is it Brother?’ he asked in a level tone, despite his inner tumult.

‘I have found a cave in the valley father!’ His smile somehow widened further, which seemed to force his dark eyes almost closed, leaving the long dark lashes ever more prominent. The priest felt his excitement receding almost immediately but he returned the smile and replied in what he hoped was a tone that did not sound condescending.

‘There are many caves out there Antony. As you know many years ago the monks used to live in them.’ He felt his enthusiasm abating further as he spoke the words. There were many such caves where monks of old would live for at least six days a week in holy meditation.

’No, you don’t understand father, this one was a long way past all the others. I like to explore the caves if I have any free time and today I walked for longer than usual, following a particularly colourful bird, a bluethroat I think. I do not know why they are called ‘bluethroat’ father, because they actually have a mixture of blue, orange, black and white throats! It looks as if they are wearing a multi-coloured coat, just like Joseph!’ The priest took a deep breath and hope that the young monk would get to the point soon so that he could get back to studying the letter.

The young man went on. ‘Anyway, after I lost sight of it, I looked up at the position of the sun and realised that I had travelled about two and a half kilometres. I looked up at the wall of the valley and saw a cave entrance high above that I am sure I have not seen before. I climbed up the rock face and went inside.’

‘Yes, go on Antony.’ The fervour that Father Stewart had felt previously was attempting to resurface.

‘Well, I went a little way into the cave. Do you remember father, we had some torches given to us by the British soldiers last year, and I often take one with me when I go for a walk in case I go into any of the caves. That way, I can ven….. venture in a little further.’ Antony’s use of English, his second language was excellent, but he sometimes struggled with uncommon words.

‘Yes, yes, I remember, please go on Antony. What did you find?’ The butterflies were in danger of flapping their way out of the priest’s mouth and he swallowed thickly to push them down.

‘I found a large box father, and some pottery. I think the box is an ossu….’ he stopped, unsure of this word as he had never spoken it before today.

‘An ossuary? You found an ossuary Antony?’ This was more thrilling than anything the priest had anticipated. Ossuaries had been used for over two thousand years as a way of burying the dead in a smaller space that a body would require. The corpse would be buried in a temporary grave until such time as there were only bones remaining , after which time they would be placed in an ossuary, a box made of chalk or simple limestone. The deceased’s name was traditionally engraved on the end of the box and this would then be buried or as in this case interned in a cave.

Although he loved the written word and was relishing cataloguing the library, a burial place such as this cave, possibly from ancient times could contain anything, pottery, scrolls, even the relics of a person of religious significance. The priest could feel the blood rushing to his face in anticipation of what may lay ahead.

He put down the letter he had been studying, forgotten almost as soon as it fluttered onto the desk and hurried toward the door gesturing for the young monk to lead the way. The priest proceeded to follow Antony along the shady corridors and out into the inexorable heat which by this time was even more unbearable than earlier in the day. Once again, he pulled his hat over his eyes as much as possible to protect them from the glare, tilting his head down and trailing behind the younger man who had already set quite a pace through the passageways that led firstly into the courtyard, then out of the monastery gates.

Once outside the walls the inferno hit the two men as they made their way down the valley toward the bottom where it was easier to walk as there was a little shade cast by the valley walls themselves. The sparse vegetation was suspended flaccidly around them as if all life had temporarily given up to the incessant dry weather. It was a miracle in itself that they would come back to life, a feat that Father Smith superficially likened to the story of Lazarus. All it took to raise the seemingly departed was a life-giver. In the case of Lazarus, it was Jesus of course and for the flora of this region, all it took was the blessed rain which in the summer months was usually a couple of times a week.

‘How far did you say it was Brother?’ panted the priest seriously wondering if he should wait until it was a little cooler regardless of what treasures may be waiting for him in Antony’s cave.

‘Only about twenty minute’s father,’ the young man replied. He seemed to show no sign of distress from the relentless heat of the sun, his heavy black robe skimming the desert floor as he strode along.

They continued walking, but at a slower pace at the insistence of the priest. He was feeling every day of the ten year age gap between himself and his companion. They stopped to rest under a wilting tree in its welcome shade and seemingly from nowhere Brother Antony produced a canteen of lukewarm water. Father Smith gulped the liquid down as if his life depended on it. As he removed the container from his lips, he saw a small smile on the monk’s face.

‘Sorry Brother, I don’t mean to be bad-mannered but I believe that if you had not brought this water with you I just may have given up our quest by this point’, he managed to gasp.

‘That’s ok father. The heat doesn’t really bother me. As you know, my father was Italian and I was born and raised in Italy before my parents were killed in a skiing accident, so I think that I have a natural imm…..immunity to the sun. When I went to live with my mother’s parents in England at the age of fifteen, they were always trying to protect me from it, but as you see, there was no need.’ His smile expanded once more, as he held his arms wide, his bronzed face a curious mixture of innocence and cheek.

The priest smiled back, glad that he was with this enigmatic young man whom he felt he should have got to know better during his time at the monastery. His enthusiasm was infectious. He gave the canteen back to his friend as he rose to continue the journey.

‘Well, come on then Antony, let’s go find this cave of yours!’

They continued in a companionable silence for another fifteen minutes, as a father might walk along with his son. Then, as they rounded a curve in the valley, the younger man stopped abruptly, his former excitement rushing back as he spoke.

‘There it is father, you can see the entrance to the cave now!’ He pointed high up the valley embankment, his other hand helping to shield his eyes from the incessant glare. Father Smith looked up at the sloping side of the valley. He could barely see any change in the rock-face, and if it had not been pointed out by the younger man, he never would have noticed it. Squinting, he could just make out a small dark area high above them. It looked like quite a climb to reach the opening, but he had come all this way in the blistering sun, so he wasn’t about to give up now.

They began their ascent, Antony having no difficulty in ascending the valley wall, his leather sandals gripping the valley terrain every bit as efficiently as if they were mountaineering boots. Conversely, Father Smith’s footwear constantly slipped from under him, causing both knees to become scraped and raw as he scaled the ravine.

Eventually, and completely exhausted, he made it to the access carved into the rock face and he sat down briefly, his eagerness to see inside dented momentarily. ‘You go on inside Brother, I will just be a moment,’ he wheezed as he shuffled into the shade of the ingress.

The young monk entered the hollow leaving the priest to look out over the Kidron valley which separated Temple Mount from the Mount of Olives. He had read about this area before he left England and knew that if he were to continue far enough along the basin, he would reach the Dead Sea which was first recorded in the Jewish eschatological prophecies. This was the part of theology concerned with death, judgement, and the final destiny of the soul and of humankind, and which also included the return of Elijah, followed by the arrival of the Messiah on Judgement Day. He hadn’t dwelt on any possible significance of these prophesies at the time of reading about them, but who knows what he may find inside this cave. He attempted to put such notions out of his mind as he sat on the rough ground breathing hard.

The whole area was strewn with rock-hewn tombs and had been used as the main burial grounds of Jerusalem, so no-one could know who may be interred in the fissure behind him. It was said in the New Testament that Jesus had travelled this valley many times whilst trekking from Jerusalem to Bethany. Father Smith found he had renewed strength now that he was imagining that his Lord must also have braved this scorching heat. He stood and entered the fissure in the rock, but could not see Antony in the atrium of the cave. ‘Hello, Antony, where are you?’ he enquired, his voice no more than a loud whisper. What he had to keep quiet about, he had no idea.

‘Here father,’ came the reply from somewhere in the darkness. ‘I’m coming toward you now.’ Father Stewart saw the bobbing up and down of the torch light as Antony emerged from within the confines of the inner cavity.

‘Follow me father, but watch your step, the ground slopes down a little and is uneven.’

‘Don’t worry about me I will be right behind you.’ The older man sounded much more confident than he felt, yet didn’t want to let his cohort think that he was in any way fearful of descending into the unknown in almost complete darkness. He summoned all the self -assurance that he could and began to follow the younger man into the half-light of what now seemed more like the tomb that it was, than an opening in the rock just a few feet from the scorching sunlight.

During the next few minutes, the priest’s confidence was truly tested as he tailed the black clad form in front of him. The light was poor from just one small torch and he wished that he had not rushed out of the monastery before finding a torch of his own, not to mention a flask of water so that he did not have to rely on Antony’s limited supply. He found the ground was indeed rough, every bump and small rock beneath his feet penetrating his inadequate sandals. He had to stoop for some of the short journey, but thanks to the cooler temperature inside the cave, he felt able to stay within a short distance of his young guide.

They arrived at an inner chamber which had a higher ceiling so the priest was at least able to stand upright once more. He peered into the gloom. There were some indistinct shapes close to them and he felt the by now familiar lepidopterous fluttering in his stomach once more.

‘Can I have the torch please Antony?’ he managed.

He took the small cylindrical object and shone it round the cavity. He immediately saw the ossuary, a limestone box of about sixteen inches wide and thirty inches long with a depth of roughly thirty inches, but no inscription was immediately visible. The priest struggled to see in the dim light so he crouched down and moved the light around the small space.

There were four medium sized pots in the opposite corner to the ossuary and after searching the whole area, he was certain that there was nothing else within the confines of the cavern. He ran his hand over the rough stone of the box wondering whose bones could be held inside. The younger man had picked up one of the sealed stone jars and was moving it around in his hands.

‘Goodness, father, how old do you think these are?’ Even in the semi-darkness, his eyes were shining with wonder and curiosity, his smile creasing his dark face once more.

‘I cannot tell yet Antony, but I will endeavour to find out. They are definitely hundreds of years old at least.’ At that moment, Antony’s hands which were slick with sweat slipped as he held his precious object and it fell to the floor of the cave and broke with a muted, lifeless reverberation that was swallowed by the hollow space.

‘Oh father, I’m so sorry!’ he cried out, genuinely distraught at his clumsiness. ‘I did not mean to drop it, my hands must be slippery, God forgive me!’

‘Don’t worry Antony,’ replied the priest with a sinking feeling despite his words. ‘Accidents happen my boy.’

However, as he shone the torch on the broken shards of the pot, he saw something lying amongst them. He knelt on the hard uneven floor, not registering the discomfort to his already battered knees, and gently removed what looked like a small codex that had been concealed within the vessel.

‘My goodness Antony, look at what your clumsiness has revealed!’ he exclaimed, not even trying to hide his mounting excitement.

‘What is it father?’ The young man was still shaken by what he had done, and thought that the priest was maybe trying to make him feel better by showing such delight at the small, insignificant looking object that he was holding up to the torch, opening it to reveal what looked to Antony like pages of a very slim book.

‘If I’m not very much mistaken, it looks like pages of vellum that may well pertain to the person whose remains lie within the ossuary. I won’t know until I can see it properly, it is too dark to make anything out in here.’ His genuine smile as he looked across at his companion helped to ease the guilt felt by the younger man. Maybe his carelessness had been for the best after all. God really did work in mysterious ways, he thought.

With great care, the priest gently held the precious object in his hands which the younger man could see were slightly unsteady. The priest almost dare not hope that he had found something of significance. He would wait until he could examine the codex in the library, so he shone the torch around the tomb once more and shuffled around to the other side of the box, looking for any names or marks that would indicate whose remains were inside and possibly when the relics had been entombed.

He shone the torch on the far end of the oblong box where he could see some rough markings. An involuntary gasp of air escaped his lips and he fell back onto the ground as if what he had seen had literally floored him.

‘Father what’s wrong? Are you alright? What can I do?’ The younger monk was worried that the older man had over exerted himself in the heat and may be having some kind of attack.

‘Don’t concern yourself Antony, I’m quite well, it’s just…….’

’What father?’

‘This writing on the ossuary, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing!’ The words were written in a child-like hand but were unmistakable. The monk bent down so that he could appreciate why the older man was so impassioned.

The words became apparent when he was within a couple of feet from the far end of the box.

He turned to face the priest. ‘I can’t read it father. What does it say?’

’Well my boy, if I am not mistaken, it says ‘Alexander, Son of Simon of Cyrene.’

‘Simon of Cyrene? The man that helped Jesus as he carried the cross!’ gasped Antony incredulous. The younger man felt his eyes fill with tears at the thought of the remarkable and altruistic act that this man’s father had performed, if indeed it was his bones within the simple box.

‘Yes, I believe it could be Antony. There were very few men named Alexander in this place at that time as it is a Greek name and having a father called Simon, coming from Simon’s birthplace of Cyrene is too much of a coincidence surely.’ The priest was attempting to convince himself as much as his companion as he looked down at the codex he still held tenderly in his hands. Although he had fallen on his backside, stunned at what was written on the ossuary, he had kept his precious cargo firmly yet gently pressed against his body and now he began to imagine whose words would be written inside this small collection of pages. If they had been written at the time of Alexander, they must date from the first century!

He had to wait until his heart stopped hammering against his chest before he could begin to attempt the journey back to the monastery.

SEVEN

The church of Our Lady and St Walstan came into view due more to the lights of the police, scene of crime vehicles and an ambulance than to any natural light. Sam rounded the bend in the road following a rather tense drive through the moonless, wet night.

From the little she could see it was a rather serious looking building even for a church, lending it a fortress-like appearance. The high lancets and strong buttresses stood tall and strong as if defending its parishioners, not that there were any at this time of night thank goodness, she thought. What would she find within those high walls, Sam wondered? Tommy had not given her many more details but had told her that there was a letter addressed to her close to the body of the priest.

That did not bode well.

She had no idea what to expect, other than a scene of carnage. It took a lot to rattle Tommy. He had been around the block, spending his younger years in the force in Birmingham city centre where he’d had to learn to deal with gangland violence and murder with increasing frequency. He hadn’t expanded on the condition of the body other than to ask if she had eaten this evening. None of what she had heard so far gave her much comfort.

She reluctantly vacated her vehicle and realised that the rain had finally stopped, but she had to negotiate the puddles that had accumulated in the small car park at the side of the imposing building. She saw Tommy Waters, shoulders slumped, talking to a very tall thin man, both of them covered in protective all-in-one suits. They stood in the covered entrance, presumably to keep out of the rain that had been falling over the past few hours. Sam immediately recognised the second man as Nate Cross, a Forensic Pathologist, someone she liked immensely and who was very good at his job. She was glad that he had been assigned to this case, whatever it turned out to be, as she trusted his judgement on all things deceased.

‘Hi Nate. How’s it going?’ He turned toward her and even in the light of the small vestibule, she could see that he looked pale. Not a good sign for someone so experienced. What the hell had happened to this priest? She nodded to Tommy who looked even worse than the pathologist, his unrelenting chirpy persona, often to the point of being annoying, was absent, and his eyes conveyed a haunted look. He tried a small smile but it wouldn’t quite materialise, which was a shame as this was the only feature on his face that could be called attractive. He had kind brown eyes but due to a badly set broken nose from his time in the Midlands, added to his overly large ears, he wasn’t what most women would call handsome. Despite his appearance, his marriage to a petit Brummie woman called Sharon had endured for more than twenty years. Tommy’s hair was always cut in a style more suited to the army, but tonight Sam could see none of that as it was hidden under the hood of the suit.

‘Hi Sam. Glad to see it’s you in charge of this one,’ replied the taller man, reciprocating Sam’s feelings on the subject. He managed a small smile which accentuated the lines that were just appearing at the corner of his dark brown eyes. He too was also almost attractive, Sam had often thought if he hadn’t been so painfully thin. He ate like a horse, but never gained weight. Still that was just as well, as he was very happily married to an equally tall man who was a body builder in his spare time. They made a strange pair when seen together, but Sam knew how well matched they were. Typical, she thought, most of my male friends are either gay, married, or married to the church! She mentally shook her head and focussed on the job at hand, realising that she had been trying not to think of what she was about to encounter.

‘What have you got then Nate? You both look shook up, which is not like either of you.’

‘Well, for a start, he wasn’t killed in the church. There’s very little blood and there certainly would have been if death had occurred here.’

‘So how did he die?’

’I will of course do a PM first thing, but when you see him, you’ll appreciate that he probably would have bled to death from his injuries unless he’d suffered a heart attack first that is. I don’t yet know how it’s possible to inflict as many symmetrical wounds as this man has suffered but it was a clearly well-orchestrated and pre-meditated act. The letter addressed to you has been dusted, but make sure you keep all contact to a minimum coz we’ll need to examine the contents once you’ve read ‘em but I doubt if there will be any prints inside judging by the lack of them everywhere else. You’d better go in and see for yourself, so you can see what I’m talking about with the body. SOCO’s have left the scene temporarily to enable you to have a recce, so you won’t be disturbed for a bit. I know you like to walk the grid alone if you can, but in this case I would advocate going in with Tommy.’

Again, this was so out of character, given what the two of them had seen over the years that her insides felt as if they were constricting some vital organ. However, it was true that she usually preferred to ‘walk’ most crime scenes alone, especially where violence of one sort or another had occurred to get a feel for what may have taken place. It had helped her to solve more than a few felonies in recent years. She used certain techniques employed by some profilers, which helped her to identify with a killer’s reasoning. It didn’t always work, but more often than not it had paid off.

Nate handed Sam a package which contained a Tyvek suit, mask, gloves and booties which she quickly unpacked and put on. She looked up at the tall man before entering the main body of the church.

‘Thanks Nate. What’s the priest’s name?’

’Father Matthew Fisher. He is….was, the resident priest here at ‘Our Lady of St Walstans.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Best guess, between 5 and 10.30pm. Housekeeper came over to see where he was after the ten o’clock news finished, and it’s only about a five minute walk from the rectory.’ Nate was getting the colour back in his cheeks as he spoke.

‘So, the housekeeper found the body?’ she asked Tommy, not wishing that on anyone if it was as bad as she feared.

‘Yes guv. Poor old soul. She’s nearly as old as the priest. Been taken to the Norfolk and Norwich coz she was in such a state, and I’m not surprised either,’ Tommy replied. ‘I’ll come in with you, but I don’t really want to get too close this time. Think I’ve seen enough for one night.’ There was that contraction in her stomach again.

‘Ok. Have you got the team on door to door yet?’

‘Yes boss, but I doubt anyone heard or saw much. Like the doc says, he couldn’t have been killed here so chances are that our guy didn’t make much noise bringing him into the church, especially if it was after dark. The path and entrance to the church can’t be seen from many of the nearby houses, but it’s always worth a try.’

Sam looked around and realised that her sergeant was right. It was a good bet that door to door enquiries wouldn’t lead to much, but they had to be done.

She thanked Nate, took a deep breath and moved through the vestibule into the narthex of the church, a small room similar to the vestibule which in earlier times had been used for those who were not allowed inside the church, such as the penitents and catechumens. Penitents were those people who had committed grave sins and who had confessed to the bishop. They were assigned a penance to be carried out over a period of time. Catechumens were usually young people who were under instruction in the ways of the church. At this moment in time, Sam wished she were one of them, so that she would not have to enter herself.

As she passed into the church proper she could see even from this distance, the form splayed upon the steps of the altar at the far end.

She took in the large expanse. Plain white walls with high windows that would no doubt let in much needed light during the day. At the moment everything appeared fiercely bright thanks to wall mounted lights and large LEDs put in place by the SOCO’s. The way the lighting was positioned, gave the observer the impression that it resembled some kind of grotesquely staged scene, reminiscent of a wax work dungeon. This may indeed be the way the killer intended it to look. He or she, although given her past experience Sam seriously doubted if the perpetrator would turn out to be a woman, had left their victim prone on the steps of the altar. The scene appeared very much as a presentation for some warped ecclesiastical reason perhaps or for some perverted gratification. Who could tell with a mind as obviously twisted as this individual’s must be. Sam had seen enough scenes of carnage of most varieties that she expected anything, and ruled out nothing.

She passed under a large cross complete with the semi-naked form of Jesus nailed upon it, symbolising in the most potent way the sacrifice made for all of mankind. Sam was always moved by this most Christian of images despite her doubts surrounding the many contradictions contained within the Gospels.

The empty wooden pews served only to underline the isolation of the dead man ahead of her. Even in death you could be lonely, she thought sadly. The only token left of the priest’s former presence within these walls on first inspection, were the hymn books laid out at equidistant intervals along each hard timber bench.

As she neared the steps she slowed her pace involuntarily as she took in the sight of the corpse from a closer perspective. The old man was naked and face down on the stairs that led up to the altar, his arms stretched out to the side in a bizarre parody of Christ’s position on the cross. The wispy grey hair on his head was matted to his skull with blood but Sam could not yet see his facial features due to the placement of the body. Her immediate impression was that the entire surface of his skin appeared painted blood red. Every square inch was coated, with the exception of the soles of his feet and his forearms.

What and who could have done this? And why for God’s sake?

Sam moved forward forcing herself to look closely at the priest’s body, bending down allowing her to see the nature of the injuries. As she focussed on an area of skin on his back, she could see that there were many tiny holes piercing the flesh, how deep she could not ascertain. As she crouched for an even closer look, she determined that the small puncture wounds were about one inch apart and absolutely symmetrical to each other just as the pathologist had speculated. They covered almost the entire form of the priest from the back of his skull to his ankles.

Nate was right, she thought, this man could have died from exsanguination which due to his age was a strong possibility as it occurred fairly rapidly in an older person, especially if he were in poor condition. Or it was entirely possible that he suffered a massive heart attack due to the shock of the torture that had clearly been inflicted on his slight frame. Sam could not be sure of the priest’s physical condition prior to his death but from this angle he looked to be at least seventy and appeared frail, his flesh stretching to cover the bones just beneath the surface.

She turned to speak to Tommy and realised that he had positioned himself in one of the pews toward back of the church. She raised her voice to enable her sergeant to hear, and the sound of her voice seemed to reverberate around her, such were the acoustics within the church walls. ‘What the hell could have caused this Tommy?’ Before he replied, her eyes were drawn back to the elderly man at her feet. She turned once more toward the back of the church but could only see the top of Tommy’s head. He was staring at the floor. Either that or he was praying which, knowing her sergeant well, she doubted.

‘Tommy!’ she called even louder. He looked up and began to make his way toward her, his faltering steps betraying his reluctance, looking for all the world like a mourner walking in jerky slow steps.

‘Sorry boss, just trying to get my head round this. Who would do this to an old man, especially a priest?’

‘I don’t know yet Tommy, but I’m going to find out. Any ideas on what could have caused all these wounds?’

‘I can’t think of anything but they’re so regular that they couldn’t have been made by hand.’

‘You’re right there. It has to be some kind of gadget, a machine maybe. As SOCO’s have been in already I’m going to turn him over, you’ll need to help me.’

Even from where she stood, Sam could see the grimace on Tommy’s face and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed before moving toward the opposite side of the body. Together they gently rolled the priest’s body toward Tommy until it came to rest once again on the steps, but facing the high ceiling. They both looked down into his rheumy eyes which were staring up toward a heaven that Sam hoped had been there to greet this holy man. The rest of his body with the exception of his lower arms was unremarkable, with no torment visited on his face, chest, abdomen or legs. If he’d been found in this position Sam reflected, it wouldn’t have been as horrific for the housekeeper, but she surmised that was the reasoning that the killer had employed. He wanted to shock not only the person who was unlucky enough to find the body, but principally the police who had to deal with it.

He had achieved his goal in spades.

With both arms now by his sides he no longer resembled the man on the cross, just a mere mortal who had suffered terribly at the hands of another. ‘No other marks, scratches, cuts, nothing,’ gasped Tommy. Sam was so absorbed in her examination of the man on the steps that she started when he spoke, his deep voice echoing round their empty surroundings. She looked at her sergeant, his feelings displayed visibly on his face. She felt the same as she continued to take in the scene.

‘What in God’s name……?’ she began.

‘Don’t think God had anything to do with this guv, if there is one I mean.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Sam conceded and lightly closed the dead man’s eyes. At that moment, she remembered something. ‘Where is the letter Tommy?’

‘It’s on the altar guv, would you like me to get it?’

‘No, the less people to handle it the better.’ Sam wanted to cover the dead man as it didn’t seem right to leave him so exposed, but she knew that the SOCO team would be in soon to process the upper section of his body. She reluctantly rose and walked up the steps taking care not to place her feet, even with booties, near to the few tiny visible spots of blood that were noticeable on the dark floor. There was so little blood evident around the body that it was becoming clear that the injuries had been inflicted elsewhere, followed by the deceased being returned to his church and positioned deliberately upon the altar steps. The killer was definitely making a statement. Of what as yet, she had no idea.

As she reached the top of the steps she immediately saw the pristine A4 sized white envelope on the altar and picked it up carefully. The front carried her name, ‘DCI SAMANTHA BROWN’ printed in block letters. She turned it over, but there appeared to be no further clues.

‘You going to open that now?’ asked Tommy.

‘I’d better. Who knows, there could be another victim, time might a crucial factor.’ The letter had been sealed lightly, so she found that she could open it without tearing the paper. You never know, there may be some DNA on the seal, but she doubted she was going to get that lucky with this perp, who seemed so far to be meticulous in his planning. He must have been as calm as if he were simply carrying a doll up the path and into the church, before displaying him like this. She experienced a feeling of dread at the possibility that she had a murderous, religious nut job on her hands.

She gently slid out the contents of the envelope onto the altar cloth.

There were two sheets of A4 inside plus another smaller slip of yellowed paper that had been put into a protective plastic bag. On closer inspection, the smaller piece of paper had two lines of faded writing on it that looked possibly Middle Eastern, but she could not be sure of anything at this point. The paper looked old, but again, she knew that she was just guessing. She looked at the two larger sheets of paper and immediately saw that one of these had similar writing on it to the yellowed smaller piece but contained many more lines, almost filling the page. It was clearly photocopied and printed on normal modern paper. The other piece of A4 was headed, ‘Dear Sam.’

‘Oh God’, she said aloud, ’the lunatic who’s mutilated this old man and left him for us to find in his own church is writing to me and addressing me as he would a friend. This is my lucky day.’

EIGHT

Sam informed Nate that she was taking the envelope back to the station, informing him that she would get it to forensics by the morning. Despite the fact that time could be an important factor, she couldn’t face reading the letter addressed to her inside the church with the dead priest lying beside her. She left Nate and the rest of the team and drove the five miles to base with her sergeant.

The station, which at this time of night and being a weekday, was eerily quiet. She asked Tommy to begin researching the police database for any similar M.O’s, although Sam thought she would remember hearing about any killings that resembled this one. She felt guilty asking him to do this at such a late hour, but he had insisted on coming back with her, if only for a short while.

Sam sat at her desk, still reluctant to read what this man had to say to her. This was the first time in her career that a killer had made personal contact and at this early stage in the investigation it unnerved her because he clearly knew who she was before he’d committed this terrible crime.

She removed the contents from within the envelope once more, having slipped on a pair of disposable gloves and spread them over the desk in front of her. She looked again at the photocopied page of unknown writing, unable to read a single word, but when she placed it next to the small, yellowed piece she noticed that the last two lines were identical to the two on the plastic covered fragment. So it looked likely that this unknown person had copied the whole original page then cut the final lines from the original, presumably she reasoned, so that it could be authenticated.

The tiredness that she had felt earlier in front of the television had returned like an unwelcome guest. She took a large gulp of the terrible coffee that she had picked up from the machine in the hallway in an attempt to wake herself up. She would get the document translated in the morning if she could, and the presumably older section would have to be carbon dated. Both tasks could be performed by Cambridge University with any luck. She had used their services some years ago on another murder case which had involved multiple corpses discovered in the grounds of an old children’s home. At least this case shouldn’t involve children. Not that the death of a priest was going to be much easier on anyone, but the murder of a child always affected those working the case more than any other type of slaying.

She had no idea if translating the text would in any way be beneficial in solving the case, but it was a place to start, along with the door to door, possible forensics that the team detected and the results of the PM that Nate promised would be done first thing.

As a final delaying tactic before reading the letter, she logged on to her computer and after a few strokes she picked up the phone and called Tommy’s extension. ‘Yes guv?’ Sam thought he sounded much better than he had in the church. His familiar desire to catch this lunatic was almost tangible.

‘Tommy, go home within the next hour please and get some sleep. There’s going to be plenty to do tomorrow. I want your first job to be finding a linguist.’

‘A what?’ Sam wondered how Tommy could be such a good cop, yet could be so dense on occasion.

‘A linguist is someone who studies languages, in this case I need someone who can read what looks like Arabic, maybe an ancient form of it. Actually the correct term is an archaeolexicologist, but in case that makes you feel thick, I had to look that one up!’ She allowed herself a small smile, the first since leaving Chris’s house so long ago. ‘I need someone trustworthy, so try Cambridge University first coz I don’t want this getting out. Oh, and I’ll need their email address as well as phone number so I can send them a scanned document, ok?’

‘Right guv, I’ll be back in by eight if that’s ok.’

Sam looked at her watch. One thirty. She had better think about getting some sleep herself if she wanted to catch this man. She had begun to think of him as a man not just because the odds were stacked against a female given past experience, but because the effort involved in moving a body, even one as slight as Father Fisher, was usually too great for most women. There had been no drag marks, no trail of blood up the aisle, so the priest must have been carried or transported somehow which would demand

a great deal of strength.

‘That’s fine Tommy. See you then and thanks for your help tonight. Can’t have been easy.’

‘Got my shit together now boss thanks.’ Sam replaced the receiver, again with the trace of a smile playing around her lips at her sergeant’s choice of words. She looked again at the letter she was about to read and the smile vanished. Oh well, here goes nothing. She held the sheet of paper and began to read.

Dear Sam

Please forgive me for being so personal at this early stage of our relationship but I feel that I know you already. You will not believe this yet, but we share many of the same beliefs. This was not always the case. Until recently, I was an unquestioning believer in the words of the Gospels. I had complete trust in everything I had been taught since childhood. My faith was absolute. But no more! Now I have proof that we have been fed countless lies for two millennia and I realise that you were right to be sceptical.

I have been given substantiation of your doubts in the form of a codex, the first page of which I have copied for you. I will not spoil the surprise by translating it to English as you will need to corroborate any such rendition anyway. It was an emotional journey for me when I read it for the first time. You will soon realise that our church has pulled the wool over all our eyes and they deserve to be brought to account for their falsehoods.

This man, this ‘holy’ man that I chose as my first witness proved I was right in taking the action that I have. Although I showed him the truth and the error of the choices that he has made for all of his adult life, he still refused to accept what I revealed to him. He actually chose to continue to believe the fabrications found in the Gospels rather than the reality of what I shared in the form of my codex, my Gospel. As such, I was compelled to follow the example set by the Pontiffs of our church. All 90 of them since the beginning of the twelfth century were aware of and even condoned and directed the ‘Holy Inquisitions’ over six centuries. You will be aware of some of the horrors of this time Sam, as most people are. But you understand so little. All I have done is to give one man a chance to recant his beliefs, to accept the new, or should I say older, version of Mark’s Gospel as the true story of the origins of our religion.

Yes, unbelievable though it may seem, the documents that I possess, which I intend to share with you Sam, are part of the original Gospel of Mark! Do you remember, I left a clipping for you concerning Morton Smith’s discovery at the Mar Saba monastery library in the 1940’s. I have what is left of this early Gospel, alluded to in the letter that Smith found. It was discovered by a priest in a cave high up in the Kidron valley in the 1920’s, a place close to Mar Saba. He asked Pope Pius XII to share the contents with the world but as usual, the Vatican closed ranks and the priest was, shall we say, ‘forcibly’ told to keep quiet after demanding that he hand over his find. The priest managed to keep a few of the more potent pages which have recently been given to me.

Unlike those who had possession of the texts before me who took little or no action, I intend to inform the masses using my witnesses and I hope, with your assistance Sam.

I am aware of the true dates of the manuscripts, but again I will leave that delicious surprise for you to discover for yourself. Please believe me when I say that, unlike the original inquisitors, I have the capacity for mercy if any of my chosen ones are prepared to open their minds to the truth. I will be happy to discuss their objections and any reasoned argument, but what I will not tolerate is a blinkered belief that the words written in the New Testament Gospels are the true and literal word of God. Please do not feel too sorry for the dead man, he had the chance to do the right thing but ultimately chose his own destiny.

This is a time for courage, for revelation and for change, and I have chosen you to accompany me in being its deliverer. Good luck with the translation. I hope it brings you as much spiritual enlightenment as it did to me.

Your servant,

Titus 1:2

Sam put the letter down with a trembling hand.

‘Fuck!’

Sam reread the letter with a perplexing mixture of fear and anger in equal measure. She knew that there would be no sleep for her tonight. This nutter thinks he has some affinity with me, she raged. He actually thinks I am going to condone his actions, his torture of an innocent old man. And how the fuck does he know about my religious beliefs, my doubts?

Apart from Chris, Sam had never discussed her misgivings with anyone. She may have made innocuous comments over the years about some of the more ludicrous bible texts, more in jest than anything else, so how the hell did this man know she had real reservations about the New Testament? And how did he get into her office unseen to slip the Mar Saba article in among her papers? Far too many questions!

What about that name? Titus 1:2! What the fuck was that all about? One thing was miserably clear however. Matthew Fisher was this guy’s first victim and unless she found and stopped him, there would be more.

******

Outside, the rain had begun falling once more causing the man sitting patiently in his warm car to flick his windscreen wipers sporadically so that he could see the steps of the police station. He also kept the engine running, clearing the screen so that he didn’t miss the detective when she emerged from the building in front of him. The dashboard clock read two thirty. He had been outside the station since she arrived over an hour ago although he had no real concept of time, having followed her from the church where he had watched proceedings, tucked away amongst the trees in the church yard whilst she was inside. He tried to envisage her reaction to his tableau and a small smile formed on his lips at the thought.

He hoped that she would be able to keep the press out of the equation, for a while at least. Those parasites would say anything to sensationalise his mission. They would give him a ridiculous nickname, like ‘The Inquisitor’ or something equally as shallow and banal once the cops had worked out how the priest had been dispatched.

His thoughts drifted back over the time spent with his first attestant. He now knew how it felt to break the most holy of the Ten Commandments. He had killed a man. He felt no remorse for the priest. He had been given the chance to live, to join forces with him in changing the world’s perception of the origins of Christianity. His actions were certainly in line with the inquisitors that had gone before, those condoned by the highest power in Christendom. Actually, that was not entirely true. Those men had delighted in the torture and death of anyone that remotely fell into the classification of so-called heresy. As far as he was concerned, the man whose life he had taken was guilty not of heresy, but of failing to accept the truth when he had been shown irrefutable proof, still preferring to believe the unsubstantiated claims of the biblical Gospels, all written and chosen by men manipulating the populace into believing their stories in an attempt to unite the masses.

He almost enjoyed their debate at first but the longer the priest rejected his words, the harder it became to remain calm. Eventually he had railed at the older man. ‘How do you explain the omission of the sacrificial death of Jesus in one of the canonical Gospels? This is the central theme to Christians the world over, yet it is completely absent from the version of the Gospel of Mark contained in the New Testament!’

The priest gave the stock answer that it was man who was flawed, not God. This, despite the obvious pain in his legs, rear end, back and neck. The way the blood emanated from the many piercings, soaking into the device, trickling continually down to the floor, mixing with the urine that he involuntarily expelled, was mesmerising. The amalgamation of fluids caused a crimson river creating a montage of modern art over the stone floor that he considered almost whimsical in spite of the of the old man’s whimpering. To offset the whining from the priest he began to point out more glaring anomalies and continued with what turned out to be a rhetorical tirade.

‘How could Jesus be descended from King David? Matthew and Luke agree for a change on this point when they claim, albeit very tenuously, that Joseph was a descendant of King David, but Joseph wasn’t Jesus’ biological father was he? After all, He was supposed to be born of a virgin!’ he raved. ‘Also, the Gospels tell us virtually nothing about the Virgin Mary, yet the second century Gospel Protevangelium states that Mary was also born of a virgin birth to an elderly mother, an idea that the Roman Catholic Church chose to embrace, even though this Gospel does not appear in the New Testament. So why do they agree with it? Because it fits their ideals of the virginal Mary. And did you know that the reason the New Testament Gospels say that Mary was a virgin in the first place is due to a mistranslation in the book of Isaiah?’ Again, no pause for an answer. ’The Greek word ‘parthenus’ means a young woman of child bearing age, not necessarily a virgin! So it looks like your ‘blessed’ Mary was just an ordinary woman!’

His face was directly in front of the old man, who was unable to look away due to the tape holding his head in place. In his fury, spittle sprayed into his captive’s face, giving the impression of tears, so far unshed by the old man.

By now he was unable to stop, his hands balled into fists and it was all he could do not to strike the man sitting in front of him especially when the priest almost imperceptibly shook his head at the diatribe being hurled toward him. The younger man no longer retained any concept of the older man’s pain, the agony that filled the lines of his face, or of the tears that finally began to flow freely down his sunken cheeks. Eye to eye, he continued his oration.

‘Just like your Gospels, let’s delve into the realms of fantasy for a moment shall we? Jesus’ father could have been the Roman, Tiberius Julius Abdes Pantera, don’t you agree?’ His voice became louder as he continued on. ‘As early as the second century, the Greek philosopher Celsus believed this to be the case and in 1859 a tombstone was found in Bingerbruk, Germany with the Roman’s name on it. Even his name, Abdes suggests that he had a Jewish background! This theory is just as plausible as the one in the bible, don’t you think?’ The priest was by now past any contention and closed his eyes in silent prayer that was answered almost immediately with a sudden and massive heart attack. He slumped in the chair, his weight dropping fully onto the small sharp spikes, something that he had fought against throughout his ordeal due to the increasing pain inflicted by the device.

Finally, the younger man’s anger subsided when he realised that he no longer had an audience. He leaned in toward the wretched face studying the aged features. The cheeks gaunt in death, the eyes resting peacefully, the jaw slack. Salty tears gave the skin a waxy sheen. The first emotion he felt was renewed anger, as there was so much more he wanted to say, more emotive arguments that he had been confident the priest had no answers for.

Finally, the fury that had rushed back was replaced with gratification. He had won the first round in his quest to rid the world of the outdated dogma that it adhered to. There were bound to be casualties in this war against the holy hypocrites, and the only emotion he experienced as he prepared to move the dead man to his final destination, was mounting excitement. He was about to introduce his abettor into his plan, his mission, his quest!

At this thought he was brought back to the shadowy inclement present of Norwich city centre. A particularly noisy flurry of rain protested loudly against the vehicle, causing his view to be temporarily washed away. He set the angry wipers in motion so that he did not miss his soon to be collaborator.

He relaxed once more, feeing tranquil and satiated following the inception of his scheme. His eyes touched his surroundings, nebulously visible in the dark, wet night. Lights from the street lamps cast a lazy Dickensian glow over the nearby covered market, the multi-coloured striped summits of the stalls giving the effect of many upturned deck chairs keeping their treasures of comestibles and housewares dry before the sun shone upon them once more.

The market had changed little over its nine hundred year existence, still brimming with tradesmen plying their goods daily. In the 11th century the traders sold mainly to Norman merchants following their conquest of England. Today, the vendors sold everything imaginable from household items to takeaway bacon rolls and chips. He wondered how it would feel to have been alive during the twelfth century at the start of the Holy Inquisitions when no-one was safe. He could have been one of the unlucky ones if he had dared to challenge the Gospels during that dark period in history. Thank goodness for progress he thought. He fought against a chuckle that was threatening to escape his mouth, at the irony of it all.

His gaze slid across to the other side of the square. Overlooking the market stood the Guildhall, originally built in the 15th Century it been replaced with today’s City Hall in the 1930’s. It was an ugly square set building in typical Art Deco style with six pretentious columns at the front, sporting two heraldic lions at the top of its steps. It lent the observer the impression that all of the architects involved in its metamorphosis had attempted desperately to outdo one other, each idea more hideous than the one preceding. Now, in the darkness, gentle golden lights illuminated sections of the construction, affording it a temporary softness that would retreat along with the darkness until night fell once more.

He was content to wait until he saw her emerge from the building, his patience seemingly endless when it came to DCI Samantha Brown. He had no sexual desire for her, though he thought her beautiful. The focus for his interest in her was far nobler than mere carnal knowledge. It was a longing for someone to share his new-found wisdom that underpinned Christianity, someone who would see it for what it was. A betrayal of everything he and millions of others had believed over the centuries. He was confident she would come to believe as he had, once she had seen all of the pages of the codex.

What would life be like once he had completed his mission? Would the pope step down? What or who would replace him? Maybe a woman, maybe this woman? His thoughts were abruptly brought back to a rain soaked reality when an indistinct outline of her appeared at the corner of his vision. A teary vision of loveliness even at this hour and in this weather. She was his modern day Boudicca, a fearless woman who, with him by her side could defeat not the Roman army of old, but the Vatican army, who could be, and indeed had been, more ruthless than any regular armed forces over the centuries.

Now as he watched her hurrying down the steps to reach her car, trying not to get drenched once more, he almost opened the window to call out, such was the pull of her. She had a determination about her even now, despite the lack of sleep and having witnessed the montage that he had left at the church. He personally felt that the priest had never looked better once he’d placed him back within his spiritual home and in such a pose, but he also realised that to most people, the scene would be hard to bear. But not for this woman! She still strode with the fortitude not afforded to many men, let alone to a women.

He decided not to follow her any more tonight. They both needed to rest, the events over the next few days would be considerable for both of them and if all went to plan, they would need all the reserves they possessed before they attained the salvation that awaited them.

NINE

Father Smith’s hike back to the monastery from the cave on the hillside passed in what seemed like just a few minutes. The heat that hindered his progress on the way toward their momentous discovery did not exist for him on the return journey. He held the codex tightly to his chest as if an imaginary wind would at any moment provide wings to the pages causing them to fly away into the desert.

Brother Antony bombarded him with questions concerning Alexander and Simon of Cyrene during the walk, so Father Smith recounted as much as he was able. He remembered that Simon’s birthplace Cyrene, was in modern day Libya which was a Greek colony at that time, but was also home to many Jews and was an early centre for Christianity also. His sons, Alexander and Rufus became missionaries who held some considerable standing in the early Christian community. He suggested to the young monk that if the story of Simon helping Jesus carry his cross were indeed factually accurate, that this could have incentivised his sons to become active in the Christian movement that was emerging in the years following the crucifixion. He related that a society still existed in the United Kingdom and Ireland called simply ‘The Cyrenians’ or ‘The Simon Movement’, whose guiding principle is to ‘share the burden’ which it uses to explain its approach in providing services to the homeless and other disadvantaged groups in society. He was surprised that he could recollect as much information as this, and was pleased to see the joy on his young friend’s face as he recounted the details.

He was anxious to start the translation of the codex, but he hesitated as they entered the monastery gates. He was breathing heavily, the exertion of the journey finally taking its toll. He was almost too exhausted to speak but knew that he had to ask something of his companion that he suspected would be difficult.

‘Antony, I know this is a most fantastic day, and we may have unearthed an extraordinary find, but can I ask you to keep it to yourself for a short while please?’

‘Why father? It has to be a truly wonderful thing, doesn’t it?’ The innocence and openness of the young man’s face made the priest want to weep.

‘Yes, I’m sure it is brother, but I would like to translate the codex first so that we can be sure that what we have here is not a hoax perpetrated by someone of a more recent age. I will need a few days at least to decipher the pages contained in the volume, but I will be sure to share them with you and the other brothers when I am finished.’

Antony’s expression betrayed his dismay at the priest’s request, but he nodded his agreement to it nonetheless. Father Smith knew that he was asking much of the young anchorite but he wanted to be sure of their find before making anything public. He did not want to start rumours that may prove to be unfounded. Who knew where that would lead. There could be treasure hunters arriving by the boatload if the word got out, all eager to find other priceless artefacts hidden in the valley. If the codex turned out to be a modern day fake, he did not want to be responsible for disrupting the solitary lives of his monastic companions.

The two men entered the shade of the main buildings, the younger leaving the priest with a lacklustre smile and a disconsolate wave of the hand as he headed inside the main church. It was time for him to attend midday prayers, allowing the priest to walk alone to the library with his precious cargo. With each step, he gained an inner strength, obtained he was certain, by the nearness of the codex, and by the time he entered the vast room, he was positively bouncing on the balls of his feet. He hurried to his usual table and gently laid the slim volume onto the wooden surface.

He decided to eat his sandwich as he knew that he would not want to stop, once he had begun examining the precious texts. As he ate, he took a few mouthfuls of his water from the supply he had brought with him earlier to the library and finally opened the codex.

He could see at a glance that the language was ancient Greek and for a few moments, he simply stared at the page without trying to interpret it, gently feeling the fragile material. As he was about to get up to reach for his reference books to start the business of deciphering the document, three words jumped out at him in the first two lines that almost caused his already overworked heart to stop beating all together.

Ιησού Μαρία και ο Ιωσήφ

Three names that resonated around the whole of Christianity.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

With an extreme effort he brought his ragged breathing under control. He collected the relevant reference books he required with trembling hands, ready to begin what he was certain would be the culmination of his life’s work.

Before getting under way, he walked over to the door and did something that he had never even contemplated during his stay at the monastery. He locked the door.

TEN

For the first time in the twenty years that Sam had known Chris she felt tense, nervous even, as she rang his doorbell. Her hands were clammy so she shoved them deep into her pockets. She had been unable to catch more than a few minutes sleep since arriving home in the early hours, so she was tired as well as anxious, not a good combination to start a murder investigation.

The sight of the tormented dead priest would be enough to keep anyone awake, but it was much more than that causing her lack of sleep. She suspected that not only had she a possible serial killer who wanted to be her friend, but almost as bad, she knew that he must have obtained information about her from someone, and the only person who knew of her deep seated doubts was Chris. He had been her confidant, her best friend, and the only person she truly trusted in the world. How, or rather why, would he have told anyone else of her reservations? It was inconceivable that he would have divulged any of their conversations but she had to explore that possibility however unlikely as no other ideas came to mind.

She had copied the letter at the station before going home and she’d read it for a third time before attempting to sleep. This man whoever he was, seemed to think that she would advocate his crimes and would actually support and agree with whatever it was that he hoped to achieve. What the hell was this ancient document anyway? Did it relate to the New Testament Gospels? Was it really part of an early Gospel of Mark? There were no easy answers to any of her questions, but she hoped that she would get a better understanding after it was translated. The boffins at Cambridge would need to come through and fast.

What she could assume from the contents of his letter to her was that this man was insane and therefore capable of anything. He mentioned the Catholic Inquisitions. This was an area that she could get her team to explore around the torture of the priest. Whilst she was aware that the church had, in the past used violence and torture to extract confessions of heresy, why would this man think that she would ever agree with this course of action? There was only one reason that she could think of, and that went back to her earlier diagnosis that he was barking mad.

As she had lain awake in the semi-darkness, watching the murky shadows being driven back by the increasingly ambient radiance of the new day, she tried to remember the contents of the article that she had found on her desk that was apparently left by the killer. Her last thought as she finally drifted into a short fitful sleep had been an image of the dead priest on the steps leading to his altar.

When she awoke, Sam decided to talk to her best friend before heading into Norwich. But now as she waited for hm to respond to her knocking, she was unsure how to even begin asking him if he had ever talked to anyone about their discussions. Their friendship had not only endured the test of time against the diversity of their occupations and her doubts about what was after all his way of life, but it had remained strong, even throughout her failed relationship with Damon and other romantic liaisons that had gone nowhere. But this current problem she worried may be too difficult to get around. Unless of course there was a perfectly innocent explanation.

She heard him coming to the door, nails digging into the palms of her hands inside her pockets. It opened and a tousle-haired version of her friend welcomed her with his usual infectious smile. Sam didn’t smile back today even when she took in his usual casual dress of jeans and yet another humorous religious T-shirt which today read, ‘I found Jesus! Now it’s my turn to hide.’

‘Sam! Hi, did I forget we were meeting?’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s only seven o’clock, what’s up?’

‘Hi Chris. No we weren’t due to meet until later in the week but I need to talk to you.’ Her voice was little more than a croak, her mouth losing lubrication as she spoke.

‘You look pale Sam, and those dark circles round your eyes weren’t there yesterday. The panda look is not in this year you know.’ He looked concerned despite the levity and motioned for her to come in. She entered the pleasant hallway where religious prints hung in perfect symmetry. Chris was very ordered for a man, but Sam knew he was no ordinary man so the normal rules didn’t apply. She followed him to the cosy little kitchen where she smelled freshly brewed coffee.

‘Want a cuppa? Looks like you need it my lovely.’ He moved easily toward the old range cooker where a stove top espresso coffee maker stood gleaming in the early morning sunshine.

‘Yes please Chris.’ She sat heavily in the nearest chair and accepted a steaming mug of strong black coffee, a small vice that they had shared since they were at u

niversity together. The two of them had clubbed together to buy the best coffee machine they could afford even though it meant having no beer for a month, such was their love of good, freshly percolated coffee. Today, Sam was unsure if she needed the caffeine. Despite being tired, she was wired with tension at the thought of the task ahead.

‘So, what it is Sam? You do look worn-out, have you slept at all? Don’t tell me you went out after you left here. You’re not getting any younger you know.’ His cheeky smile would normally change her demeanour for the better, but it would take more than that to dispel the way she was feeling today.

The small smile that Sam proffered didn’t reach her eyes.

‘No, I wish that were the case. After I got home last night, I received a call. A homicide.’

‘Oh, I’m really sorry Sam. But I thought you were off duty. Couldn’t they handle it without you?’ His kind eyes never left hers as he sat in the chair opposite her.

‘The killer left an envelope addressed to me.’ There was no point in sugar-coating what she had to say, but she had to tread carefully before divulging any details surrounding the case.

‘What! Why?’ Chris had the kind of face that betrayed his naked concern, so open and honest, and once again Sam appreciated that he could only have been a priest. His compassion, not only for her, but for everyone, shone from his face and wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Today however, she was not to be comforted.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you any of this but I think I must disclose some of the facts of the case to you. I know that it won’t go any further.’ Well, I think I do, she thought.

‘Of course not. You can tell me anything. I’m not just your friend Sam, I am also your priest.’

This was true of course. Although Sam did not attend church regularly and did not believe in the confessional box, she had used her friend as an informal confessor on many occasions including her troubles with Damon and sometimes even when she was stuck on a case. Without giving away specifics she used him as a sounding board, confident that the information would go no further.

Surely she couldn’t have been wrong about that all these years? She had to trust him now. She had no choice.

After taking a deep breath she decided to go with her gut and to tell him as much as she dared so she could ascertain if her friend had indeed told anyone about her feelings. She knew that he would not lie to her face. ‘Well, the person who has been murdered is a priest, you may know him. His church is St Walstan’s at Costessey.’

‘Matthew? Father Matthew Fisher? Surely not?’ His face had become ashen even before he finished speaking.

‘Yes, so you did know him then?’

’Yes, fairly well. Didn’t see him often but he’s been at that church for so long, most priests in this part of the country will know him. Why on earth was he targeted? What in God’s name could anyone have against him? He was over seventy I think!’ Chris’s hands involuntarily clasped together as if in prayer but it was an unconscious attempt to stop them from shaking.

‘I don’t think the killer had anything against him personally,’ she replied ‘he’s on some kind of religious mission and unless I catch him, he’s going to do it again.’ Sam felt the enormity of the case bearing down on her like a physical presence.

‘You can’t be sure of that Sam? It might be a one-off, someone who thought for whatever misguided reason that Father Fisher, or maybe simply the church, had done wrong against him or her. There are many erroneous opinions directed at the church, even threats levelled against us from time to time, and….’ Sam held her hand up to stop him. She had never seen her friend so agitated. His eyes were wide, his expression one of disbelief at the slaying of a friend and fellow priest. Sam was compelled to jump in with more information before Chris had a chance to say more.

‘Sorry Chris. As I said, there was a letter addressed to me which more or less informed me that there would be more homicides. This man is I believe, insane, but I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it.’

‘My God, how much worse could it be?’ Chris reached over and took her hand, his own now under control, his strength always there for her despite his own feelings. Sam was grateful for his strength but she wondered if he would still be there for her after what she felt bound to say next. Her mouth felt dry so she quickly took a sip from the heady brew in front of her.

‘Well, somehow he knows that I have doubts about my faith and that I have difficulty around the truth and reliability of the New Testament Gospels, so he thinks that I will in some way connect with him and understand why he is doing whatever it is he thinks he is doing, the first of which was last night’s murder. I have no idea how many more there could be, or at this stage how I can stop him.’ Her voice broke slightly as she finished. She looked deeply into her friend’s eyes and saw confusion now rather than the raw emotion of a moment ago.

‘How can anyone else know of your reservations about the Gospels? You don’t talk to anyone else about this do you?’ His face as usual was a mixture of honesty and concern for her as he looked deeply into her large hazel eyes.

‘No, only you Chris.’ There, she had said it. The words hung between them like so much dirty laundry. Her friend held her eye contact for a few seconds more, then she saw something change in his face and his eyes dropped from hers to the table. His hands broke the physical contact between them.

‘What?’ She felt a spark of anger despite being confident of his moral decency. She needed to know what he was thinking.

‘I don’t know if this is even relevant, I can’t see how it can be but…’

‘But what Chris?’ the accusing words raced across the wooden table between them.

‘Well, about two years ago, I started to have my own doubts.’ Sam opened her mouth to speak but this time he held up his hand. He needed to say more before she could cut in. ‘Some of your questions left me with no real answers other than to trust in my faith and I felt that I could never completely satisfy you with my some of my arguments. All that led me to think that maybe you had a point and that I should have my own questions answered.’

Sam was incredulous. Never did she think her friend had even the slightest doubts and to think that she had caused them brought a flush of shame to her cheeks. She could not think what to say to him. He carried on. ‘So I went to see a priest in another county with whom I was unacquainted to make confession. I needed the same re-assurance that I try to give to you Sam.’ He looked back into her face once more hoping for their usual connection but she was too confused, a mix of guilt and anger rising in her chest. She went with the anger.

‘You told another priest that you talked to a police officer with a conflict of faith?’ Sam was unsure how to react to this news. She was saddened that her doubts in her faith had led to this wonderful priest having doubts of his own, yet at the same time, she was stupefied to think that he had revealed details, however flimsy about this to another person, even if that person was another priest and therefore also bound by the confessional.

‘No, not exactly, I simply said that a close friend of mine often asked me questions about the Gospels and I didn’t always know how to provide a resolution, and this in turn led me to my own misgivings. At no point did I tell him your name or profession Sam, and anyway, this was a priest. He would never have spoken to another person about it. He simply helped me to overcome the doubts that I held at that time.’ Sam’s frustration began to get the better of her emotions again and she raised her voice, the tone harsher than she intended.

‘But there is no-one else. It has to be him.’

‘I take it that you have never talked to anyone at work or anywhere elsewhere about this.’ Chris was visibly shaken at her anger. He had never seen this side of her.

‘No! Not about my scepticism of the Gospels. I may have joked about the absurdity of some of the everyday dogma found in Catholicism such as birth control, homosexuality and their views on divorce but that probably puts me in a fairly big camp of people who share those opinions!’ At any other time they would have shared a chuckle at Sam’s not so subtle insults of the priest’s faith but not today. Sam gathered her emotions together and put her policeman’s hat firmly on. She had a murderer to apprehend. ‘Anyway, I will need to talk to this man. What’s his name and where does he live?’ She took her notebook from her bag and fumbled around looking for her pencil which as usual had escaped to a part of her bag that ate small objects.

‘You can’t talk to him Sam.’ Chris’s voice was quiet, but Sam rounded on him, her voice even more severe than before.

‘Now look, you know that I love you Chris and I know all the baloney about the privacy of the confessional but this is a murder, and not just any old murder, it’s a priest for Christ’s sake. Sorry about the blasphemy.’ Old habits.

‘No, it’s not that Sam. He’s dead. He died in a bombing two years ago whilst on sabbatical.’

‘What?’ Sam’s ambivalent emotions caused her to sag in the chair. Where could she go with this now? She must have been barking up the wrong tree so now she had no idea how this maniac knew so much about her. Chris took hold of her hands once again and leant towards her, his sincere face full of concern.

‘I’m so sorry Sam, I would have helped if I could, you do know that, don’t you?’ The guilt all but obliterated the anger she was experiencing, and once more he felt hot shame for having doubted him.

‘Yes, I know you would Chris. I’m sorry for my outburst,’ she managed. ‘Do you know any more of the details? I just have to be sure.’ Grasping at straws was the only thing he could think of.

’Of course you do, but there isn’t much to tell I’m afraid. As I said, I wanted to talk to a priest that didn’t live locally and Father Norton was recommended by my bishop, so I chose to go to him as the journey only took about an hour each time. I met with him once a month. And it did me the power of good, just in case you start wondering and worrying about me later when you get a minute. I know what you’re like, you’ll start to blame yourself for my doubts.’ As usual, he was completely correct, he knew her so well.

‘His full name is Peter Norton, in his mid-thirties I would say. Been at his parish in Bury St Edmunds for about five years, in fact the church is called St Edmunds. He was very devout for a young priest, even compared to me!’ He tried a smile but it seemed to bounce off Sam’s countenance like a rubber ball rebounding from a wall so he quickly moved on. ‘I could see that he was totally devoted to the church, even down to the fact that he took little pride in his outward appearance. He had a longish beard and what looked to me like the old NHS glasses which were too large for his face. Actually, now that I think of it, he was a curiously serious man for someone so young. I got the impression that he had little life outside the walls of his church.’

‘Why do you say that? Surely you didn’t talk about other things during the confessional did you?’

’No but we often spoke afterwards over a coffee and he didn’t seem to have much to say on anything other than his faith, his church and occasionally his parishioners. You know what I’m like Sam, I like to do all kinds of things that have nothing to do with the ‘day job.’ This time they both smiled. They had shared many times together outside of the church even holidaying together occasionally, sunbathing on a beach in Morocco or skiing in Switzerland. Those times held many happy memories for the two of them, but were equally frustrating for Sam as she often wished that they were there as a couple, not just as close friends. ‘C’Est La Vie,’ she thought, not for the first time. Chris was speaking again, so she dragged her memories of the good times that they had shared back to the present.

‘Having said that, he was very understanding of what I thought of as my sins, my qualms surrounding the life of our Lord as told in the bible. But at the same time, I could tell that he would never have the same problem. He was one of those priests who took the word of the Gospels almost literally as the word of God. His views were somewhat outdated in today’s modern catholic society, but I personally felt that he was very lucky to have such a clear vision of his faith. Just imagine Sam, to have absolutely no doubts about one’s beliefs is quite remarkable. He put my mind at rest every time I took confession with him. It really did me the power of good. I always came back ready to answer your unremitting questions anyway.’ Again the smile played around his full lips.

Sam was less in awe of such a man. ‘He must have been pretty blinkered if you ask me, to believe so unquestioningly.’ The words seemed to be out of her mouth like a runaway train before she had a chance to put the brakes on them.

‘Let’s not get into that now Sam.’ Chris released her hands and seemed to distance himself from her across the table top. She instantly regretted her comment.

‘I’m sorry Chris, it’s been a difficult few hours since we found Father Fisher. Forgive me.’

‘Of course. No problem.’ If anyone else had spoken these words in this situation she would assume that they were being facetious, but her friend was the most genuine person she had ever met and she was genuinely sorry she ever doubted him.

‘So, how did he come to be caught up in a bombing?’ she asked. Chris immediately engaged with her once more.

‘Well, he told me that his mother had just passed away the last time I saw him and I could see the hurt in his eyes as he spoke of her. He’d never spoken of any family before that day. He said that he regretted not spending more time with her but that she had been happy when he entered the priesthood, which as you know is a rare thing.’ Chris’s parents had not been so happy with his decision and he saw them rarely because of it. He continued. ’He seemed different that last time even taking into account his mother’s death and even during my confession. It seemed to me as if he wasn’t really listening. Afterwards, as we sat together, it was as if there was something even more important on his mind than the passing of his mother. I didn’t stay too long. I didn’t want to encroach on his grief if that was what it was.

‘But as I rose to leave, he surprised me by announcing that he intended to take a sabbatical. He said he’d never been to the Holy Land and thought it would be good to experience it for himself. I know that many priests do this but I wouldn’t have taken him for the type to leave his parish for any length of time. I don’t even know why I think that, it’s just a feeling. Although I may be embellishing what I remember without proper consideration Sam.’ Chris stood and moved back to the stove to pour another cup of the coffee that by now had attained a different viscosity, such was the strength of the dark brown brew at the bottom of the pot. Sam watched his movements hoping that he was ok, keeping quiet while he mulled things over.

He continued. ‘So anyway, I wished him well and asked that he contact me again when he came home. It would just have been to chat because by that time my doubts about my faith had either disappeared or had diminished to a level that I believe all of us have. Even us priests!’ He raised a cheeky smile and Sam felt relieved that her friend was returning to his usual self. ‘He really did help me to prepare myself to fight the good fight with you again anyway!’ His playful expression once again belied his age and Sam believed she could still see the teenager that she had encountered all those years ago. He would always be her best friend and he would never betray her trust. How could she ever have thought otherwise?

‘So, he was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time then?’ she proffered.

‘Yeah, I guess so. I heard about his death from the bishop. He was sent the death certificate from the British Embassy in Egypt I think. It was a bomb planted at an underground station, but I didn’t look into it any further than that. I was so shocked when the bishop informed me that Peter had been killed, especially as it was in Cairo. I naturally assumed that he would have been visiting holy sites in Israel, not Egypt, but maybe he had already been there and decided to see the Pyramids or something. Anyway as I said, his faith was so strong that I am sure he was at peace.’

She stood up and grabbed her bag. ‘Right, so we are back to square one then. Better go Chris, if you think of anything that would help, call me. Right now, I need to strap a virtual crash helmet to my stomach to attend the PM.’

‘You didn’t say what’d happened to Father Fisher Sam,’ said Chris shuffling hurriedly behind her in his slippers and she strode purposefully along the hallway towards the front door.

She turned as she reached for the latch. ‘No, I didn’t, and believe me, you don’t want to know my friend.’

ELEVEN

As Sam drove toward the city she was unable to prevent her thoughts returning to how the killer knew about her lack of faith but could think of nothing that made sense. The best she could come up with was that although this priest of Chris’s was dead, maybe he had spoken to someone else about her. But that was ridiculous. He didn’t know who she was and what reason would he have to tell anyone?

She forced herself to concentrate on how her day was likely to pan out. After the PM, she hoped that there would some word about the translation of the seemingly ancient text. Maybe this would assist her in understanding why this man, who had set himself up as judge, jury and executioner, would take such a drastic course of action. There would be no rationality to his reasoning, so it was pointless attempting to think logically about it. After all, who other than someone who was deranged would want to torture a priest to death? At this early juncture, there was no point trying to unravel the complexities of this sociopath’s actions.

She drove through the old part of Norwich, which never ceased to be of interest. It is the most complete medieval city in Britain boasting a Norman cathedral and castle, yet it is also in the top five places to shop in the country, thanks mainly to the two shiny shopping malls, bursting at the glass and chrome seams with every branded shop on the high street. The first complex to appear on the Norwich landscape wraps itself around the castle and has a myriad of entrances woven into the hillsides of the castle grounds, bringing to mind a huge termite mound full of holes for all its subjects to come and go. Such diversity in one place had always intrigued her. Ultimately, the city had been second only to London in importance before the Norman conquest of 1066, and its rich heritage is on display for every visitor and local alike to experience.

She arrived at the station after only twenty minutes which was something of a miracle given the constant volume of traffic through the city centre. She instructed Tommy to handle the briefing of the troops. There would be a team of about ten initially who would do the leg work, continuing the house to house around the church and the priest’s home. A statement from the housekeeper was needed if she was up to it, plus of course analysis of any forensics left at the scene, which she wouldn’t get her hopes up about.

Sam knew Tommy could motivate the men and women in the team with his boyish charm. They all liked and respected him even if he could be a little irritating at times with his relentless joviality. Following the birth of his first child a few months ago his natural exuberance had moved up a notch, but when serious police work was required, there were few better than Tommy Waters.

He was also excellent at compiling a ‘murder board’, a term which he had come up a few cases ago, borrowed from the Pentagon if Tommy was to be believed. He would usually arrange all the relevant information and pictures on two very large whiteboards in the incident room and any new leads or lines of enquiry would be added as the investigation went on. Sam used a digital screen for this but Tommy was old school and had trouble with even basic computing so she allowed him to use his longstanding method which as he often pointed out, had been instrumental in helping the team to solve at least three homicides in the past two years.

They would need all their skills, intuition and knowledge to catch this one, she mused. Some inner conscious told her that this was going to be a very difficult case, not least due to the apparent calm employed by the killer and the coldness required to torture and kill a man of God.

She left the station and following another short drive, she pulled into a space in the hospital parking lot and took a deep breath. She had attended many post mortems over the past fifteen years but nothing ever prepared her for them and she wondered how the pathologists had the stomach to carry out the procedure day in, day out. Still, she took comfort from knowing that she had the best in his field. If there was anything to find, Nate would find it. When he was not at work in his lab or in the field, he often gave lectures on the subject at the hospital.

She walked toward the impressive building, the sun transforming the glass frontage into a mirrored palace that looked out over the Norfolk countryside. This modern construction had replaced the old Norfolk and Norwich hospital which had been constructed in 1771 and closed in the early part of the new millennium. The old building had since been demolished and the land sold off to a developer to make way for a handful of detached executive homes. No affordable housing in this neck of the woods, she thought sadly.

She speculated momentarily how different it would have been for her to investigate a homicide when the original hospital was built. For a start I would have had to have been a man! The thought made her chuckle as she entered through the automatic doors. She was aware that autopsies had begun to be performed in the latter part of the eighteenth century with the early scholars using crude instruments to dissect the bodies of those unfortunates unlucky enough to have died in uncertain circumstances. Post mortems were even undertaken in some form before the time of Christ. Gaius Julius Caesar’s being one case in point. The physician who carried it out had been able to determine that the second stab wound had been the fatal one, out of the twenty three that had pierced the Roman Emperor’s body. Science was so much easier to rely upon than religion, she thought.

Not for the first time.

She weaved her way through the multitude of corridors that she was sure were there simply to confuse visitors, and up to the pathology lab where Nate and his assistant, the name of whom Sam could never remember were scrubbing up. ‘Hi Nate. All ready then’ she said in greeting, as she removed her jacket and reached for the white lab coat that had been left for her.

‘Yep. Bob will just wheel him out and we’ll get started.’ Bob, that’s it, why do I always forget? She nodded at Bob and gave him her professional policeman’s smile. He wasn’t even that forgettable for goodness sake. He was average height with short brown hair, thinning on top and rather ordinary features. Maybe that was it, he was too ordinary to stay in her mind, but she felt slightly guilty nonetheless.

Nate was as usual calm and professional, clearly over the shock of seeing the priest splayed upon the altar steps. He removed the white sheet from the body of the old man and Sam was almost certain that she could hear him humming ‘Oh, what a beautiful morning’ under his breath. She felt a smile trying to escape from her mouth until she looked down at the face of the man on the table. The skin had sunken away from the cheeks revealing the shape of the skull beneath the surface, the mouth slightly open revealing small, yellowed teeth. His body looked a little wasted and as he was at waist height to her, she could just see the newly cleaned wounds that punctured his back, buttocks and legs.

‘Ok, let’s see what we’ve got then.’ Nate began to narrate the procedure, which was being recorded and his first task was to look over the whole body.

‘Deceased is a white male, age we now know to be seventy one, weight sixty six kilos, height one seventy eight centimetres, no tattoos, birthmarks or scars other than those inflicted prior to death. There is some evidence of ligature marks around the neck, ankles and………oh, I didn’t see these last night.’ He bent close to the right hand.

‘What is it?’

‘Well, with all the other injuries, we obviously missed these wounds in both hands.’ Sam leant over the opposite side, and using her own gloved hand, opened the palm of the priest to reveal a larger wound, one that had penetrated through the flesh. ‘Pass me the ruler please.’ Bob handed the small object to the taller man who took a measurement of the injury. ‘One point one centimetre across, penetrating the palm from the back of the hand.’

‘How did we both miss this last night?’ Sam was annoyed at herself for not seeing these slightly different, larger wounds.

‘Given the circumstances and the sheer number of other wounds, not to mention the blood, it doesn’t surprise me Sam. Looks as though they were made by a largish nail rather than anything else, given their position on the body.’

‘What do you mean, position on the body?’ How could he be so certain that it was a nail that had been driven through the priest’s hand?

‘Come on Sam. He’s a priest, and he has what look like stigmata wounds! You’re the Catholic here are you not?’ He smiled briefly at her puzzled expression before glancing down to the feet to check that there were no similar mutilations on them too, but there were no marks to be seen. ‘Nothing on either dorsal. These larger wounds have only been inflicted on the hands.’

Of course! Sam was even more frustrated with herself as she didn’t automatically associate the two hand injuries with stigmata. Then another thought interrupted her self-inflicted castigation. How does Nate know which denomination I am? Maybe I have been giving little snippets of information away without realising it, she thought.

‘This killer is making an overtly Christ-like statement with these injuries. Let’s not forget that he placed the priest in a parody of Jesus on the cross. This case is becoming even weirder if that were possible’. Nate was continuing with the procedure as if stigmata wounds were commonplace.

‘Subject is slightly undernourished but nails, hair and skin appear normal.’ Not for the first time Sam wondered how it all became so matter-of-fact so soon after this man, now being referred to as ‘the subject’, had been found having suffered such appalling injuries. The pathologist moved on to commenting on the injuries sustained on the priest’s neck, back, arms, buttocks and legs after asking Bob to help him turn the body. Although the blood had been washed away, Sam still shuddered inwardly at the sight of so many ruptures covering the skin.

‘Almost the entire underside of the body including the skull, back, buttocks, upper arms and legs have been pierced to a depth of……’ Nate reached across himself this time to the nearby table which held a plethora of shiny, deadly looking tools and picked up a silver implement and inserted this into a few of the many lesions that the priest had sustained across his back. ‘I would say approximately three to four centimetres on the shoulder and fleshier parts of the back, and…….’ he moved the small utensil down to the priests’ bottom, ‘about five centimetres on his buttocks, but due to the lack of elasticity of the skin, and given that the victim was almost certainly alive and therefore struggling when these injuries were inflicted, it is impossible to be more accurate.’

He continued to measure more of the fissures in the skin before once again turning the man over to begin the internal examination, primarily to determine the cause of death. Sam continued to observe the procedure which, no matter how many times she saw it, never became any easier to witness.

Nate swapped his small silver tool, for another highly polished one, this time it was the scalpel. He was sure and precise whilst cutting from the right shoulder diagonally to the sternum, followed by an identical incision from the left shoulder, then finally down the centre of the body to the pubic bone. There was of course little or no bleeding as the only blood pressure present was due to gravity. Nate separated the skin and underlying tissues to expose the rib cage and abdominal cavity. The front of the rib cage was removed to expose the neck and chest organs which the pathologist hoped would yield the results they were searching for, the cause of death. He resumed his commentary.

‘I’m opening the pericardial sac so that we can view the heart and now I will expose the pulmonary artery to look for any blood clot…….’ Nate lowered his head to within a few millimetres of the open chest cavity. ‘No, nothing there. I will now cut through the inferior vena cava, the pulmonary veins, the aorta, pulmonary artery and finally the superior vena cava. This I do Sam, to make life easier for the embalmer.’ His mischievous smile was not reciprocated and although Sam did not understand the reason for levity, she didn’t ask the pathologist to elaborate.

He lifted the heart from its hideaway into the full glare of the overhead lights. Sam was drawn to the organ as if it were an exhibit in an old fairground freak show. Nate too, brought the heart closer to his eye level and turned it over in his gloved hands.

‘No doubt about it, guy died of a myocardial infarction, see how big the heart appears, and how thick and stiff the tissue is. Classic heart attack.’

‘Thank goodness for that. Let’s hope it was sooner rather than later so that he didn’t suffer for too long.’ Sam exhaled a sigh of relief, knowing that she would not have to remain for the rest of the procedure. ‘Right, I’ll let you two continue, I need to get back to the station to see if Tommy’s managed to get hold of a linguist for me yet.’

‘Ok Sam. Oh, by the way, time of death, judging by the lividity of the body puts it at around 8pm.’ Nate’s slim frame rose slightly from the job in hand. She nodded her thanks and turned toward the door, only too keen to leave the two men alone with the dead man, but was stopped before she could escape.

‘Don’t you want to know my theory then?’

She turned sharply toward the pathologist’s assistant. This was the first time he had spoken since she arrived. His voice was soft, mellifluous even, and Sam though that she would never put such an ordinary face with that deep, rich sound. He gave her a small nervous smile and continued, ‘Well, I’ve seen lots of horror films over the years.’ Yeah, I bet she thought, realising only now that he was a bit creepy. It was strange she had never thought about him in that way before. Or indeed in any way come to think of it, she considered. He went on, ’I remember seeing this old one once, Vincent Price I think, where there was a chair covered in nails. They were sticking up from the seat and from out of the back of the chair. Don’t you think that if this old man was tied to something like that, it could cause these injuries? I mean, he’s obviously been tortured and the particular contraption I’m thinking of is a classic medieval torture device. I believe that it’s even called ‘The Chair of Torture’. Makes a kind of sense doesn’t it?’

Sam’s initial thought was that she would never forget this man’s name ever again, then she realised that what he had said did actually make a lot of sense. ‘Yes, that sounds like a good theory Bob. What do you think Nate?’ The taller man looked from her to his assistant and a smile struggled its way to the front of his mouth. Nate was a big enough man in every sense not to worry about someone else getting some credit.

‘Yes, I think you could be on to something there Bob. The abrasions are in just the right places to fit if he were tied to a tall high-backed chair, no marks on the front of the body but symmetrical piercings all over his skin where you would expect if a ligature was placed around the head or neck area to hold it in place. Also, the nails that I believe were hammered into his hands to simulate stigmata could have been done whilst he was tied to this kind of chair.’

’I think it was also called a ‘Judas chair’,’ added Bob. ‘It was one of the mechanisms used by the inquisitors.’ Sam recalled the letter that she had by this time almost memorised and gave an involuntary shudder. She inhaled deeply. Oh dear God, he’s using medieval torture to ‘persuade’ his victims to see things from his perspective. And because this priest refused to renounce his beliefs, he had lost his life in this most atrocious of ways!

Never had a potential breakthrough in a case seemed so disheartening, she reflected as she eased her small car through the Norwich traffic once more. She had to stop this man before he caused more untold horror to another person, in all probability another priest. That thought was causing her to feel even more anxious. She was fearful for all priests in the area but she was especially worried for the one that she loved.

TWELVE

As she entered the ops room, she saw more activity than she had expected. She had assumed that most of the team would be out doing the house to house enquiries. Nevertheless she trusted them to be effectively employed having worked at least half a dozen murder cases with most of the people in the room. Three of her team were busy on the phones, another two squinting at their laptops, fully focused, and Tommy had his back to her compiling his murder board. Pictures of the church and the priest were already in place along with the most pertinent information so far.

‘Hey Tommy. I’ve got quite a bit to add to your board. Got a cause and time of death and a possible method too.’ She felt her spirits begin to rise at the progress made so far despite the despicable nature of the crime. Tommy looked round at her.

‘Ok boss, I’ll come to your office in a few minutes.’

‘Why not now, have you anything better to do?’ Again Sam thought that sometimes Tommy was not exactly an anchovy short of a pizza, but maybe an olive or two. She forced her smile back inside, this was not the time or the place to be anything other than professional.

‘No guv, he’s just giving you some breathing space, there’s um a…….. guy waiting for you in your office.’ This from DC Sandy Moss. That really was her name, but in spite of that she had proved her worth on past cases even though she was only in her mid-twenties. She had a plain but happy and friendly face that people opened up to which, as a detective helped enormously with her ability to extract pertinent information from witnesses. This was the main reason that Sam had helped to elevate her out of the obscurity of uniform and into her squad.

‘That’s right,’ chirped in Tommy half turning toward Sam, pen poised to write on the whiteboard. ‘He’s the linguist, the arche…..whatever. Says he came straight here from Cambridge as soon as he read the contents of the email from last night.’

‘What, he’s here? I thought I would just be talking to him over the phone. What’s he doing here in person?’

‘Dunno boss. He came highly recommended from that guy we used on the Blackbird murders,’ Tommy replied, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

‘But why is he here, in my office?’ Sam asked for the second time. ‘What was so important that he couldn’t tell me over the phone?’ Sam was annoyed to think that this man could take up precious time that she simply didn’t have if she were to catch her killer. And why was DC Moss smirking into her computer? The two of them were acting like kids with a secret, rather than professional detectives handling what could end up being an infamous and difficult case. She was annoyed at their unprofessionalism.

‘OK, what is it Sandy?’ Sam snapped.

‘Sorry guv, it’s nothing. He just seemed very keen to speak to you in person. Whatever was on that document that Tommy emailed, it’s certainly got his knickers in a twist.’ Another grin was escaping until she looked up at her superior and saw the expression fixed there. She straightened her face and looked back at her screen.

‘I told him that you would be extremely busy today boss, but he said that the page, if authentic, was the most exciting thing he had ever seen.’ added Tommy.

Great, a nutty old professor who has found something that he thinks is going to top off his long and no doubt distinguished career with a bang. She took off her jacket as the day was mild and sunshine was starting to gush in through the long windows, warming every surface it touched. She walked over toward her office, aware that there were at least half a dozen sets of eyes watching her progress. What the hell had gotten into this lot? They were normally much more professional, especially at the start of a murder enquiry and this one in particular should have elicited studious hard work, not this class-room behaviour. Her mood that had started to improve with the progress made so far was spiralling downward.

She opened the door to her office, intending to leave it ajar to give the old goat waiting inside the impression that she couldn’t spend too much time on the contents of the text as it probably contained nothing that would help her catch the killer. However as she strode through the door, the man seated in the chair in front of her desk stood up and turned around. She unconsciously shut the door. Suddenly the performance of her task force made a whole lot of sense.

The image that came to mind as her eyes drank in his face was a scene from the film ‘City of Angels’. Nicholas Cage, said angel, turns toward Meg Ryan’s doctor in an isolated hospital corridor taking her breath away. The scene had the same effect on Sam every time she watched it, which was a considerable amount since the film’s release almost twenty years ago. This man was every bit as exquisite as Señor Cage. In fact he was not dissimilar, his deep blue eyes were kind yet incredibly sexy, long lashes that blinked slowly as he moved toward her holding her gaze. He was tall and muscular but not overtly so, just Sam’s cup of tea. His mouth began to open into what was surely just an everyday welcoming smile, but which to Sam appeared suggestive and sensual. My God, get a grip woman! He’s handsome, so what, I’ve got a job to do. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, another part of her brain chipped in.

‘Hi, Chief Inspector Brown isn’t it. I do apologise for racing up here unannounced, but I couldn’t wait once I’d translated the document that was sent by your sergeant. I just had to come. Sorry, I’m babbling, but I’m a little excited to say the least.’ His voice was rich and warm and reminded her of an English Richard Burton. Why couldn’t he have a silly high pitched voice Sam thought, anything to break the illusion that Prince Charming had just landed in her life. She made a huge effort to keep her voice level.

‘No problem, please call me Sam.’ I never say that to anyone I meet at work. What the hell is wrong with me? She held out her hand in a formal greeting. His was warm and dry, the grip strong and confident.

‘And please call me Mike. It’s Mike Severn, well, professor actually but please don’t call me that, it just makes me feel incredibly old. I teach classical philology at the University of Cambridge, that’s just reading and translating literary texts and written records, usually very old ones. So anyway, your email was sent to me by Professor Harding, whom I believe you’ve worked with in the past.’

‘Yes, once, a few years ago on a murder case involving the theft of an ancient vase. He dated it for me.’

’Yes, well, that is his forte, he loves old pots and I love old languages. He’s a good friend and I’ve learned as much about the kindness of man as anything historical from him. Anyway, he forwarded the email to me as soon as he received it, and once I started to translate the page, I realised that if it proves to date from the time that I believe it to be from, it will be a once in a lifetime find, so I hopped onto a train and polished up the translation during the journey.’ His smile was now all encapsulating forcing Sam to lower her eyes. She walked around her desk to sit down just for something to do and was further annoyed at her own lack of self-control. He too sat back down in the chair facing her.

‘So, what does the page say?’ At least her voice sounded calm and professional.

‘I think we need to take it slow Sam,’ his deep voice massaging her ears.

‘Slow? What?’ Her mind was racing to all the wrong conclusions, and she was afraid there was a blush sweeping up from her neck like a tsunami rising from the sea bed. She hadn’t blushed for years, but this man she felt, would be able to achieve it on a regular basis. If he had noticed anything, he didn’t give it away.

‘It’s just that this document could be so sensational if it’s as old as it appears to be from its content. I want to make absolutely sure of every sentence, so I was hoping that we could get together maybe later today in a quiet place so that I can talk you through it in detail. I realise that you will be extremely busy, given the circumstances surrounding this find, your sergeant informs me that it was found at a murder scene, but I would like an objective opinion on the text. I don’t want my enthusiasm to cloud my judgement and I thought that as a layman so to speak, you could be my voice of reason.’ The smile wasn’t as broad now, but Sam could still see his straight white teeth behind full fleshy lips.

‘I’m just anxious to find the killer Mr…. er, Mike. What makes you think that I will be the voice of objectivity?’ She was inexplicably, and frustratingly excited by the prospect of spending time in close proximity to this man but she was not about to jeopardise her investigation because of it. First of all, she needed to speak to Professor Harding to make sure that Mike Severn was everything that he claimed to be. He answered her question.

‘Well, I hope you don’t mind, but I undertook a little research on you after I had finished with the transcript on the journey, and I admire the way that you seem to handle yourself. Some of the homicide cases that have appeared in the papers that you have been part of look pretty scary to me, so if anyone can be objective about this text, I believe you can. What’s your take on religion anyway? Have you read any of the New Testament?’

Wow, disarmingly blunt questions, but given the circumstances Sam could understand the need for him to know her outlook on the subject. ‘I was raised a Catholic, but since my mother passed I haven’t been to church unless you count a christening, two weddings and one funeral.’ Mike pushed a clump of his slightly too long russet coloured hair away from his face in a careless, almost graceful manner. It will be my luck if he’s gay, she mused once again distracted from the matter at hand.

‘Any reason for not keeping up the attendance?’ He was so persistent but one glance into those deep cobalt blue eyes and Sam felt that she could tell him anything, despite years of dealing with the hardest of criminals. Not to mention fellow officers come to that. So, against her professional judgement, she answered as honestly as she was able.

‘Well, the more I read the Gospels , the more I began to question my faith. The arguments that are now put up against them being the absolute truth and the divine word of God are so persuasive that I am totally perplexed by the whole issue. Despite that, I still believe in a God. There has to be something out there that we can’t comprehend, a celestial draftsman of everything, hasn’t there?’ Oh, that sounds so twee, she realised. She moved on and threw the question back at him. ‘What do you believe Mike?’ What did he think? Why would anyone study ancient languages which surely involved religious works without having faith?

‘The jury’s still out on that one Sam. A little like yourself I can’t discount that there may be a higher force at work, but from what I know about the Gospels and contemporary texts written at the same time or earlier, I just can’t believe in the Jesus story as told in the New Testament. You only need to examine the Dead Sea Scrolls, which have conveniently disappeared from the public conscience, to see that the accounts in the bible are flawed. Anything that challenges the canonical Gospels is automatically discredited by the Vatican. That said, if the rest of the pages are anything like as explosive as the one I was sent, they will blow all Christian religions apart.’ Mike’s eyes were full of anticipation but his words sent a shiver of fear through Sam’s body. Although she constantly railed against the biblical stories of Jesus, she couldn’t bear to think that they were all completely false. She had to bring him back to earth. He was unaware of the content of the letter.

‘That may be so Mike, but in order to receive more pages, more people, probably priests, will have to die in the most horrendous way if this one is anything to go by.’ She saw his expression change to one of concern.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I thought that maybe you had the rest of the pages?’

‘No we don’t I’m afraid. I will need to bring you up to speed with some of the details of the case so that you can help me. I trust that I can rely on your complete discretion?’ Sam’s gut told her that he could be trusted, but she would check him out nonetheless.

‘You have my word.’ He held her gaze. The effect he had on her was not diminishing.

‘So why don’t we get together say at four o’clock, after I’ve had time to brief my team on this morning’s developments and other bits and pieces that are on my urgent list. We can go through the translation then if that’s ok? It should be quiet enough in here.’

‘No problem. I’ll check into a hotel and go over the document again just to be sure. Oh, by the way, your sergeant showed me the fragment of what seems like the original text that you received so I’ve sent it via secure courier to the university to get it dated. It’ll take about two days, so I thought it best to send it straight away as it will be vital that we establish from what period of time it originates. I know I may be stepping on your toes Sam, but I think it’s imperative to know if these texts are genuine and not just some lunatic manipulating us for his own gain. Your sergeant seemed to think it was a good idea.’

‘You’ve done what I would have asked you to if I had been here.’

‘I’ll come back here at about four then?’ he asked with another glimpse of that astonishing smile.

‘That would be good. Thanks for coming in person Mike, we really need all the assistance possible with this case, so if you can help in any way I would really appreciate it.’

‘Ok then. I think we could make a good team.’ And with that enigmatic sentence, he rose from the chair and left her watching his slender frame move effortlessly to the door.

Less than a minute later Tommy knocked on her door and entered wearing a stupid smile.

‘Ok guv?’

‘Yes, and stop acting like a pubescent teenager. Come in and sit down, I need to update you with the PM findings and I want to know what your team has managed to find out if anything from the door to door.’

Suitably chastised, Tommy slunk into the room and slid onto the same seat so recently vacated by the most appealing man that Sam had encountered for years.

THIRTEEN

As he showered, Peter Norton former priest of a not too distant parish luxuriated in the warm flood that embraced his lean physique. He took more pride in his appearance since his enlightenment. The beard that he’d sported since he was in his early twenties was gone, replaced by a lightly tanned smooth face, where once there was pallid skin that suggested too much time spent inside his church. His plain black glasses became contact lenses which allowed his soft grey eyes surrounded by long dark lashes to transform his features from pleasant to head turning. Gone was the time when he had considered his body a mere vessel, transporting his soul from one place to another until such time that he would join his saviour in paradise. What a joke!

That was a very different man to the one who now stood in front of a full length mirror admiring the contours of his toned body. The change was so noticeable that he was confident he could pass himself off under his assumed identity even to those he had been acquainted with in his former life. There had been no close friends and most of his fellow priests were as insular within their lives inside the church as he himself had been. There was no-one who would recognise that he was the former cleric of St Edmund’s church.

The anger still burned fiercely at the thought of all the years wasted in servitude to the Catholic Church. Before his mother passed and before he had been shown the truth, he had endeavoured to be the most dedicated priest that he could, offering comfort to the sick, rejoicing in the glory of the Lord with every Mass and motivating his parishioners with impassioned sermons. But now as he looked back on his childhood, he realised that his mother had indoctrinated him with her pious religious beliefs and the telling of wondrous stories of Jesus. He would sit enraptured as she regaled him with how He had miraculously healed the sick and walked on water. He had listened in wonderment as only a young child could, wanting only to be close to this wonderful being that had walked the earth so long ago.

It was hardly surprising that he had no real friends as he grew up. He had been the boy with the religious fanatic for a mother. She would come to the school to collect him wearing her usual attire of long amorphous dresses, open sandals and short socks no matter what the season. She had attempted to project her beliefs onto the other mothers as they waited at the gates, cajoling them into joining her and her son in praise of the Lord, even handing out leaflets for special services that were to be held in their church. Peter had not been embarrassed by this behaviour until his teens, after all, he knew no different. Didn’t all the mums and dads worship the Lord Jesus?

As he matured, he began to notice how the other parents were dressed. Some in jeans and tee shirts, occasionally they wore shorts in hot weather which showed their tanned shapely legs, something that his mother would never have contemplated. Around this time, he also realised that most of them shied away from his mother and her pamphlets.

In class he was bright, too bright for most kids his age he now understood, always chosen last for games along with the fat boys, not because he was slow or unskilled at football or cricket, but because he could never be one of them. Not once was he included in any gangs or cliques, staying inside during break periods even when the sun shone, watching the other children running around enjoying themselves.

He also began to notice the pity in the eyes of his teachers. Some tried, with little or no effect to encourage the others to involve him. By the time he hit adolescence, he had accepted that he was different, yet strangely he began to feel that he would achieve greatness in some form, whereas he knew that his classmates would leave school, some going on to get well paid jobs, some not, but the pinnacle of their lives would be to exist in a relationship, possibly procreating, owning a home and have a comfortable retirement. His life would be atypical, unlike theirs in every way, although at the time he had no idea what would make him stand out from the rest or how he would make a difference and be remembered.

As a young man he spent many hours with his mother inside the impersonal place of worship that was St Mary’s, the largest Catholic Church in the area. Initially as a small boy clutching onto his mother’s hand, (being ever so slightly afraid of the man in the loincloth hanging on the cross above his head) and then as a shy teenager. However, he began to find solace when enveloped within the stone walls of the church, at last feeling like one of the ‘gang’, having things in common with the other young boys, whose families were also regular attendees of the church. They all looked up to the parish priest, Father Coleman. But for Peter, he was a symbol of the absent father he had never met.

So, with the support of the priest he took his seven sacraments. His favourite was the third, Holy Communion, which gave him a sense of inclusion, and he became stronger and more confident within himself, having a focus and a real desire for the first time in his life. The priest encouraged him to come in after school, sometimes to help with any small tasks that he believed the youngster could manage, and at other times just to chat, usually about bible stories and to answer Peter’s incessant questions. He wanted to know everything about the man of whom he was no longer scared. In fact, the image of Jesus now totally captivated him, as he looked down at the boy from the cross.

The priest attempted to answer all of Peter’s queries with endless patience, always making sense to his trusting young ears. Before taking the Eucharist, the priest had given Peter all the reasoning behind the transubstantiation, the change of substance of the bread and wine into the physical body and blood of Christ. No other child in the congregation, even the altar boys, had been given as much instruction as Peter. Maybe Father Coleman had seen the inner priest even before he himself had given it any thought. It had come as no surprise to the older man when Peter declared that he wished to be ordained. It was not so much a conscious decision on Peter’s part, but a natural progression from the hours spent learning about God in His house, to almost falling in love with the idea of the divine Jesus. What else could he have been? What else would have made sense?

His mother was overjoyed at his choice of profession. Of course, unlike Peter, she knew that it would have been what his father would have wanted. So, the young Peter undertook his academic and theological studies and acquired his first sole parish just before his thirtieth birthday. He had managed to form what he considered at the time to be friendships whilst studying but none that stood the test of time. He lacked the capacity and the desire to work at retaining close bonds with others. The only true relationship that he had room for in his heart was the one between himself and his saviour, even his mother was side-lined, once he found his vocation.

The few sexual passes that were made toward him during his time studying, three by girls and one by a reedy young man, he rebuffed, never feeling the desire for physical contact. Also, he felt he needed to remain pure to fulfil the sacred role of Catholic priest. Consequently, he performed all the duties of a diocesan priest with enthusiasm, taking daily Mass, weekly confession, counselling married couples and those in need of spiritual direction with a dedication that had earned him praise over the years from his bishop and his peers alike.

It was as a result of being held in such high regard that Father Chris Carter came to him for confession seeking absolution for having doubts regarding his faith. Peter listened to his words, giving comfort and offering solutions to the reservations that were put into his head by a close friend. Over the course of the few months that Father Carter visited him seeking succour, Peter learned that the close friend was a woman called Samantha. At the time, Peter had no interest in who had caused Father Carter’s doubts, but following receipt of his Gospel, the details came back vividly and assisted in the concept of what he saw as his true undertaking.

Apparently, this friend of the priest had once stated that in the book of Matthew it proclaims John the Baptist as the Messiah, but fails to do so when recounting stories of Jesus. Father Carter had said that he had become perplexed when attempting to answer this anomaly, so had asked Peter’s advice. Peter had reassured Chris by reminding him that the book of Matthew was written from a Jewish perspective, whereas the other Gospels had a more Roman slant. To Peter the answer was obvious! There was always a solution to any questions posed by reading the bible. At least that was what he had believed before his ignorance was lifted, like heavy weight being thrown from the basket of a hot air balloon.

Father Carter had also inadvertently mentioned that his friend was in law enforcement when they had been chatting over coffee. Again the dolt let this detail slip without realising that he had given away her identity. How many policewomen were called Samantha in the Norwich force? He guessed not too many, and his subsequent investigations confirmed that there was only one. Peter had been almost amused by Father Carter’s inability to fend off all the questions from his friend. Of course, at the time, Peter had no idea that the words spoken to him in confidence would be so useful now that he had not so much seen the light as was dazzled by it. The two people prior to himself that had owned this wondrous gift, outside of the Vatican had done nothing, so of course nothing had changed.

Those within the Catholic hierarchy who knew of the Gospel were also to blame for taking no action, for not sharing it’s revelations with Christians around the world and his rage against those men was palpable.

Despite his anger, he knew that he could not simply announce his discovery to the world. The Catholic Church was adept at closing ranks and knew just how to cover up any discovery that did not fit with their outdated dogma. Real change was not permitted. It had spent countless time and money protecting its ideology and it would not permit him to simply show the world his priceless texts without a fight. He knew that they had the influence and the resources to bury him and his codex.

However, they would never know that their thirty pieces of silver paid to Father Smith, now amounting to over £300,000, would be used against them. The irony helped to cool his anger.

As his plan took shape, he recalled the woman of whom Chris Carter had spoken and discovered that she held the rank of Chief Inspector. He also learned that she had been at the helm of a few murder investigations over the past few years and that she had a reputation for tenacity. He thought again of her friend Father Carter. What a dimwit! He clearly had no idea that his loose tongue had led Peter straight to her, and once he realised what an important role she would play in the execution of his quest, he couldn’t have been more grateful to the blabbermouth.

After he began to follow her, she had proved to be a revelation. She did not rely on a husband to look after her, she didn’t even have a pet to pamper and talk to whilst at home, yet she was successful and driven and he came to believe that she would be the perfect person with which to share the momentous change that was, he now believed, his birth-right. His listening device, purchased on the net allowed him to hear her discussions with the priest and these too had proved to be an eye-opener! She knew so much about the New Testament and argued her points with knowledge and passion. She knew in her heart that the canonical Gospels were flawed, she saw through the mistakes, amendments and inventions as if she had already seen his codex.

He was in awe of her.

Her rank determined that she would see at first-hand the lengths he would go to, to achieve his goals. She would be the one leading the investigation into his crimes of passion, but he would ensure this was the case by leaving the envelopes for her. She would be the first to see the pages of the codex that he planned to leave with his witnesses. He suspected that the men he had chosen to authenticate his Gospel would never give up their hold on the flawed faith that they shared, so having Samantha Brown on his side was essential.

Following his mother’s death, he took two weeks compassionate leave in which to mourn his mother as much as he was able and this afforded him time to arrange his ‘sabbatical’ to Israel, something that had been encouraged by his bishop as a way of coping with his grief. During the call to the bishop, he spoke of all the wondrous places that he wished to visit, but felt an unexpected giggle forming way down in his throat which climbed higher with each lie he told, threatening to spill out over the mouthpiece. He managed to finish the call before he gave himself away.

So he flew to Israel with the germ of a plan already developing in his mind.

****

Arriving at Ben Gurion airport, he didn’t rush off to the sites that would have been expected of a visiting priest as soon as he had checked into his hotel in Jerusalem. Nearby Bethlehem, the conjectural birthplace of Jesus, Golgotha the hill where the crucifix had hypothetically been placed, even the Garden Tomb where He was said to have risen. None of those sites appealed to him now. Instead, after a refreshing night’s sleep he travelled first to Mar Saba monastery to see it for himself, even walking along the Kidron valley to see if the cave was visible, but of course he could not make out one cave amongst the many crevices in the hillside. In addition, the monks were unwilling to talk about Father Smith or the child that was raised within the walls of the holy place.

He felt no Godlike presence dwelling within the collection of buildings, however pictorial. The library was just that, a compendium of dusty old volumes. As he looked upon the many fantastic illustrations within the monastery, he was unmoved. He felt as if his life up to that point had been meaningless, both as an isolated child, and as an adult in bondage to a man whose life and death had been manipulated in the books assembled by those men who had lived centuries after the events they attempted to convey and whose choices had led to the state of Christianity.

After his long day in the heat of the Judaean desert, he rode back to Jerusalem in the relative comfort of a taxi. However, he had to open his window wide as there was no air conditioning in the old, nondescript car. All taxis in Jerusalem are white, at least underneath the dust and grime, and carry the same sign on the roof. He was pleased that there was little or no smog in the city so he was able to keep his window down until they arrived at his hotel.

Once back in the Hashimi hotel out of the searing heat that assaulted him as soon as he vacated the cab, he felt better. The décor of the hotel lobby was altogether an oasis of calm with subdued cerulean lighting in the recesses of the balconies above him, the furnishings an eclectic mix of traditional wooden furniture and modern artistry. His room was small but functional and clean. The bedspread resembled something that a grandmother would have crocheted.

He opened a bottle of Bordeaux that he had acquired from a wine shop that carried the title Ben Avi, which was surprisingly good. The shop owner had assured him that the store was the oldest of its kind in the city and stocked the best wines, so Peter had purchased two bottles on the assurances of the small fat man, presumably Ben Avi himself that they were worth every shekel. Peter hoped so as they had cost him 70 shekels each which equated to around £15, but he was glad that he had chosen to believe the little round Israeli. As he sat on his cooling balcony in a wicker chair, he thought that wine had never tasted so good, especially when one realised that in no circumstances did it pertain to the blood of Christ.

As he sat, he continued to think through his intricate and progressing strategy to bring about the revolution that was required to rid Catholicism of the lies its popes and cardinals had continued to promulgate since the first pope, St Peter himself initiated the practices that he of all people knew were inaccurate and incorrect.

Peter ordered room service as he had no desire to eat with any of the other hotel guests and remained on his balcony, sipping the excellent wine overlooking the old city, knowing that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was only a four minute walk away. If he had visited here before being given the codex, he would have hurried out before unpacking to see the building that was also known as the Church of the Resurrection, the place that contained the two holiest sites in Christianity, that of the crucifixion and the empty tomb. He knew that within the church itself there were the last four Stations of the Via Dolorosa representing the final episodes of Jesus’ Passion, the fifth Station being the one where Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus to carry the cross.

As he looked down many devotees passed beneath his balcony, appearing to float along on a vast sea of hope, truly believing that they were following in His footsteps. He was unsure if she should pity or condemn them for their blind faith.

A wry smile formed on Peter’s face as he watched the pilgrims eagerly braving the late afternoon heat, their enthusiasm manifesting itself in their ever more hurried steps. He wanted to shout down to them, tell them to actually read not only the ‘divinely inspired’ Gospels of the New Testament, (with an open mind to the contradictions therein), but also the other, contemporary accounts of the time. The Gospel of Thomas, The Apocalypse of Peter, The Didache and the Book of Clement, all of which he had downloaded and read since acquiring his own Gospel. Any and all of these and others could and should have been included in the Christian bible to enable readers to make up their own minds. But they were considered too controversial to the story the early church needed the masses to believe in order not only to unify them but to keep them in line.

Peter had also been reading about the other ways in which the Holy Roman Church had been keeping order over the years. During the early centuries of the new religion there was a resurgence of the old pagan belief that if you did not believe in the officially accepted version of events that were recounted, you would not enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Thereby, the myth of Hell began. At this time most simple peoples would have been afraid not to follow the teachings. What followed from the thirteenth century onwards however was infinitely worse.

The Inquisitions in their various guises spread from all European countries to those territories governed by Spain and Portugal including Mexico, Peru and parts of Asia and Africa. They were eventually widely abolished in the 19th Century with the exception of those areas within the Italian peninsula under the sovereign direct rule of the pope. These survived until 1904 at which time the organisation was given the name of ‘The Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office’ and in 1965 it became the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. So, this dreadful movement which condoned, sanctioned, and was even encouraged by the highest office of the Roman Catholic Church endured until a mere fifty years ago, albeit latterly in a form that no longer used physical torment to ensure its ideals and dogma continued.

Such was the effect on Peter of the cruelty inflicted upon those who for the most part had committed no wrong doing, that his plan grew arms and legs and mutated to the extent that he began to research the various torture methods used by those men with a view to using the terrible devices against their creators.

As he sat in his room enjoying the dish of falafel, hummus and mint salad, he studied the images on his tablet but eventually grew tired following his exertions in the desert and also from the nervous excitement that was building within him as he contemplated his future plans. He lay on the colourful bedspread and soon drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep. He did not hear the excitement of the tourists passing below his window on their way to the Sound and Light show at David’s Citadel. Nor did he hear the almost soundless footsteps that stopped outside his room.

When he awoke, he realised that he had slept for more than ten hours and the sun was already trying to push its way through the lightweight curtains. He rose from the bed and moved aside the flimsy material to take in the early morning radiance. He was forced to shield his eyes from its incredible intensity. Dust motes, now visible, made their way lazily around the small room as if powered by the sun itself. Peter showered then realised he was extremely hungry so decided to eat a hearty breakfast at the hotel.

He found few other diners inside the rooftop restaurant but the aroma from the food was enticing. He chose a table and ordered a pot of coffee before browsing the hot food on offer. He chose smoked fish and waited whilst a strikingly handsome young chef, with dark unfathomable eyes, made him a fresh herb omelette which tasted as good as it looked. He had natural yoghurt to follow and helped himself to some fruit to take on his next sojourn into the desert.

He walked the short distance to the bus station, his mind clear and focussed on the day ahead. His intention was to visit the location where most of the other Gospels that had not been included in the New Testament had been found almost seventy years ago. It was only a journey of around thirteen miles and Peter found it easy to join a group of tourists on a bus that seemed to have been bumping along the route since the pyramids were erected. But his discomfort was forgotten as soon as he stepped down from inside the insufferably hot vehicle.

The caves at Qumran, positioned in the Judaean desert of the West Bank, are a mixture of natural and man-made grottos, but the immediate effect that they had on Peter as the bus had coughed its way to a halt, was that the nearest section bore a resemblance to the presidents’ faces on Mount Rushmore. There were half a dozen skull-like protuberances clenched together at the top, but due to the sandy colour of the natural rock and the fact that many features were absent save a few slits for eyes, upon closer inspection Peter thought they more accurately resembled a collection of Elephant Man heads looking out over the Dead Sea, daring anyone to approach.

Peter had never seen anything like this and he remained motionless for a few moments after stepping down from the old jalopy to observe the barren yet compelling landscape, whilst the rest of the holiday-makers and sightseers jostled past to get out of the sun and into the definitely man-made visitors centre and restaurant. There seemed to be people of all nationalities, mainly adults, with a handful of children already at the site climbing up the hillside or supping from a water bottle or coke can. The guide on the bus had told them all to enter the visitors centre as soon as they arrived to watch an informative video before deciding where to walk and how far. They had all been warned to wear practical shoes, (which caused some amusement for a group of American female students who were wearing simple flip-flops) and to take plenty of water if they were going to venture more than half a mile or so. There was one other man leaving the bus that also appeared to be a lone traveller but he went unnoticed and walked quickly into the shade of the centre leaving Peter to explore alone.

Peter didn’t need to look at the video, he had read everything that could be found on the internet concerning this area, all of which included references to the Dead Sea Scrolls. He wanted to see at first hand where the Essenes (a sect that flourished from around the second century BCE to the first century of the Common Era) had lived all those years ago, with their enlightened ideas and tolerant attitudes, totally unlike the Jewish city dwellers and Romans of the time.

The scrolls were found in 1947 and are made up of a total of 981 different texts, biblical and non-biblical. Some are copies of the Book of Isaiah, Deuteronomy and Psalms but there are also prophesies not found in the bible, by Ezekiel, Jerimiah and Daniel. Those which pertain to the Old Testament date from 1000 years earlier than any previously discovered. Although disputed, the scrolls are said to be the library of an unnamed Jewish sect, but thanks to his codex, Peter knew there was no doubt that this sect were indeed the Essenes.

This forward thinking group were never mentioned in the books that had been incorporated into the bible, but one of the names they used for their particular way of life and religion had been. This name was ‘The Way’, which paradoxically was the name that St Paul used when he endeavoured to start Christianity following the crucifixion. The Essenes believed that the Holy Spirit was within themselves and that to worship God you didn’t need to attend a church. Indeed they had no Rabbi, just teachers of differing ranks including women who were treated as equals, an extremely rare practice at that time and place. They used a form of baptism to purify themselves and it is believed by some that John the Baptist spent time with them, using a cave as his dwelling, a practice in which the biblical Gospels agree. Again, with what he now knew, Peter mused that it was highly likely that John the Baptist learned his craft from these free thinking people.

The Dead Sea scrolls themselves are written in a mixture of Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek, on papyrus, animal skin and one on copper. The longest is almost 27 feet in length, and the ink used was carbon-based. They are read from right to left with almost no punctuation. There are approximately 50,000 individual pieces of work in total and this remarkable find was stumbled upon completely by accident by a shepherd boy, Mohammed edh-Dhib whilst searching for one of his flock.

Yet the most interesting thing, Peter reflected as he looked up at the series of caves is that there is absolutely no mention of Jesus or any of his theological disciples within the multitude of texts found at Qumran.

FOURTEEN

The team had found very little during their initial enquiries. All they had managed to determine during their house to house was that everyone loved Father Fisher, who had helped many people during his time in the parish and that he was due to retire in less than a year. His house-keeper, who remained visibly distraught, could not think of anyone with a grudge against the old man.

Sam was deep in conversation with DC Moss who had returned from Costessey where she had spoken to an old lady who had not been at home earlier in the day, and who told Sandy that she had seen a man entering the church grounds the previous afternoon at a time when you wouldn’t normally see anyone apart from maybe the odd dog walker, and this guy didn’t have a dog. Her house gave a partial view of the churchyard, so the information sounded promising. The witness described him as young.

‘But you know love, anyone under sixty is young to me!’ she had laughed, the creases in her weather-beaten face deepening further.

The rest of the description was equally as vague, tallish, darkish, but that could be due to the recent sunshine, she had added with a broad smile on her equally broad face, happy to be of help to the police. She remembered that he seemed to have been walking with a purpose, as if he knew his way about, but she had not recognised him as a villager as far as she could tell. That’s why he stood out as she had watched his progress, a stranger in such a small community was always worth a look in case he was a burglar or worse, a gypsy looking for somewhere to pitch his caravan or graze his ponies! There had been various incidents of this type over the previous year or so, she had said, and most people were worried that a camp site would spring up overnight in their back gardens. Sandy had been forced to interrupt the old woman at this point as she began to ramble on, away from the subject. However, there was nothing further she could add to assist with their investigation and Sandy didn’t think they would be able to compile an e-fit from the information given.

‘Well, it’s a start, well done Sandy. Why don’t you and the others knock off soon, you’ve all been at it without a break for hours, and there is nothing left to follow up as yet.’ Sam patted the younger woman’s arm with affection. She may not have turned forty yet, but some of the younger police officers looked up to her not just as their commanding officer, but as a mother figure she was sure.

‘I wouldn’t say there’s no more leads to follow up just yet!’ The voice, mellow and deep emanated from the doorway, where Professor Mike Severn stood, leaning casually on the door-jam with a lopsided grin on his handsome face. Sam once again felt a sudden thrill rise from within at the sight of him, but in front of her staff, who were watching them both with interest, she mentally shook herself and strode purposefully toward him.

‘Hi, you’re right on time Mike,’ she said looking at her watch.

‘You couldn’t keep me away Sam. I’m really hopeful that I can help with your investigation. I have fully translated the page and I’ve put it down as colloquially as possible so that we can read it together easily. Hope that’s ok with you?’

‘That’s fine thanks.’ She turned to Sandy and asked her to bring in two decent coffees, not the sludge from the machine. ‘You do drink coffee I take it?’

‘Yes, just black no sugar, the stronger the better. We may be late so we need all the caffeine we can get!’ That smile again. Sam motioned for him to step into her office where he opened his briefcase and took out a copy of the emailed text and what must be the translated copy which was handwritten. Sam realised that he would not have been able to print his deciphered page as he had either been on the train or in his hotel room, but his writing was so neat, that it should not present a problem.

She brought Mike up to speed with the basics of what had occurred so far. She had managed to speak to Professor Harding at the university who vouched for Mike’s impeccable credentials, so she felt comfortable in holding nothing back from what she considered he needed to know. She spared him the more gruesome details of the priest’s death.

‘So, we had better make a start on the text then,’ she uttered, sitting in her usual chair assuming that Mike would sit in the one opposite. Instead he picked up the chair and parked it snugly next to hers. He must have seen her eyes widen as he said, ‘Sorry, hope you don’t mind, it’s just that this way we’ll both be able to see the document at the same time. I may be an archaeolexicologist, but even I can’t read terribly well upside down.’

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ she quipped in an attempt to lighten the mood. They smiled in unison and she visibly relaxed. Sandy arrived and placed two large Starbucks coffee containers on the desk but retreated from the room immediately so that they could get underway.

‘Ok, I’ll just read the document through first Sam, and then we can break it down to see if it could help you in any way. We may discover from this what makes this man tick, even a clue as to why he is taking this course of action.’

‘Sounds good to me Mike.’

‘Firstly, let me say that this text clearly has preceding pages and there are some words that I am not one hundred percent sure of. Also, I have added all the punctuation as there are no commas, full stops or paragraphs in the original which was common practice at the time I believe it to have been written. Also, you may feel the need to interject due to the somewhat explosive nature of what I am about to relate but please wait until the end if you would Sam.’ He smiled once more. ‘Here goes……’

He began to read aloud.

‘And we came to Samaria where we were taken to a house to meet Joseph the teacher, his wife Mary and his five sons, Jesus, James, Joseph, Jude and Simon. There were also two sisters but they were not living with them as they were living in Bethlehem with their husbands’. In this place were many descendants of the twelve tribes, namely the Ephraim and Manasseh tribes. My father, who is named Simon of Cyrene was at first troubled with the use of Egyptian and non-Jewish rituals that they performed, but as I spoke to the elder son Jesus I could understand the goodness in these things. Jesus had learned the most from these practices using them to heal the sick even on the Sabbath which had never been seen before. He would speak to the whole community as one and carried out exorcisms, and other tricks he had learned whilst in the black land. (Egypt)

Many of those we met in Samaria had become members of the religion that was called Serapis, considering Isis, Anath and Neith as Queens of Heaven and Mothers of nations and they were also associated (?) with the virgin goddess Athene, the sacred feminine being all important to them. And Jesus’ wife would assist him in the rituals. Jesus was asked many times if he were the Messiah, come to unite the twelve tribes, but he did not think himself worthy of this accolade. (?) Yet he decided to give his life in helping to bring the tribes together again so that they would be a force to reckon with (?) once more. My father wanted this also, and he would sit with Jesus late into the night to hear his stories of the black land and other places they had been.

From Samaria we travelled with Joseph and his family for three days to Qumran which was known as a great community of learning. We were granted leave to stay and study their vast library which had scrolls from many places and which were very old. All were equal in this place, also the women learning with the men. The men and women who were married here were chosen by the elders using alignment (?) of charts which we were not allowed to see. This meant that they were compatible. (?) They were not betrothed at a young age as we had been in our tribe. There were even couples who had been married to another but for unknown reasons the elders had allowed them to part as if the marriage had not taken place so that they may then choose other husbands or wives for them.

In the evening, we partook of the eating of holy bread and wine, a sacred tradition that those who had lived at Qumran all their life, who were called the Essenes, would perform, but not by a Rabbi as was usual ,as they had no need of such a man within their community. They had been performing this ritual for many lifetimes, telling us that the bread was the body of Yahweh and the wine was his blood. My father did not take part in this ritual as it was not acceptable to his beliefs. And we also shared in their custom of cleansing our spirits in water from the Dead Sea. I thought this strange but Jesus said to me that there was one who had gone before who now lived in the hills at Suba, close to his birthplace, who had embraced this ritual to purify the soul and that Jesus believed this man who was called John to be the Messiah, the one who would surely unite the tribes such was his greatness. He told me that John lived from the land and wore camel hair as clothing. I said that he would smell bad if he wore these garments for a long time, and Jesus smiled and said that he believed that this man would be the saviour of the Jews and he believed that he was the greatest man who ever lived. He said that he would soon travel to meet this man to join him and help him as best he could. I said that I wished to join him also.’

A stunned silence filled the room, yet the words still hung in the air between them. The stillness was finally broken by Mike. ‘Well, what do you make of that? Rather provocative if it proves to date from early first century don’t you think?’ His voice, despite the relaxed words, carried the emotion that this manuscript had provoked in both of them even though Mike had read the text a number of times.

‘Oh. My. God!’ Sam managed. She stared at the handwritten page and then back to the original. Her brain was attempting to process the dangerous content of the words, so she started with a simple question, asking Mike what language the text was written in.

‘It’s Koine Greek. However most documents at the time would have been written in either Aramaic or Hebrew, although by the time the first Gospels were put together, they would have been translated into Greek,’ he replied.

‘I don’t know where to start. It’s mind boggling.’ Sam felt as though her whole belief system, such as it was, had been crushed.

’We don’t know as yet if this document is genuine, so let’s try to keep our heads, at least for now.Why don’t we take it from the top, work in small chunks and discuss each section, compare it to what we thought we knew and see if it sheds any light on the situation.

‘I think I can follow his warped way of thinking Mike.’ Sam pronounced. ’Having listened to the translation, I believe that in his mind he feels that the Church has tricked us all into believing one version of events only, and he wants to bring about the truth as he sees it and is using these documents to help bring about that change. And use me as his pawn! He thinks having me on board because of my occupation plus my misgivings about the Gospels, that his position will somehow be strengthened.’

She saw surprise register on Mike’s face so she explained, ‘Somehow, he knows that I have been questioning the Gospels for years, and I have no clue as to how he knows.’ It certainly made a kind of warped sense to Sam now, but that gave her no satisfaction. ‘This man will continue to murder until he either makes a mistake and we catch him, or until he kills himself when he realises that things are not going to change.’

‘Now you see that’s why you are the police inspector and I am just the guy who loves old languages.’ The smile made a brief appearance, until he saw how perplexed Sam appeared as she stared again at the papers on the table in front of them. ‘So, you don’t think that this document, and maybe others that could follow, will change anyone’s view of the Christian religion?’

‘No, I don’t. I think that the Roman Catholic Church will do what they always do. They will close ranks, at the same time muddying the waters to discredit anything that is published about this and any future pages. Besides, in reality, what good would it do? Many millions of people find comfort from the bible and from the sacrifice Jesus made for us all. Most view Him as their saviour to whom they can turn in times of adversity. Just think what would happen if the population ceased to attend church and stopped believing in good triumphing over evil. I wouldn’t want to be the one to bring about that kind of change would you? And let’s not forget two things. One, we don’t know if this document dates from the right time yet, or if it’s historically accurate, it could just be one man’s interpretation of this part of Jesus’ life. And two, we don’t know the end of the story. Although this document tells us that Jesus was married and that He seems to be in awe of John believing him to be the Messiah, it doesn’t necessarily follow that the crucifixion didn’t happen or that he didn’t come to realise that he was the true saviour.’

Mike saw hope, jostling with sadness in her eyes, so decided to move quickly on with breaking down the text. ’Ok Sam. All that’s correct, but for now, let’s start dissecting this page anyway.’He could see her face beginning to clear and he was pleased to see that an expression of determination had begun to form among her features. ‘I take it we are agreed that the family in question is the Holy Family?’ Sam nodded, still staring at the paper in front of her. ‘Right, it says at the beginning and at various points that Jesus and most of His family lived for a time in Samaria and Qumran in Palestine, which now know as Israel, and also in Egypt. There is an argument for this from various sources that I have come across saying that Jesus did indeed spend time in those places, which would certainly explain some of the things that He did during His ministry which are not really covered in the bible, agreed?’

The familiar excitement that Sam always underwent whilst debating biblical facts with Chris was slow to surface, but she felt it deep within her, pushing away the feeling of despondency that she had experienced a moment ago. She hoped that all the reading she had undertaken in her search for an understanding of Jesus and the Gospels would now pay dividends. ‘Yes, I read that in medieval times Jewish communities circulated the Toledot Yeshu, an anti-Gospel book that purported to show Jesus to be nothing more than an illegitimate magician who practised magic and heresy which would kind of fit with some of this. Apart from the illegitimate part that is, but I guess that as Jews, they would say that wouldn’t they?’

‘Yeah maybe, but that particular book also portrays Him as a person of exceptional wit and wisdom which is very similar to the person we see here. So we need to tread carefully and not take everything that has been written either by the Jews in general or by this author especially as genuine. That said, the Jewish bible, the Talmud, which was written as early as the second century, alludes to Jesus using Egyptian sorcery. Also, did you know that in the twentieth century, there were detailed studies undertaken of Greek and Egyptian magical texts which showed contemporaries of Jesus using the same techniques, even illustrating how their practices worked?’ Mike continued as he saw that he had piqued her interest. ‘There are plenty of theories that Jesus did travel to these places, and given what this document says about the treatment of women within the Essene community especially, and adding in the healings and the exorcisms, it seems very plausible.’

‘Ok, so what do you know about Simon of Cyrene, other than he was the guy who helped to carry the cross before the crucifixion? And who was his son? I don’t know anything about these people.’ So much for all my research, she thought. Mike elaborated for her.

‘You’re right of course about Simon helping to carry the cross, according to the bible anyway, but we don’t know much more about him other than he was from Cyrene, which is in modern day Libya and which was very Hellenised at the time, so Simon would already have slightly differing views to the average Jew of the time. His son Alexander’s ossuary, along with ten others were discovered in 1941, south of the village of Silwan in the Kidron valley but these were not deemed significant until the 1990’s. There were actually two sons, Alexander and Rufus. Alexander was a very unusual name at that time in that area so the relics are now regarded as those of the son of Simon. In Paul’s letter to the Romans he talks of Rufus, also an uncommon name, who became a leader of the early Christian community in Rome after Jesus’ death. Paul says that Rufus was chosen by God, yet strangely, no-one else in Paul’s writings ever had that said about them. I’m unsure if that in itself means anything, but even today, there is a society that calls itself The Cyrenian or Simon movement which is centred right here in the UK.’

‘Really? I had no idea.’ Sam felt a little out of her depth with the way this story was progressing, but Mike was an expert, so she decided to be less hard on herself.

‘Most people don’t know this Sam, don’t beat yourself up.’ Mike’s reply sounded almost as if he could read her mind. He carried on with his narrative. ’They help the homeless and other less fortunate members of society and are staffed by volunteers, so the principle of ‘sharing the burden’ has continued down the centuries.’ Mike paused for breath, giving Sam a chance to step in.

‘But we must keep sight of the fact that all this could be an elaborate hoax.’ Part of Sam wanted the text to be real enabling her to finally know the truth, regardless of the possible impact that it could have on all Christians including herself. But she didn’t want anyone else to die. Nothing was worth that.

‘True, but it won’t hurt us to get ahead. Let’s crack on shall we?’ Mike’s eyes were bright with curiosity and something else that Sam hoped was a non-professional interest in her. She looked down at the last sentence of the first paragraph, determined to make this meeting count in more ways than her love life.

’Ok, so what about the ‘tricks’ that Jesus performs no matter what day of the week it is. You don’t think that accounts for all the miracles attributed to Him do you?’

‘Well, some of them, quite possibly.’ Mike replied. ’You’ve seen evangelists on the TV performing so called ‘healing’ on various people?’Sam nodded. ’It’s achieved by using mass hysteria. Watch the film ‘Leap of Faith’. It shows how the tricks are performed, how they fool the audience members into believing they’re cured. Also, they have a great ’get out’ clause. If the sick person doesn’t appear to be made well, they are told that they don’t have enough faith. Exactly as it does in the bible! Do you remember the story where Jesus cures a deaf man, Mark Chapter 7? It says that Jesus wet his fingers before putting them into the man’s ears, moves them around, and hey presto, he’s cured. This ruse had been performed by Egyptian magicians for many years before Jesus used it. This makes our text appear more authentic to me because it confirms that Jesus had been to Egypt.’ Sam remained less convinced than Mike that the miracles of Jesus were all down to simple deception and felt she must challenge him on this point.

‘What about the large scale miracles Mike? Walking on water or feeding the five thousand?’ How could those feats be attributed to sharp practice?’

’Well Sam, I’m afraid my doubts may be deeper routed than yours. I honestly believe that some of the marvels that we read about in the bible were invented by either the disciples or the Gospel writers themselves once Jesus was perceived as the divine son of God. It all helped to perpetuate the myth. He could see the doubt on her face, so he elaborated further. ’Let’s take the miracle of the loaves and fishes. This story bears an uncanny resemblance to the much earlier tale of Elijah in the book of Kings who lived in the ninth century BCE. He multiplied flour and oil to save a widow and her son from starvation, then there was Elisha, Elijah’s successor, who did a bit better than his master, multiplying 20 barley loaves to feed 100 people. The bible even tells us that there was some left over!

‘However, in all of the Gospel versions of this scenario, and for once the same story appears in all of them which is unusual in itself, Jesus multiplies 5 barley loaves and feeds 5,000, with 12 baskets left over! We’re talking serious one-upmanship here, clearly showing for me at least, that the story of Jesus and the feeding of the 5000 was copied, just on a grander scale!’ Mike saw that Sam was about to interject so he quickly added, ‘There’s one other similar story that dates back as far as Moses and the manna from heaven tale if you are still not convinced. You have to hand it to the Gospel writers, they certainly knew their Old Testament! There were other miracle workers around at the same time as Jesus, including Hanina Ben Dosa, a Jewish scholar who was reported to have raised the dead, cured incurable illnesses with the power of prayer, and was even known to govern the rain. None of these sound remotely possible do they?’

‘No, but….’

Mike interrupted with yet more revelations.

‘There are so many variances and omissions in the Gospels concerning the so called miracles. Take the water into wine phenomenon. This only appears in John, and not in the synoptic Gospels which all have a similar slant on their stories. Why was it omitted if it were so miraculous? Also, have you read about Simon Magus?’ A shake of the head. Sam had nothing with which to counter his arguments despite her knowledge. Mike went on. ’Sometimes called Simon the Sorcerer or Simon the Magician, he too performed healings and exorcisms around the same time as Jesus, yet he was accused, according to the book of Acts, of being in league with the devil! Interestingly though, he comes from Samaria.

‘It’s strange that most people believe what the New Testament Gospels tell us about Jesus, but if you were researching a book about Hitler say, and you knew nothing about him beforehand, would you only read sources that thought he was a visionary? Of course not! You would use as many contemporary accounts as you could lay your hands on.’ Mike seemed unstoppable now, and he pressed on before Sam had any chance of joining the conversation. Although she couldn’t bear to think of Jesus as a simple charlatan, she was fascinated with Mike’s discourse. He plunged forward with his oration absently pushing his wayward locks from his face.

’Did you know that Hitler once said, “The best way to expand your mind and branch out is with words? Words can take you to places you’ve never been, build bridges with friends, and plenty more.” Who knew?’ A quick shrug of the shoulders before continuing. ’Also, there is a great online article from a lady called Emily something or other, who lists some Hitler quotes alongside some Taylor Swift ones if you can believe that! She asks the readers to guess who said it, Hitler or Taylor? Ridiculous wouldn’t you say? Maybe we could look at it together sometime, you would be amazed. I do remember two of the maxims though. “As in everything, nature is the best instructor” and “Great liars are also great magicians”!! Unbelievably, these are both Hitlerisms! Not sure if that is even a word. Food for thought eh Sam?’

‘How the hell can you remember all that?’ Now Sam didn’t know whether to be impressed or deflated at the anti-Christian monologue that Mike had produced from his well-developed intellect.

‘Just part of the service Sam. I studied theology for a time in my youth. Things seem to just get filed away into a spare corner of my brain until they’re needed. I’ve got all sorts of rubbish up there just waiting to be released.’ He tapped the side of his head, his face wearing its cheeky smile. Sam’s own lasted only as long as it took to remember why they were doing this in the first place.

‘Very impressive. Anyway, how does all this link with my murder case?’

‘Well, it does back up what I’ve come to believe over the years, that Jesus used clever illusions to win over the masses. I’m not saying that He was a total fraud, in fact I’m positive that He was a great man, but a mortal one, which could offer a possible motive for this man’s actions. Isn’t it possible that he may have devoted his life to the church in some way and now feels deeply let down and betrayed by the Catholic Church if he truly believes in these texts. We don’t know how many more of these pages there may be or what they contain so we can’t be sure of anything can we?’

‘I agree on that point but I’m not convinced of anything yet. However, you might have a point about our killer’s motives. Let’s continue.’ She glanced back to the beginning of the translation and noticed something for the first time. ‘Look at the first line Mike, we missed the bit where it says that Joseph was a teacher! Why have we been told that he was a carpenter all these years? What would be the point?’

‘I have to admit, I didn’t have a clue about this,’ Mike admitted, ’although I was aware that only the book of Mark states that Jesus himself was a carpenter. Anyway, I looked it up on the way here and I think that this was a simple mistranslation when the Gospels were translated into Greek. The Greek word translated as carpenter is ‘tekton’ which actually means builder, however the original word would have been the Aramaic Naggar, a common word for a learned man, a scholar. Some say Joseph spent a little of his early life in India studying Buddhism. Who knows? What we can see from this page is that the family unit sounds correct, but of course in the Gospels Jesus’ siblings become his cousins. That change is inevitable as church doctrine insists that Mary lived and died a virgin! Believe that if you will!’ He shook his head at the thought, and what little light remained of the day stole through the window touching his auburn hair causing it to shine as it grazed its length.

Sam was still looking at the handwritten words. ‘I am so confused right now,’ she said in frustration. ‘There is so much to take in. I feel that I should be defending the official version of events, which is the exact opposite of my usual stance during my conversations with my friend Chris.’ Suddenly, a thought struck her. How would Chris take all this? I may not have to tell him if we can catch this bastard before he decides to go public, which is a strong possibility when he realizes that I’m not going to help him. Sam noticed that Mike was looking at her rather than at the manuscript. She could feel a blush sweeping hotly up from her chest under his intense scrutiny.

‘What?’ she managed to get out as his gaze remained fixed on her own.

‘Chris?’ Mike’s voice sounded even but Sam thought she could sense disquiet in his eyes.

‘Yes. He’s my oldest friend. He’s a Catholic priest actually. We met at uni, he went one way, and I went the other so to speak.’ Mike visibly relaxed and matched her smile, this time it reached his deep, meaningful eyes. The blush attempted to return and so Sam hurried on with her next question. ‘What about the role of the women in the communities that are mentioned in the text?’

‘Yes, that’s very interesting.’ He was immediately back to business. ’The Sacred Feminine rears its head once again. The early religion of the Israelites was to follow Yahweh, which I’m sure you know translates as ‘God’ but also ‘Asherah’, who was the mother goddess. Wisdom, according to Jewish tradition came from woman, namely Isis and Maat, who were the symbols of order, unity, truth and harmony. There is even some evidence that the ‘Holy Spirit’ derived from Hokmah the feminine, so the Holy Trinity of Father, Son and the Holy Spirit was not originally an all-male dominated philosophy.’ Sam had read a little about the role of women in Jesus’ mission that were not included in the New Testament so she felt back on territory that she could actually help to contribute into.

‘Yes, and biblically speaking, it was unheard of to have women as part of the close knit group that was the disciples, yet there are many accounts in the books found at Qumran which tell us that Jesus did have women in his inner circle of followers, maybe even among his disciples. Women do not feature as part of the New Testament much at all so, we are left with little or no knowledge of these women if we only use the bible as a reference. Also, in the gnostic Gospels found at Nag Hammadi as well as in the Dead Sea Scrolls, there are many more references to women, especially Mary Magdalen where there is more than a hint of a close relationship between the two of them. I wonder if the woman in this document who is married to Jesus is Mary Magdalen.’ Mike was nodding in agreement with her comments. ‘Maybe we’ll find out more if we get the chance to see another page.’ She immediately felt guilty wanting to see more of this incredible story as it would probably mean another dead priest. She looked down with a sense of despair.

Mike sensed her feelings and quickly added. ‘Yes, I agree Sam, but maybe you can catch him before he kills again and recover the other pages.’ Sam appreciated the kind words, but felt almost helpless at this point in the investigation.

Mike’s voice brought her back to the document. ’You may already know this, but in the Gospel of Philip, found at Nag Hamadi just two years before the Dead Sea Scrolls were found, and in in my mind no less important, Mary is referred to as Koinonos which can be translated as partner, or even married partner. There is a passage that says ‘He kissed her on the mouth’, although the word mouth is missing. But what else could it be? Needless to say, the Catholic Church disputes that, but I wouldn’t expect anything else from them. Let’s face it, even in some of the Gospels, He appears to Mary Magdalen when he rises from his tomb, not to the male disciples. I wonder how that one got past the sensors.’

‘I think you are possibly a tad more cynical even than me!’ Sam said, not without affection.

‘You’re probably right Sam, but that may be just what we need to get the most from this document, by looking at it dispassionately. I sense that there’s a certain reluctance in you to accept that Jesus may just have been a mere human with all the frailties and failures that are present in all of us.’

Sam felt her mixed emotions vying for supremacy, but the one that replied was the inner catholic that still dwelt deep within.‘Don’t you want this all to be nonsense? I know I do and I’m not ashamed to admit it.’ She felt overwhelmed with the ambivalence of it all, trying to make sense of these words in front of her, but also not losing sight of her primary objective which was to catch a murderer. She realised that Mike was talking once again.

‘Oh believe me Sam, I would love to find some proof that Jesus really was divine, but I am also a realist and there are so many discrepancies surrounding His divinity, don’t you think?’ He didn’t wait for a reply and Sam was unsure if she had one. ’For example, in the book of John, Jesus is described as divine from the beginning, but the other three Gospels transcribe him as a normal, mortal man until his crucifixion and only then does he become divine. In our document, it refers to Jesus being asked if He were the Messiah, but to a Jew, the Messiah was one that was sent by God to unite the tribes of Israel just as it says here. At this time in history, the Jews expected a Messiah who would help make them a great force in the world once again. He wasn’t expected to be a godlike being, who came to earth to die for us, a concept by the way, that had never been heard of at that time.

‘That’s a hypothesis that I believe was invented by the Gospel writers. But maybe, if we do gain access to further pages of this Gospel, it will prove me wrong.’ Mike stopped to examine the affect his words were having on his companion, but he need not have worried as she became animated once again, a different emotion emerging.

‘Yes and in the book of John, Jesus delivers much lengthier sermons and there isn’t a parable in sight unlike the other Gospels, almost as if the author of John has written the character to fit the stories!’ She paused and turned directly to him again. ‘Let’s leave that question for a while as we could go on to infinity discussing the possibility of whether or not Jesus was the son of God. Let’s just look at the next passage concerning Qumran shall we?’

Sam looked down at the words in front of her once more, and they each read through the passage pertaining to Qumran, both fascinated at how the culture had differed in this small place compared to other Jewish towns and settlements. Mike restarted the discussion on this section of the text. ‘Well, it tells us that they travelled for three days from Samaria to Qumran which sounds correct as this would be around forty miles.’

‘Although we touched on this a moment ago, the thing I find most extraordinary is that they seem to treat women as total equals, allowing them to study and even to teach others,’ Sam remarked. ‘Women being able to pursue a career as teachers and having some choice in who they married at a time when they were ready was progressive in the extreme for the times.’ She could see that Mike wholeheartedly agreed with her statements.

‘If you’re happy to move on Sam, I’d like to go to the last section as it concerns the Eucharist and John the Baptist.’ Once again, when Sam looked at his face, it seemed alive with expectation and eagerness and she was swept along on this wave of passion, as he had been with hers.

He began. ‘So, it would seem as if the Essenes had been performing the Eucharist, for a long time prior to Alexander’s visit, not even using a Rabbi to officiate, just a man who was considered well learned. If this text proves to be authentic, it shows that these forward thinking people were enacting practices long before they were written about in the Gospels.’ Once more, Sam’s excitement came to the fore despite the possible ramifications if the words were true.

Mike’s fervour also continued unabated. ‘I was aware that there was a form of the bread and wine ritual carried out in Samaria and Egypt at that time and even earlier in pagan traditions, but I had no idea that it was so close to the version that we read in the New Testament. This writer says that his father did not partake of this ritual and I can see why. It’s always puzzled me that the disciples seemed to accept this practice so easily at the Last Supper whereas in reality, as Jews, they would have been horrified at the metaphorical drinking of blood, especially human blood, even it if did represent that of their spiritual leader. It would be considered sacrilegious.’

‘I agree,’ replied Sam who had discussed this with Chris on more than one occasion. ’The whole principle of kosher food is the draining of blood from the animal because they consider it unclean. Also, the bible actually has Jesus saying the words, ‘I am the bread of life’ when preaching in Galilee, but even this is very anti-Jewish, almost pagan-like don’t you think?’

’Absolutely! The eating of this ‘body’ of Christ is very similar to the pagan rite of daily sacrifice and the eating of meat. The book of John says if I can remember, ”Then Jesus said unto them, verily, verily, I say unto you, except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh of my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed.” Mike had closed his eyes in concentration, but opened them as wide as his smile. ‘Wow, it’s amazing what comes back to you when the adrenalin kicks in.’

He still seemed as fresh as when she first set eyes on him some hours ago but it had been a long eighteen hours or so for Sam since she had taken Tommy’s call. She rubbed her eyes and took another swig of the cold coffee. Once again, Mike’s intuition picked up on her thoughts.

‘How about we knock off here for now Sam, maybe get a bite to eat and discuss it further when we’ve refuelled?’ Sam looked up at the clock on the bare grey wall and was surprised at how the time had slipped away. Before she could answer, there was a knock and Tommy’s greying close cropped head appeared around it.

‘I’m the last to go boss. Is that ok?’ Even the irrepressible Tommy looked drained. It had been a long shift for him too.

‘Of course, go get some rest and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. I take it there have been no further developments?’ Sam knew that if there had been Tommy would have shared any information with her, but she had to ask.

‘No guv, sorry. We’ll start again in the morning though. I’m going to do some more digging into the victim’s history, just in case.’

‘Ok, see you tomorrow then,’ she replied, feeling as if they were no further forward in their progression to catch this man. It may help if they were to understand the perp’s motivation, but they still needed some firm clues or forensic evidence if they were to apprehend him before he took another life. Tommy’s hair disappeared from view so Sam turned back to the man at her side.

‘Do you need to go back to your hotel for anything, or shall we just find somewhere around here to eat and talk?’ she asked Mike, noticing that he had already returned the documents to his briefcase and was reaching for his leather jacket.

‘No, I have everything I need right here thanks.’ That familiar twinkle flashed in his cerulean eyes and it was all Sam could do to turn away from them to pick up her own jacket.

FIFTEEN

Peter Norton was a happy man as he left his house and folded himself into his car. He’d accomplished the first part of his quest, and thus far no problems had ensued, confirming that his cause was just. He thought at first that he may balk at the last following his own ‘inquisition’, using the priest in the way that he had, but in the end it was easy given the man’s stubbornness.

He felt a rising excitement as he thought of how he effortlessly carried the body of the priest back to the church where he belonged. The weight was as nothing, the adrenalin still pumping through his system, giving him the strength in body and mind to complete the first step. Once the priest was in place he had stood back to admire the theatre created upon the altar steps. Transporting the unconscious priest from the church was risky, but necessary as he had been unable to bring the heavy chair to the church. But that was no matter. He had handled the situation perfectly. There was almost no trace of blood at the scene thanks to Peter’s strength in keeping the body from touching the church floor as he carried it. Not that he had any qualms in shedding blood in this or any church now that he knew the truth of what lay behind its foundations, but he did not want to spoil the montage that he had meticulously prepared.

He had felt impassioned as he placed the clean white envelope on the altar table for DCI Samantha Brown. His first contact with her! How would she react? She would undoubtedly be confused at first, maybe even a little frightened that the person who had taken the life of the priest was contacting her personally. She would come to understand and appreciate his motives when she knew what he possessed and realised that he wanted her by his side.

Now, as he drove toward his second witness, he glanced at the passenger seat. There sat the device that he would use to pacify the second priest whilst he conveyed the content of his texts to him. The Gospel itself nestled inside his jacket pocket. He had begun to keep it with him at all times, except when he slept and then it was in his safe.

The hand of fate had been good to him from the moment he had received the codex and he felt that he was being driven by a force greater than himself.

This time he would converse with the priest inside the church, better suiting his plans. Also, this second mechanism would not make anywhere near as much mess should it prove necessary to implement it to the full.

He observed the growing darkness that was closing in on the country lanes, drawing the curtain on another day. He drove steadily along toward his inevitable destiny, a small smile sitting happily upon his full red lips. A glance in the mirror reflected his grey eyes which were alight with the fire of purpose at the task ahead.

He could see the hamlet in the distance, still warmly lit by the sun that was attempting to prise the last of its tawny limbs over the rooftops. The sky, pomegranate pink, indicated a fine day tomorrow and as he neared the small village, he marvelled at how he had reached this point on his journey with such consummate ease. He again pondered on his time spent almost three thousand miles away when he’d perfected the course of action that had lead him to this point.

During his short stay in Qumran, he had felt more at ease than at any other time, contentment spreading through his lithe and lightly bronzed body, so much so that he elected to continue his travels to the one other place that he knew would make him feel at one with himself.

Leaving Qumran with reluctance he returned to his hotel in Jerusalem, barely remembering the bus trip back, his mind occupied with images of the people that had once made their home in such a barren, remote place. They had lived in peace and harmony with the world in general and Peter found himself admiring them immensely.

Upon arriving back at the hotel, he took a shower to wash away the sweat and particles of sand that clung to his damp body. As it was after six, he decided to have a leisurely meal, maybe drink some wine followed by an early night. After all, his objective the following day would involve hiring a car and making the five hundred mile trek to Nag Hammadi, the location of the other gnostic Gospels found two years before the Dead Sea Scrolls, in 1945.

****

Sam knew Norwich well and decided to take Mike to Benedict’s, a British bistro which was only a short walk from the police station. She had only dined there herself on one occasion as it was rather pricey but it was rated in the top three restaurants in Norwich and she wanted to make a good impression on her companion, a feeling that annoyed the more sensible part of her brain. But once she began talking to him about how good the eatery was, she forgot to reprimand herself on her impulsiveness.

Mike was easy to talk and listen to and was happy to go with her restaurant recommendation. It was easy to laugh with him too, and as his hand brushed against hers as they walked along, she felt the chemistry between them increase.

The bistro was busy and they were lucky to arrive just as the restaurant received a cancellation. Sam glanced at the décor and at their fellow diners as they waited to be seated. She was not surprised to see an eclectic mix in both the interior design and the patrons. There were two groups of trendy twenty somethings, any younger and they probably wouldn’t be able to afford the prices she reasoned. There were a few middle aged couples, some engrossed in each other’s conversation, others clearly bored, sneaking crafty looks around maybe wishing they were with someone else. There were some professional types, but the common trend throughout the room was the enjoyment of the cuisine.

The black and white themed waiters and waitresses carried only empty plates as they scurried back to the kitchen with the familiar haste that denoted their profession. The architect of this revamped, former cycle repair shop had done a classy job, using a mix of modern minimalist, interspersed with antique framed prints of old Norwich on the walls. The two of them were shown to a table toward the rear of the restaurant with which they were both pleased as it assured that they could converse with the minimum of distraction.

The food was as good as Sam remembered. She chose the stone bass with broad beans, pear and chives, whilst Mike ordered confit egg yolk with crispy potatoes and cured pancetta which, much to their amusement turned out to be a posh take on ham, egg and chips! Sam had been little concerned that it was all a little too pretentious for him, but watching Mike’s expression of pleasure as he tucked into his meal put her mind at rest. They shared an open apple and rhubarb tart with Chantilly cream for dessert and thanks to the very drinkable Merlot that Mike had chosen, she found that by the time they began talking about the case, her mind was a little fuzzy. They had thus far circumvented talking about the text and Sam was surprised at how much she had revealed to Mike about her life considering they had only just met. In fact, she had only ever opened up to this extent with Chris, and that had taken years.

He, in turn had been happy to talk about his life. Raised in a family that did not attended church, his parents were nevertheless accepting of other people’s faiths, never condemning anyone for their beliefs. On their own admission, they were part of the hippy scene during the sixties, had been very much in love and shared that love with Mike and his only sibling, a sister, Caroline who was now happily married to a Canadian and who had been living in Niagara Falls for some years. His parents were still alive, happy and in reasonable health, living in Oxford. Mike believed they had been instrumental in his balanced outlook on life, helping him to overcome the trials that were to come later.

The biggest surprise had been to learn that he had been married. ‘Yeah, I met Sue at university. She was such a free spirit, probably just like my mum at that age,’ he enthused. He wore a wistful smile as he spoke of his wife. ’We just ‘clicked.’ She became a Forensic Archaeologist after graduating, so naturally she spent quite a bit of time out of the country.’ Sam guessed that they were no longer together and thought that being apart for long periods never did a marriage any good.

‘No children?’ Sam was more interested in if he was still in love with this free spirited, intelligent, no doubt beautiful woman, but she reined in her desire to ask him that question.‘ No, I think we may have had, but we didn’t get the chance. She was killed two years ago.’ He looked down to his empty plate and closed his eyes. Sam was shocked but she reached across the table and took hold of one of his large hands that had begun to quiver and gave it a gentle squeeze.

‘I am so, so sorry Mike, I had no idea.’ Words were of course useless, but she said them nonetheless.

‘Of course you didn’t, but I knew it would come up sooner or later because we’ve been getting along so well. I feel that I can truly be myself with you Sam. I don’t usually talk about Sue to anyone that doesn’t already know about her death. Saying it out loud always brings it into sharp focus.’ He raised his head so that his eyes met hers. There were no tears but Sam thought that it was a close run thing.

‘We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to Mike’, she proffered.

‘No, I don’t mind, it helps me to talk about her with someone who cares. I will never forget her, she was a wonderful person.’ Sam nodded and although he was obviously sad, his eyes began to clear and shine as he spoke of his wife. ‘She excelled in her profession, leading expeditions to foreign climbs by the time she hit her mid-twenties. She excavated sites in Mexico, India, and Goa, and at the time of her death she had been on a scouting mission to Egypt with her partner when they became two of the casualties of a bombing in the Helmeyat al-Zaytoun region, which is an eastern suburb of Cairo.’ His eyes were filled with melancholy as he explained. ‘It was such a fluke. She had just finished a meeting with the head curator of the Cairo museum and was heading back to her hotel with her fellow archaeologist and partner Paul Lee, when they were unlucky enough to be using the Metro where a terrorist group had planted a make-shift bomb.’

‘Oh God Mike, how awful. And they both died?’ Sam was shocked at Mike’s revelation.

‘Yes. Well, I think so. It was a little strange really as Paul’s body was never identified officially as far as I am aware. I only know that he had no family. Anyway, I went alone to Egypt to identify and bring back Sue’s body. Apparently, it was a particularly large explosion, and some of the victims could only be identified by their personal effects or dental records. I was lucky, if you can call it that because Sue had no facial injuries, so I was spared that experience at least. But it was odd, because the authorities informed me that her handbag, which contained her passport, had been left inside a police station next to the front door as if whoever put it there didn’t want to be seen. No-one saw who left it. I guess someone must have found it near to the underground and thought it best to take it to the police station in case it was lost or stolen.’

Mike’s face took on a wistful expression as he continued with the story. ‘After I had identified Sue, the authorities asked me to look at some effects belonging to a British man as I had informed them that Sue was with a colleague and that so far, no-one else had arrived to identify him. Apparently this man’s face was too disfigured for him to be recognised, so all I had to go on was his wallet. It looked as if it had been looted of money and credit cards, but they had left his passport which definitely didn’t belong to Paul, so I couldn’t be of any help at all. I have no idea what happened to Paul’s body, or to the unfortunate man whose belongings I looked at, but I was in no state to think about that at the time. I was so out of it after seeing Sue anyway that I flew back to the UK with her as soon as I could.’

Mike’s eyes had filled so that they were almost overflowing and Sam gripped his hand tighter.

’She looked so normal Sam. Her face was untouched by the blast. She was still beautiful, just as she always had been. They said it was internal injuries that had caused her death. The pathologist informed me that she wouldn’t have known what was happening, but that’s something that is easy for someone unconnected to say isn’t it?’ His voice finally cracked and he lowered his eyes allowing fat tears to fall onto the white tablecloth. There was a silence between them but Sam did not feel the need to break it. She waited for him to regain his composure.

‘I don’t think that I’ve ever spoken to anyone about this in as much detail as I have to you Sam, not even my parents, or hers for that matter. And I haven’t given poor Paul a thought since that day. I hope that someone took him home when his body was eventually located. I would hate to think that he was put into an unknown grave all those miles away from home. Maybe I’ll make some enquiries. It might help ease my conscience.’ His eyes were now dry and warm as he looked into hers.

‘I don’t think that you have anything to feel guilty for Mike. You’d just lost your wife in the most tragic circumstances. She sounds like a great person. You must miss her every day.’ Despite speaking of Mike’s wife, Sam sensed that there was a growing closeness between the two of them, especially now that they knew quite a bit more about their respective paths in life. Mike gave her a small smile then excused himself to visit the loo and Sam hoped that he wasn’t too upset talking about the wife whom he had obviously adored.

For now, all thoughts of romance must be kept on the back burner and not just because he was still grieving for his wife. She looked over at the door that lead through to the toilets, and seeing no sign of Mike she allowed her mind to drift back to the last section of the document that she and Mike had dissected earlier and reflected that there were as many unanswered questions surrounding John the Baptist as anything they’d read so far.

****

Breakfast in the Hashimi hotel restaurant was first class. Warm grapefruit and orange with a sprinkling of toasted coconut followed by baked eggs with tomato and feta cheese washed down with a pot of Earl Grey tea. The dining room was stylishly designed, with warm silks and marble floors. It had been peaceful too, no loud American or British tourists were apparent, probably due to the fact that the cost of staying at this particular hotel was £500 per night but to Peter it was money well spent. He felt that there was a perverse irony in using the money from the highest Catholic office in Christendom to help rid the world of the lies they had spread over the centuries, not to mention splashing out hundreds of pounds to stay in luxurious hotels and travelling first class.

He checked out of the hotel after they had organised a hire car for him, a five door saloon with a fierce air-con system which had to contend with the ferocious heat of mid-morning Jerusalem even without the full glare of the sun. He drove through the city, negotiating trucks, cars, carts and pedestrians, a feat in itself. The four lane highway was an accident waiting to happen, especially at rush hour. When you could actually see where you were going through the mist that clung to the damp air like ivy wrapped around an oak tree, it seemed that the largest vehicles had the right of way and drove in the outside lane, with ever decreasing sizes of transportation ending with donkey carts at the extreme inside, their skinny frames trotting along oblivious to the melee that surrounded them.

Once clear of the main drag, Peter noticed the swelling crowds of sightseers herding together like lemmings, hurtling as fast as the heat and their limbs would allow toward the sacred sites that awaited their adulation. As he surveyed the vista the sun began to finally make an appearance, golden shafts of light ventilating the vapour filled panorama ahead. The journey, he estimated would take him all day but he didn’t mind, his plan was gathering momentum and the long drive would give him more time to refine his venture into the unknown.

****

Mike strode purposefully across the restaurant toward Sam who couldn’t help but watch his graceful, yet innately masculine form as he neared their table. He sat back down in his seat and looked into her eyes. ‘Sorry about that Sam, I’m fine now and ready to talk Baptist!’ The smile was re-fixed on his features, as open and genuine as ever, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief that he had managed to pull it together as much for the sake of the murder enquiry as for his own. She felt a stab of guilt, but told herself that more people could die if she failed to catch her killer.

‘Ok Mike, I’ve been thinking about John the Baptist and I’m sure that I don’t know as much as you, but I have always wondered why, if he was there to herald in Jesus as the Messiah, didn’t John’s followers then join those already with Jesus when he showed up for his baptism? I know a few did according to the Gospels, but not all. Does that make sense to you?’ Sam was happy to be back on point.

’Not really, and equally as puzzling is why he sent a message to Jesus when he was imprisoned asking if he was the ‘one’. I know we are asking more questions than answering them but I feel that John fills the role of a Jewish Messiah as much as Jesus, even in the biblical Gospels!’

‘How do you make that out?’ Sam had not heard this argument before apart from in their new text and she didn’t know if she liked it.

‘Well, in Matthew, John is hailed as the Messiah although it never describes Jesus in that way. However, that could be due to Mathew’s Gospel being written from a Jewish perspective, whereas Luke and the Acts of the Apostles which do affirm Jesus as the Messiah, were written for Theophilus, a high ranking Roman official, and both of those books promote Christianity as we know it in a big way.’

‘Can you tell me what you know about John, that I may not already be aware of, and if any of that ties in with our text?’ Sam asked.

‘Sure, but we need to find out how long this place is open in case I don’t know when to stop!’ Mike replied grinning. Sam smiled too and took another mouthful of the deep fruity wine praying that she didn’t have a red wine smile.

****

Peter drove at an unhurried pace from the city of Jerusalem, relishing the changing landscape along the way. One minute, he was surrounded by high rise tenement blocks and makeshift houses, where some of the area’s most impoverished people spent their existence, and the next, he could see nothing but a hazy smudge along the panoramic skyline.

His route took him along the Asyuit Desert road which follows the Nile almost from its primary source in the Great Lakes region of central Africa. It took him past the small towns of Beni Suef, Samalut and Minya and apart from a brief stop to eat the packed lunch that the hotel had provided, he did not feel the need for a break until he realised that he was hungry again, so he drove into the town of Asyut.

He found a car park and wandered over to feed the meter, reading a little about the town from a board next to the machine as he waited for a sweaty, overweight tourist to find sufficient coins within the folds of flesh that were barely contained by her pink leggings. She then proceeded to push a few of these into the slot with equally sweaty, dough-ball hands.

Peter was amazed to discover that there was a Coptic Catholic Church in the town. It was almost as if he were being tested. Would he weaken and succumb to the Mother Church, forgetting his new found knowledge, asking for forgiveness for even thinking of abandoning her? His lips could not contain the incongruous smile that forced its way out.

The heavy, perspiring woman turned around with her ticket, which was already beginning to smudge in her moist grip. She looked young and Peter could almost discern a pretty face that was struggling to be noticed under the weight of excess flesh. His expression changed to one of distaste to which she turned and fled back to her air conditioned vehicle.

The sun was starting to wane as Peter strolled through the main street, having no intention of visiting the church. If it had been a test, he knew that he had passed with flying colours and his mood was one of relaxed enjoyment. He strolled past the high class shops selling everything from intricate rugs to high end jewellery, past the mosques and the beggars in rags knowing that he alone was the holder of the truth. Everyone else, Catholic followers especially, had been deceived. He was beginning to feel an impatient urge to begin his work which he knew would lead to his own greatness.

He paused by the street vendors offering kebabs and other local delicacies, but on closer inspection their commodities looked less than sanitary and so he meandered further and finally found a smart hotel. The El Watania Palace was large and impersonal, but that was fine. He entered the impressive, yet featureless lobby, mirrors on every wall giving the impression of a much larger space, the black shimmering floor causing a soft clicking with each step he took toward the reception.

An immaculately dressed, very short man looked up at Peter from behind the desk and smiled revealing less than perfect teeth, and began to speak in Egyptian Arabic before Peter had a chance to enquire about dinner. He smiled as courteously as possible and held up a hand. The man immediately stopped talking. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he began, but before he could continue the man switched to English as if nothing had happened.

‘I took you for an Egyptian sir, please forgive me.’ His smile, which had never actually left his face, widened. ‘How can I help, would you like a room or perhaps some refreshment?’

‘I would like a meal if your restaurant is open this late in the day?’

‘Of course, we are open all day sir, from breakfast right up to a late supper.’ The small man seemed proud of this. ‘Would you like to follow me please?’ Peter had to quicken his step to keep up with the small man whose legs seemed to propel him along as if wind assisted. They arrived at the restaurant and the diminutive employee rang a bell impatiently and turned back to Peter. ‘I will have our maître d’ take good care of you sir. Please do not hesitate to come back to me if there are any problems.’ With that, his smile inexplicably widened even further, and he spun round, having seen movement at the far end of the restaurant.

Peter caught sight of his badge proclaiming him as Mohammed Bomani, General Manager. He watched as the pocket rocket galloped at breakneck speed, back to his position at the front of the hotel. He turned back to the restaurant to find a man as large as his colleague was small standing almost at arm’s length in front of him. ‘Hello’, he managed, before the man could speak, negating the need to explain that he was British.

‘Sir, my pleasure, please come, I find a good place for you.’ His voice was much lighter than Peter had expected from such a large man, and the fluidity of his movements between the tables belied his size. Peter followed and was surprised to find the place almost devoid of patrons. However, due to it being late afternoon, Peter speculated that it was too late for most people to eat lunch, yet too early for most to consume dinner. He ordered a large glass of water before looking at the extensive menu. He didn’t want to be long before getting back on the road so he chose quickly. He decided on the Kofta, which he had eaten once before and it turned out to be delicious, the spicy gravy adding an enjoyable aftertaste, but the origin of the meat involved in the tasty meatballs he thought, was open to question.

By the time he’d finished, he seemed to be the only diner left so he commanded the full attention of the maître d’ who was courteous in the extreme, fussing around him, pleased to fulfil Peter’s every whim. Not that he had many. The meal was followed by two cups of strong Egyptian coffee, which served as an antidote for the fatigue that had begun to permeate his body. He tipped the big man, giving him more than he would make for the rest of the day, and left the cool serenity of the restaurant. He smiled politely at the petite manager, and re-entered the still baking hot surroundings of the small street.

Once back in his car, Peter checked the internet for suitable accommodation in Nag Hammadi, but found nothing to his liking, so he decided to travel a little further to Luxor which had an abundance of top notch hotels. Another time he would like to return to see such an iconic place, known as the world’s greatest open-air museum. The temples of Karnak and Luxor were within the city itself, not to mention the Valley of the Kings and Queens nearby. But for now, duty called him, there would be no time for sight-seeing on this trip. At least he would be fresh for the drive back to Nag Hammadi in the morning, then on to his final destination of Cairo.

Nag Hammadi today is a simple farming community, with a population of just thirty thousand. The library of gnostic texts found there now reside in the Coptic Museum in Cairo but Peter desired to visit the place where they were unearthed. He wanted to feel the same emotions that he had at Qumran, a sense that he was going to right a wrong, to feel that his life was finally about to have meaning.

The Nag Hammadi collection consists of twelve leather bound papyrus codices, discovered once again by accident, this time by local farmer, Muhammed al-Samman in 1945. Most of the Gospels added even more credence to his own and were thought to have been destroyed during the early Christian struggle for orthodoxy. Typical Catholic Church actions he thought, extinguish any teachings, thoughts or manuscripts that deviate from the ones they needed the masses to believe in.

The Gospels are now available to read online and Peter had devoted much of his time to reading them. One such work, the Gospel of Thomas has been dated to earlier than canonical Mark and, much to the chagrin of the Holy Roman Church, the collection includes two Gospels written by women! The early church was already gripped in a stranglehold by the time the books were chosen for inclusion, so any Gospel that contradicted their doctrine would never be allowed to come to light.

Peter made an online reservation for the Sofitel Winter Palace and drove the rest of the way deep in thought until he pulled up outside the luxury five star hotel. No sooner had he stopped the vehicle at the curb, than a young man in a striped waistcoat emerged from inside the elegant building, offering to take his car whilst he check in. Peter was impressed with the quality of the man’s English and with the opulence of the hotel itself. Palm trees managed to sway in the slight breeze waving to their neighbours alongside the immaculate gardens which were stylishly illuminated and resembled a scene from a Bond film.

He walked into the foyer and was immediately greeted by another employee, this time dressed in a pure white linen shalwar kameez complete with fez. This alarmingly handsome fellow with soft olive skin that only added to his healthy and youthful countenance bowed slightly and motioned for Peter to accompany him to a mahogany desk where he passed a small form to him for completion. By the time Peter had filled in his details, yet another member of staff, this one a waiter, tall and stick thin appeared next to him with a selection of cold drinks. The glasses upon the silver tray contained everything from water, orange juice and coke, to a small selection of cocktails. All the glasses were sweating with condensation and Peter surprised himself by choosing a margarita, perfectly mixed with a delicate ring of salt, resembling glass shavings around the rim. He tipped both men and passed his half full glass to the younger man to carry and followed him to the elevator. They took a swift, almost motionless ride to the highest floor where he was shown into his suite.

Peter had chosen the Prestige suite which, as it was on the top floor offered fantastic views. After the servant had closed he door, Peter walked over to the balcony and looked around at the panorama of differing vistas. He continued to sip his cocktail, savouring the salty, sweet sharpness of the drink as he admired the pregnant fullness of the sun as it lowered out of sight over the shimmering waters of the Nile. He could smell the delicious aromas of the street vendor’s products, seemingly offering every spice known to man, amalgamating into a perfumed sweetness that drifted all the way up to Peter’s terrace. He closed his eyes and suddenly felt both hungry and tired in equal measure, so he ordered room service, a simple meal of salad and bread, and after a long shower, retired to the enormous bed where he fell asleep almost immediately, dreamily imagining what the world would be like once he had rid it of all Catholic mendacity.

When he awoke, Peter felt fully rested and realised that he was actually enjoying himself and he could not remember a time in his whole life when he had felt better. There was no one to answer to, no responsibilities that required him to behave a certain way, no doctrine to blindly follow.

After his trip to Nag Hammadi, he decided to spend some time in Cairo, even if it did involve another long journey. He wanted to see the Pyramids and the Cairo museum just for the fun of it. Besides, he had always admired the ancient Egyptians for their architecture and forward thinking, but due to their belief system, he had never taken more than a cursory interest in them as people. Now that his own beliefs were radically changed, he was open to all possibilities. Who could say that the ancients were wrong to erect massive tombs for their Pharaohs to enter the spirit world, cramming as much opulence inside as they could to ensure a safe passage? It was a shame that almost every tomb had been plundered, with only Tutankhamen’s vault being discovered intact ninety years ago.

How must Carter have felt as he looked through the small hole that he had made at the entrance to the burial chamber? To see such an array of priceless artefacts and then finally to look down upon the golden mask that covered the boy king’s body would be a once in a lifetime rush of emotions. He imagined those men tasked with building the magnificent monument, sweating in the blazing sun to ready the tomb for the young man who had died too soon.

When Peter considered the practices of millions of Catholics the world over, the ancient Egyptian’s customs seemed no more bizarre. Why would any sane person think that you must confess your wrongdoings to a man clothed in a long black robe, interned in a small closet-like space, and who knew nothing of how family relationships and indeed the real world functioned! In addition, anyone could become a priest if that was what they chose to do with their lives, so who gives them the right to forgive sins? Those in positions of power higher up the pecking order only achieve their office due to longevity!

Peter’s new albeit small, bible, states that anyone can commune with God, no so-called-holy man or place of worship is required. It all made perfect sense.

Everything was falling into place.

SIXTEEN

‘So, in 1999 a guy called Shimon Gibson discovered a man-made cave at Suba which is the place that our text states John was living, most likely also in a cave. It’s five miles west of Jerusalem and two miles from Ein Karem which is John’s birthplace. The pottery found inside the cave shows it was used during the first and second centuries, so again it fits the right time scale.’

Mike was on a roll and Sam was transfixed, not only by the speech, but also because of the way the words animated Mike’s fine features. He continued. ‘A short way inside, Gibson found a deep pool that was sunk into the ground fed by a complicated series of channels through which rain water flowed. There he encountered many symbols he believed were related to John and to purification rituals. Some of the images showed a man with unruly hair and a staff, again coinciding with the document we have. It even fits with the image that the bible presents to us of a charismatic wild man living in what was thought of at the time as a wilderness, fervently using baptism for the cleansing of the soul.’ Mike was clearly enjoying himself but Sam looked once more at the last paragraph and was perplexed.

‘But in our text, Jesus says that he believed John to be the Messiah, the one who would unite the twelve tribes. He even says that John will be the people’s saviour and that he believed him to be the greatest man who ever lived!’

’Well, there are some who believe this even today Sam but remember the bible quote from Matthew 11:11, “Truly I tell you, among those born of women there has not risen anyone greater than John the Baptist; yet whoever is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.” Rather an ambiguous quote isn’t it? But not when you know the Hebrew version. It omits the second part so it reads, “Truly I tell you, among those born of women there has not risen anyone greater than John the Baptist,” which gives a completely clear viewpoint from Jesus which matches our document. John is downplayed at every turn in the traditional book of Matthew, but in the Hebrew version he is much more revered.’

‘So, are you saying that Christians have been worshipping the wrong man for two thousand years?’ Sam could not accept this without further proof, despite her arguments over the years and the doubts that she could never dispel.

’I’m just relaying what has been written Sam. I’m not saying that anyone should change the way they wish to deify Jesus any more than I would John. But, there have always been unanswered questions, even if you only read the biblical accounts concerning John. For example, we know he asks Jesus if He is the one or were they to wait for another, yet this clearly contradicts other passages stating that John immediately recognised Jesus as the Son of God. Again, in Matthew it says: “As soon as Jesus was baptised, He went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and He saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on Him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased.” That would seem pretty categorical as far as John is concerned, so why the questions?’ He paused briefly, but Sam was happy simply to listen.

‘Some of John’s devotees hailed him as the Messiah after he had been put to death and there is still a movement that follows him today as I said.’ Mike could see the scepticism in Sam’s eyes so expanded on his last statement. ’There’s a group of people called the Mandaeans who revere John the Baptist above all others. Unfortunately, due to the recent war in Iraq where they were living, they have been dispersed over Iran, Syria and Jordan. There were only around sixty to seventy thousand of them even before they were forced to flee their homes. However, although they venerate John, they don’t think of him as a Messiah, more of a great prophet and teacher, but they do believe that Jesus is the ‘book Messiah’, the book in question being the Christian bible of course, meaning they think that Jesus was only the Messiah according to the book of the bible, but not in reality.’

‘I can’t get my head around this Mike. I think I need to go home and process it.’ Sam glanced at the elegant clock on the wall ahead of her and was shocked to see that it was almost ten thirty. They had been in the restaurant for a full three hours and the time had gone in an instant, partly due to the food and wine, but mainly due to the intense dialogue between her and the equally intense man who was now watching her fixedly as the mishmash of their deliberations fought for order in her mind.

‘Ok, I’ll get the bill and walk you to a taxi rank,’ Mike stated and rose from his seat. Sam felt a twinge of disappointment knowing that the evening with Mike would shortly come to an end. However, after he had paid the tab he whispered in her ear, ‘That means you’ll have to pay next time.’

They walked in an easy silence to the nearest taxi stand and even though Sam expected their parting to be awkward, it was anything but. Mike kissed her cheek and confirmed that he would see her around nine in the morning. The journey home for Sam was an eclectic mixture of desire, murder and ancient documents.

****

How ironic, yet typical of the human race, Peter thought. The treasures inside the Cairo museum were priceless, yet only a stone’s throw away, living in poverty and filth were children who had no schooling, no indoor plumbing and no real washing facilities. There were calls at the start of each winter for the Egyptian Military Technical College to open its doors to house some of the thousands of homeless, but these calls are consistently ignored and no scandal ever created. The winters passed and the warmth of the summer caused most to forget about the hardship that still endured beneath the noses of the locals and the tourists alike. Still, it was not so very different from London or New York or any large city, Peter mused. It was just the scale of the problem that varied.

On the outskirts of the city, he noticed a few Bedouin settlements, recognisable due to the ramshackle collection of tents and herds of goats that were prevalent amongst them. The inhabitants of these shanty towns had been driven there by the changing culture of the new resort towns from as far away as Sharm-el-Sheikh to Cairo itself, their semi-nomadic lifestyle all but stolen from them. Even the traditional practice of keeping and selling camels was no longer possible living in such proximity to an over populated society.

At the opposite end of the social scale stood the Nile Ritz Carlton Hotel, every bit as opulent as the Winter Palace in that there were polished marble surfaces everywhere. Unfortunately, Peter noticed as he pulled up to the front of the hotel, there seemed to be more tourists around, despite the high cost involved, but one only had to look out of the windows of all the south facing rooms to see the attraction. Less than half a mile from the hotel stood the three pyramids of Giza towering above the burning desert.

The largest and oldest, the Great Pyramid or Khufu’s Pyramid, remained solidly in the foreground despite its 4,500 years. At 450 feet high, it had been the tallest man-made structure for 3800 years, yet due to the immense heat it has endured over the millennia, the actual height is 30 feet less that when it was built.

It is widely accepted that all the pyramids were constructed from Tura stones and granite blocks that had been transported manually from a quarry and conveyed for over forty miles by barge up the River Nile. What an accomplishment, thought Peter as he vacated the cool interior of the vehicle and gazed upon the magnificent structures for a few moments before striding into the foyer of the hotel.

After checking in, Peter was taken to his room, this time not a suite as these were occupied. He chose to have a bath as soon as the hotel employee had left with his customary tip, and he luxuriated in the warm scented water. He had never been one for lounging in a bath in his old life, but like many things concerning his mind and body, he felt that he was changing, and as such, liked indulging in the pleasures of life, not just being its servant. The air conditioning in the room was sufficient to keep him cool as he stepped out of the bath and towelled himself dry.

He dressed in a lightweight suit of pale grey and was pleased with his image in the full length mirror. His tanned face glowed with health, and the deepening skin pigment contrasted with the white evenness of his teeth. He glanced at his hands which of course were the same bronzed colour as his face, but he noticed that his nails were still a little grimy from his sojourn into the desert. He began to search in his toilet bag for an implement with which to rectify the situation. After exploring every corner of the bag, he still had not found what he was looking for, so thought he would see if he possessed anything that could be used as a nail file. He lifted the lid of his suit case to see what he could find amongst his belongings. He stopped abruptly, frowning. The contents, from which he had removed his suit before taking his bath, had been rearranged.

Peter had become fastidious with his clothing and he was certain that things were out of place, but could not for the life of him imagine that a member of the hotel staff would come into the room unannounced let alone steal from any of the guests. Then, for a split second he was certain that someone knew about the codex and had been in his room looking for it! Before taking his bath, he had placed the small volume in the room safe along with his lap-top which contained copies of the text. His heart was in his mouth as he tried three times to open the safe, his hands shaking violently.

Eventually, he managed to get the small door to open and let out the breath that he had not realised he was holding with an audible exclamation as he saw that the contents were untouched. He walked back to the suitcase that lay open on the bed and took another long look at the contents. Was he imagining that his things had been moved? He was now unsure, yet a moment ago he had been so positive. Maybe he was tired after such a long drive and in addition he had not eaten for some hours.

He put the episode to the back of his mind. He had much more important matters to think about. So, placing the codex in his inside jacket pocket, he closed the safe once more, left his room and headed to the hotel restaurant. There, he treated himself to another margarita as an aperitif, followed by a large glass of Merlot with his sumptuous dinner of Mashwi al Bahr, a fish speciality of Chef Khalid, together with a selection of mezze.

Peter felt exquisitely tranquil as he sipped his rich fruity wine disregarding his fellow diners. The anxiety he had experienced in his room melted away with every mouthful of wine. When he had finished eating, he rose from his seat intending to go for a short walk before retiring, but found that he was somewhat unsteady on his feet. He had never been intoxicated before but felt that this was yet another pleasure he had missed out on. Still, he thought it was best if he retired so that he would be fresh for another day of enjoyment of his new life.

The man who sat a few tables behind Peter finished eating his less ostentatious fare and he too decided that he would get some rest, having watched as his objective headed toward the elevator. His presence was not only oblivious to Peter, but to most of the other diners and employees. This was one of the reasons he was so good at his job, blending in within any given situation. No distinguishing features to speak of, he was of average height and dressed in the uniform of most of the other western tourists in and around the hotel, shorts and tee shirt during the day, lightweight trousers and short sleeved shirt during the evening. He left the restaurant and walked to his nearby, much less expensive and featureless hotel where he had rented a small single room for just under twelve hundred Egyptian pounds, the equivalent of approximately fifty English pounds which did not include a breakfast.

Looking around his unremarkable room as he readied himself for sleep, Antonio Abate wondered, not for the first time why the Vatican, with its vast wealth, were so miserly with their expenses.

SEVENTEEN

Having slept peacefully, Peter partook of a traditional Egyptian breakfast in the hotel restaurant, a dish enigmatically called fuul which consisted of mashed fava beans. Earthier than hummus and in fact more comparable to refried beans, it had a not unpleasant bitter taste. After eating, he decided to explore the city’s many bazaars, maybe buy a tacky souvenir, a memento to remind him of this magnificent place with its treasures and history and abject poverty that dwelt within arm’s length of each other.

He climbed into one of the many waiting taxicabs outside the hotel, carrying his laptop and protecting his Gospel beneath his lightweight jacket, having decided to take no unnecessary chances. He asked the driver to drop him off close to the Egyptian Museum, next to which was a large and colourful market.

He decided to risk eating from a street vendor for lunch as the smells were mouthwatering. He chose a stall which looked fairly sanitary and which sold bowls of Kushari which turned out to be rice, macaroni and lentils topped with tomato sauce and garlic vinegar and he was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the food. Appetite satisfied, he chose to meander through the local market and onto the museum before taking a cab back to see the Pyramids.

The market place and covered bazaar were fascinating. There seemed to be every kind of seasoning, spice, fruit and vegetable that one could imagine, the combined smells strangely complimenting each other. There were rugs to suit every Egyptian home in fantastic designs, however most looked too chintzy for western tastes. For the tourists, there were many varieties of souvenir pyramids, camels and King Tut masks that came in all manner of sizes and materials. Other venders sold assorted kaftans in every design known to man, some plain, some patterned and even some appearing iridescent as they swayed in the light breeze.

Peter was pleased that he had chosen to wear his suit which gave the merchants the impression that he was a local, his dark skin aiding the illusion. Most visitors were constantly bombarded by the shop and stall owners haranguing them into believing that their goods alone were the best and the most reasonably priced. Not one spoke to Peter so he was able to negotiate his way from one side of the market place to the other. The hustle and bustle of the souk fascinated him. The multitudes of people from many nations, jostled each other as they squeezed through the ever narrowing streets.

He decided to sit at a nearby café, with a strong local coffee and watch as the hubbub passed him by until he felt like moving to his next location. Additionally, his attire, whilst being good camouflage, was proving to be a little too heavy for the ever increasing temperature of the market. The café had covered outdoor seating and he ordered a coffee which came direct from a kanaka, a solid pot into which coffee grinds and cold water are placed and heated very slowly until the mixture boils. The result was a delicious strong black liquid that had as much of a kick as a cocktail and of which Peter had become inordinately fond. He wondered absently if he could buy some beans to take home. That way, he could remind himself of these foreign parts and it would be as good as a cheap souvenir.

He observed the comings and goings of both locals and holidaymakers from his vantage point, some dodging the traders, some happy to sit down at the café for a well-earned respite from the sellers and the incessant scalding heat, something that didn’t seem to affect the natives. As the afternoon waned they would even slip on another layer of clothing.

The collaboration of colours, textures, noises and smells made a heady mix that enveloped Peter’s senses. He continued watching the faces of the citizens and vacationers going about their individual lives, some to the market, others wanting to sit in the shade as he had, more heading toward the nearby underground. He examined one couple in more detail. Both were evidently not locals as they had blond hair. His was a short dirty blond, but the young woman with him had long flaxen hair that the sun turned to gold as she passed by within a few feet of where Peter was sitting. They were loaded down with belongings. He carried a briefcase, a pack strapped to his back and a carrier bag, she a large handbag draped over her shoulder, along with a back pack of her own. She didn’t appear to be wearing make-up, but from the look of her smooth suntanned face, she didn’t need it. Both were kitted out in khaki shirts and shorts, almost identical, an unusual get up when compared to most western couples. Their attire gave Peter the impression that they were off on some kind of expedition, into the desert perhaps. They crossed to the subway and were swallowed up into the underground’s massive maw.

Peter took another blissful sip of the flavoursome coffee and decided to try the Metro as his mode of transport back to the hotel for a change. He was about to make a move toward the darkness that had claimed the khaki-clad couple, when his peripheral vision picked up a movement alongside his table.

A very young, attractive dark skinned woman sat down alone, ordered coffee and lit a slim dark cheroot, causing Peter to momentarily remain in his seat. He studied her face, a strong nose, slim lips and almond eyes, and wondered if his grandfather, the British soldier, all those years ago had found a girl not unlike this one during his time in Jerusalem. This young woman had incredible elegance, her graceful fingers gently gripping the cheroot, their long manicured nails complete with a French polish, arranging themselves like slim white-tipped pencils around the smoking cigar. Her hair was expertly braided, with blue and white beads dripping down her back, which was covered in a light blue silk blouse. She was very different from the other Egyptian women. Most had their heads covered and for the most part, did not have the time or the money to sip expensive coffees.

Peter was idly deliberating how his grandfather had managed to develop a relationship with a local woman well enough to make her pregnant, when there was an almighty, deafening eruption that seemed to emanate from all around him, the entire street shaking. A great blanket of dust and debris coughed its way over those on the steps of the underground, forcing some to the ground as it wrapped itself around them. For a brief moment all was silent then instantaneously, a cacophony of sounds spewed from every direction. There were screams from those outside the café, shouts from various quarters barking orders or simply yelling for assistance, and a multitude of alarms from both cars parked close enough to the explosion to be affected and from nearby shops.

Peter guessed that a bomb had detonated in the underground and for a moment or two, he was unsure of what to do, then by instinct alone he ran toward the entrance of the underground where just a couple of minutes ago he had watched as the khaki clad couple had descended. As he ran, he caught a glimpse of the young woman who had been next to him at the café. She was running in the opposite direction but he silently thanked her. His delay in getting up and heading into the tube station had been caused by his interest in her.

She had inadvertently saved his life.

It was his destiny to be spared.

He reached the top of the steps and as he moved quickly down into the unknown, he held his handkerchief in front of his mouth to minimize the dust particles that were intent on climbing down his throat, seemingly intent upon constricting his ability to breathe. A stout man stood at the top of the steps dressed in a long and dirty grey galabiya who began to shout at him in Arabic gesticulating with his arms, no doubt warning him not to venture into the darkness. Peter took no notice, plunging into the shadows, frantically grabbing onto the handrail, he was unable to see more than a couple of feet.

He fell over a still form at the bottom of the staircase, recovered enough to bend down to feel for signs of life, but felt nothing except unmoving sticky flesh that had clearly expired.

He stood up and was aware that he was able to see a little better, at least well enough not to trip over other bodies, of which there were many. He made his way to the station platform where there was total confusion, despite the dim glow of the emergency lighting. Some people were heading toward the stairs and the indistinct luminosity that had begun to steal its way down into the cavern below. Others were too badly injured to move themselves and of course there were many that would never move again.

Peter was uncertain what action to take. He had very little first aid experience and he thought that maybe he had made a mistake and should simply leave the carnage to the authorities. After all, this wouldn’t be the first explosion that had shattered the lives of those in this part of the world. Perhaps the wonderful sensations that had seemed to be everywhere in this place, from the magnificent sights such as the pyramids to the almost sensual surroundings of the market were just a smoke screen for the evil intentions of those wishing to cause harm to anyone in the name of their God.

He had no idea why he had felt almost compelled to rush headlong into this bloodbath, how could he even hope to help? He turned away and impulsively decided to catch the first plane home, the wonders that he had seen and those yet to see, now tainted.

Undoubtedly, the motive for this violence was religion! He needed to get on with his own mission. Any life that he took would not be in the name of religion, but because of it!

As he turned back toward the pale light that had crept further into the station, he caught sight of a khaki-clad upper leg buried beneath a heavyset woman in western clothing. He stooped down and felt for a pulse at the ankle that clearly belonged to the attractive blonde women that he had been watching just a few minutes ago. The heart was beating, but the pulse was weak and rapid. After ascertaining that the larger woman was dead, he pushed her almost angrily away to free the younger one. He bent low over her still striking face, but it held little suggestion of the vivacious woman that he had seen so fleetingly just minutes before. He gently shook her shoulders and said in a loud voice to compete with the many other calls for help and cries of pain. ‘Hello, I’m Peter. I’m here to help you. Can you open your eyes?’

After repeating his question three times, the woman’s eyes fluttered open and stared into his, but they were glassy and showed no perception of her situation. He tried to communicate with her nonetheless, having taken her passport out of the bag that was still crossed over her shoulder and chest, to determine her name. ‘Where does it hurt Susan?’ There was no response and it looked as if her flimsy hold on the world was slipping from her grasp. Her chest was rising and falling, but with little substance or depth. The breath that emanated from her mouth was ragged as her body struggled to maintain life. She was near death and Peter once again felt compelled to take a certain course of action. In this case, it was to stay with this unknown woman.

After a few ever more desperate intakes of breath, the rise and fall of her chest ceased. Not so long ago, Peter would have performed the last rites before she had breathed her last, preparing her soul for death regardless of her denomination, believing that he could absolve her sins, giving sacramental grace and prayers for the relief of suffering through anointing. As she was unaware of her surroundings and almost unconscious, he would have been unable to administer the final Eucharist, known as the Viaticum, a practice believed by the Catholic Church to ensure that the dying person would not pass over alone, but with Christ who would promise eternal life. A sardonic smile placed itself upon his lips at this ludicrous behaviour undertaken by priests for centuries.

It was only then that he noticed more khaki material nearby. The male half of the couple lay face down only a few feet away. As he moved toward the figure lying prone amongst the debris, he placed Susan’s passport in his pocket with the intention of handing it to a policeman. He was unsure if there would be looting of the bodies in this place but felt that it was the least that he could do for the young woman who had lost her life in this underground burial chamber. He was forced to step over the dead to reach the man, ignoring the cries of other injured victims nearby.

He could hear distant sirens overhead which attested to the fact that he would no doubt be required to spend his entire evening giving a statement. Not knowing the practice of the Egyptian police, he imagined being held in the city and maybe not being able to return to the UK for days.

Mind made up, he bent down beside the dead man who must have been closer to the epicentre of the explosion, such was the state of his body. Maybe he tried to shield the woman if he had seen the bomb or the perpetrator. Peter had never seen so much blood and what could only be brain matter on what was left of the back of his head. He rapidly searched the backpack that was still attached to the man to find some identification which, when he found it, labelled him as Paul Lee, also English, the same as the woman.

He was about to turn and flee the massacre with the two passports, when his eyes flicked onto the details on Mr Lee’s passport, and he noticed that the man had almost the same date of birth as himself, in fact, he was a mere two months older. When he took another look at the motionless form at his feet, he could see how similar this man was to himself in build and height. He was intrigued enough to want to see the face of the man, the germ of an idea festering in his mind. He gently rotated the tall, lean body, and was shocked by the visage staring blankly back up at his own countenance. He involuntarily leaned back but forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the face before him. There were no recognisable facial features apart from the staring shattered eyes. His head must have taken the full force of the blast.

Peter didn’t want to look any closer but a macabre fascination gripped him. Below the eyes that now seemed to be devoid of colour of any kind, there was a crater where the nose and mouth should have been, a deep red cavity that obliterated any facial characteristics that could identify him. It was impossible to look into that pit of crimson tissue, bone and fragments of teeth for more than a few seconds, so he looked down at the document once more to see what this man had looked like prior to descending to his death. There was a definite resemblance between the unsmiling image that looked back at him and his own. We could pass for brothers, he thought.

The idea that had begun to formulate in his mind grew exponentially and Peter began working on instinct as he quickly substituted his own passport with that of the dead man placing it the pocket of his shorts. He removed the backpack in the event that there were other items that could be used to identify the man, and took a deep breath before searching all other pockets for further information, but there was nothing more.

He continually looked around to see if anyone was taking any notice of his actions and to check if the authorities had arrived but chaos still reigned in the half light. Peter became just another one of the crowd that seemed to swell with every passing moment. He spotted the briefcase almost buried under another body nearby so he retrieved it and the carrier bag that lay nearby and proceeded to search the woman before satisfying himself that he had removed all traces of immediate identification and anything that connected the two of them. He gathered up her bag also and stood up with a last glance at the dead woman’s still beautiful face. In the confusion, he doubted that anyone would notice that the two were similarly dressed but he couldn’t know if he’d done enough.

The cries of the wounded became distant to his ears and even as he reached the steps which would take him once again into the glorious sunshine, his mind was busy. Those unlucky enough to be caught up in this senseless act would have to rely on others to help them. He had to distance himself from this place in case anyone remembered his face. He looked up as he ascended the stairs and was almost knocked back down as he ran squarely into a man moving rapidly toward the massacre below.

‘I’m so sorry, I just had to get out of there. So many dead.’ He managed by way of an apology.

‘Non, era colpa mia Padre,’ replied the man who hurried past before another word could be uttered.

The significance of the words, even the language used by the man who had addressed Peter was lost in the moment, such was his eagerness to leave the scene.

He emerged, blinking furiously into the warm Egyptian afternoon.

****

When he reached the bottom of the staircase Antonio Abate turned around in time to see the priest run into the street and disappear from sight. There was a mixture of emotions running through his head. Should he stay to help the wounded below or follow the priest to see where he intended to go next? Did he have something to do with this slaughter? No, impossible, he had been shadowing Father Norton since his arrival. He had seen the priest rush headlong down into the smoke-filled subway station and had waited for him to come out before deciding that he may be in trouble and so plunged into the by now rapidly clearing haze.

Antonio decided to stay with the dead and dying, then make his way back to his own hotel and pick up Father Norton’s trail later. Besides, he was convinced that there existed no further need to follow the priest. He had simply been told to follow and report any unusual activity, but as far as Antonio was concerned, the priest was merely enjoying his sabbatical, or had been up to now. There had been nothing in his room of consequence and he had not displayed any uncommon behaviour other than staying in rather over-priced hotels.

This priest that he was assigned to follow was just that, a priest, a man of God whose faith had been tested by the death of his mother, but who ultimately had given his life to the service of God and would undoubtedly return to it when he was ready. He had even rushed into a scene of carnage to help in any way that he could. It was hardly his fault if the sight of the multiple deaths and injury’s got the better of him.

Antonio had not registered the fact that Peter was carrying a lot more on the way out of the station than on his way in, but that was due to the unexpected collision between the two men.

He would report to his superiors this evening, after making sure that the priest was safely tucked up in his hotel room for the night.

He hoped that his subject would return home soon, it was too hot in this climate despite his Italian heritage. Besides, he was used to handling more physical threats to his employers, often in the form of assassins who were paid to kill or maim either His Holiness or a top ranking cardinal, not this studious priest who was highly unlikely to be of any threat to either the pope or anyone else.

Despite the derivation of his surname, which translates as ‘Father’ or ‘Abbot’, Antonio Abate had always known that his destiny was to do God’s work in more corporeal way, protecting his pope and those closest to him from harm. After reporting in that evening, he decided he would ask his superior if he could return to the Vatican as soon as the priest booked his passage home.

EIGHTEEN

After fleeing the underground just moments before the authorities arrived on the scene, Peter consulted his map of the area for directions to the nearest police station, and walked the two miles to reach it. Once outside the building, which had an impressive motto emblazoned outside which read, ‘Police for the people’, it only took a few minutes to locate a local boy. He was sitting in the gutter wearing nothing on his feet and to whom he gave a few shillings in return for taking Susan Severn’s handbag containing her passport into the station and to leave it where it would be found taking care not to be caught and questioned himself. The young lad needed no assistance in how to avoid being caught.

Next he found a nearby café where he sifted through the paperwork in the briefcase which revealed that the couple who had been business partners, were Forensic Archaeologists and had just been given authority to start a dig in a place called Tjaru close to Cairo to search for a fortress dating back three thousand years to the reign of Ramses ll, third king of the 19th dynasty. So, thought Peter, the woman had been beautiful and brilliant.

Back at his hotel, he performed a thorough search of the reminder of the belongings that he had taken from the couple. There was nothing that concerned him, so he placed the possessions of the unlucky twosome with his own luggage fearing that wherever he were to dump them here, it would prove too risky. If anything were to be found, it would raise too many questions. Best to take them home where he could shred everything.

He now knew why he had been drawn into the devastated underground. It was fate that he had noticed the couple prior to the explosion and similarly it was his destiny to use the man’s identity to assist in the formulation of his plan.

That evening, he booked a ticket from Cairo International Airport to London Gatwick. All that was left to do before leaving was to change his hair colour and style so that it resembled the one in Paul Lee’s passport. He purchased a temporary blonde hair dye from the shop within the hotel, applied it and exited the building unseen without checking out.

Although he felt that he resembled Paul Lee even more with his freshly dyed hair, as he approached passport control in both Cairo and London, he believed that the guards would hear his heart which threatened to jump out of his chest. However, he received no more than a cursory glance from the Egyptian, and in London the guard appeared more interested in the young woman at the next booth who was still dressed for the Egyptian heat in tiny shorts and a tee shirt that clung to her shapely torso, for which Peter was silently grateful.

It had proved ridiculously easy to implement his ideas. He rented a suitable property situated some distance from his former parish and became adept at researching every topic he required, from inquisition torture methods to assuming another person’s identity. He discovered his talent for working with wood, taking great pride in his creations, great and small. Each one would be used in turn for a far nobler purpose than ever before.

****

Memories of the birth of his undertaking all those months ago surfaced easily as he arrived at his destination. The masterful decision to switch identities with the dead man only added to Peter’s mounting excitement as he imagined what the next few hours would bring with the second phase of his journey. Faking his own death really had been a stroke of genius. He surmised correctly that his passport planted on Paul Lee, would lead investigators to his hotel, where his identity and home address were confirmed. This had eventually led to a death certificate being issued and sent to the bishop in the absence of any living relatives.

It could not have worked out better. His new identity gave him the freedom to figuratively and literally become a totally different person and although the hair dye was gone after a couple of washes, he changed his outward appearance in other ways. The man that he had been, the subservient man of God was nowhere to be seen and the confident, driven, healthy man of means began life anew.

Having researched Paul Lee’s history, he found that not only did he originate from Cumbria having moved to Norfolk just a few months before his demise, but that he was an only child of deceased parents and Peter could find no trace of another living relative. Chances were good that no one was looking for him, except maybe his employers or friends and even then, they would get tired of pursuing a fruitless search. After all, no corpse would ever be found.

When he rented the house he needed to accomplish his mission he used yet another name, a precaution taken in case there was the slightest chance that the police were to get too close, too soon. The owner didn’t bother to ask for references once Peter had offered to pay a year’s worth of rent up front and in cash. The property had a large basement and Peter spent many happy hours in his ‘chamber’ constructing his terrible instruments, the first of which had already been used to devastating effect.

He strolled along the meandering lane leading to the small village and smiled as it occurred to him that he seemed to possess a natural talent for breaking the law. How ironic that a man who had never so much as received a parking ticket could have such an aptitude for lawlessness, not to mention breaking more than a few commandments with his actions. He wondered absently if he fell into the sociopath or psychopath camp.

Following Father Fisher’s demise, he was sure that he must be one or the other. On one hand, he exhibited some of the characteristics of a sociopath. He blended naturally into society and had little remorse for the crimes that he had thus far committed. But conversely, the traits of a psychopath which were similar but held subtle differences, such as superficial charm, he knew he possessed also, together with certain recklessness when it came to taking risks. He smiled knowing that this was all just wordplay, he really didn’t care what label anyone would put on him, but it amused him nonetheless.

The darkening sky stole the shadows from the hedgerows leaving only a warm glow remaining along the edges of the sky. The heavy wooden mechanism was safely stored in the large rucksack that he conveyed without even registering its weight and the codex snuggled inside his breast pocket alongside his second letter to DCI Samantha Brown.

****

The taxi journey home had afforded Sam the luxury of time alone with the thoughts of the day. An eclectic mix of experiences ran through her mind, ranging from the gruesome post mortem of the poor priest, to the possible devastating truths of the text. In addition, dinner with Mike served to confuse her more than ever.

If the document proved to be from the first century, it could end up being the most important discovery ever for Christians, surpassing the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi manuscripts. There didn’t seem much room for doubt if the contents of this first page were to be believed. Jesus had not come from a simple family of carpenters! His father was a teacher and they travelled extensively. He had been shown pagan, Samarian, Egyptian and Greek practices which He in turn had used to gain support by performing healings and exorcisms! Much of the text seemed to support the theories in the many books that she had read over the years, and her over-active imagination began to envisage the everyday life of the previously unknown Jesus.

Living with the Essenes at Qumran could easily have given Him a unique respect for women, at a time when traditional Jewish beliefs were so very different. And He had a wife! The men who decided on the content of the definitive version of the New Testament would never have included any Gospel that informed the masses that Jesus was married or that He used tricks that were gleaned from sources outside of the Holy Land.

As the cab neared her village she closed her eyes, almost immediately beginning to doze. Her mind became a heady mix of the Sacred Feminine, the lives of Jesus and John the Baptist, interlaced with images not of Jesus hanging on the cross, but of Father Matthew Fisher. His ruined skin, covered from head to foot with tiny fissures. In her fevered imagination, the wounds began to bleed once more, the deep red blood flowing freely down the wooden structure, onto her own naked feet as she stood gazing up into his long dead face.

NINETEEN

Giuseppe Danza remained as motionless as possible, given the turmoil that raged within him. Cushioned upon an ornate, extremely valuable high backed chair outside His Holiness’s personal rooms, his salt and pepper coloured curly hair was slick with sweat. His leathery skin wrinkled more than usual as he frowned. He sat nervously waiting for an emergency audience with the world’s most powerful religious leader with news that his pope would not wish to hear.

All was quiet within the walls of the Vatican at this time of night. Vatican City State, the world’s smallest country is also a city, surrounded by a two mile walled enclave, covering one hundred and ten acres. The residing pope governed and lived within its protection and had done so since 1870. As an independent city-state, the Vatican prints its own stamps and mints its own Euros. It operates its own media outlets and even has its own flag and anthem.

Giuseppe believed he would never wish to live anywhere else in the world, and considered himself to be supremely lucky to be employed serving a man who embodied everything that the Catholic Church stood for. He loved to wander the multitude of cultural sites, valuing the spiritual quality of his surroundings. His favourite place within the high walls however would always be the basilica.

St Peter’s Basilica sits atop a city of the dead, a Roman cemetery that once stood on Vatican Hill during pagan times. In 64CE, a fire destroyed much of Rome for which Emperor Nero blamed the Christians, announcing that they had started the inferno. Many were executed in indescribable ways including St Peter, who was supposedly buried in a shallow grave on the hill. However, when Christianity had become the religion of choice during the fourth century, Emperor Constantine began the construction of the original basilica with St. Peter’s tomb at its centre. The current basilica was built in the sixteenth century, where it remains today above a labyrinth of catacombs and the alleged grave of St Peter.

Most people don’t know the full history of this great place Giuseppe thought, attempting to divert his mind from the task at hand. Up to 1870, Italy was comprised of a collection of sovereign Papal States, but at that time a new secular government seized all the land of these states with the exception of the Vatican and a cold war of sorts began between the church and the Italian government. Pope Pius IX proclaimed he was a ‘prisoner of the Vatican’ and for almost sixty years, all popes refused to leave the protection of the city. This state of affairs ended in 1929 with the signing of the Lateran Pacts allowing Vatican City to exist as its own sovereign state and the church was compensated with what equates today to over $1 billion.

A small smile briefly sat on Giuseppe’s face, as he considered that from the entrance fees into the Sistine Chapel and Vatican Museums alone, the Church makes eighty million euros each year.

Giuseppe’s position is head of the Vatican Secret Police, an organisation that is virtually unknown even within the confines of the city itself. There have been Secret Police in existence for over two hundred years, but most believe that after Pope Paul VI disbanded all but the Swiss Guard, that there was no longer a police presence which had formerly guarded His Holiness. Giuseppe was proud to be the leader of this elite force of a handful of men who possessed a gamut of differing skill sets. Men who were forced to live in the main outside of the law, tasked with the less tasteful business of the Holy See.

A few of the secrets that Giuseppe had learned since his promotion were known to only a handful of people. One such confidence was the truth concerning the death of Pope John Paul I, although rumours still circulate both online and within the boundaries of Vatican city. Giuseppe had been a new recruit in the Secret Police when, on September 28th 1978 the popular so called ‘smiling pope’ had been poisoned a mere 33 days into his papacy. Killed primarily it was said as he was about to expose corruption within the Vatican Bank.

Today Giuseppe was only too aware that this fact was only one of the many unsavoury tasks that had been undertaken by his fellow officers on the order of either the pope of the day or one or more of the high ranking cardinals. He took consolation that for the most part, the church did not have to resort to murder as often as in centuries past.

Brought up just outside the city walls in an area dubbed the ‘Heretic District’, Giuseppe lived through a tough childhood, the dwellings little more than slums with crime commonplace twenty four hours a day. His father had worked within the Vatican itself along with four thousand others, performing menial tasks such as cleaning and maintenance, but his young son had been captivated by the sights and sounds of the city. He would sometimes accompany his ‘babbo’ and enter through one of the many employee entrances.

His favourite place as a small child was the Sala Rotunda or Round Room shaped like a miniature pantheon. Its high domed ceiling caused many tourists to become dizzy as they took a closer look at the rings of symmetrical squares leading to the top, resembling a giant round crocheted hat. The museum itself contains many hugely impressive ancient mosaics covering the floor with equally old statues lining the perimeter. He liked to stand close to the demitasse at the centre, the massive round red cup made of igneous rock, into which he was unable to see until he grew to five feet tall. From there he would walk slowly around the room examining each figure, always ending up in front of the bronze likeness of the God Hercules. As a prepubescent boy, Giuseppe was in awe of this sculpture, having learned a little from his father about Roman mythology. This great man, the son of Zeus, famous for his strength and adventures was the ultimate hero to the young boy he had been.

As an adult, although he no longer believed in Hercules as a true historical figure, he still liked to walk round the Sala Rotunda ending up in front of the muscled hero that many myths and legends were built upon. Despite being poorly educated, Giuseppe had managed to learn to read and write and educated himself further in a bid to be more than his father. His family were ultra-religious and held all popes in the highest regard despite the appalling living conditions that were made no better with the succession of Holy Fathers who governed the Catholic Church and who dwelt just a short walk from the rundown homes of the less fortunate.

Giuseppe achieved a better life than his father by employing a mixture of hard work, charm, and on occasion, violence. His ambition changed from a desire to join the priesthood, to that of becoming one of the Swiss Guard, finally developing into an invaluable part of the Secret Police. Ultimately, his desire had been to rise from the gutter, something he achieved before he was twenty years old, leaving behind his family, never looking back and never regretting his choice. He was proud of what he had accomplished and how far he had come inside one of the most clandestine units in the world.

All the tourists saw were the Swiss Guard, as they were meant to, none of them suspecting that there existed another, smaller band of brothers who had been protecting the various bishops of Rome for many years, coupled with a handful that safeguarded the secrets that the tiny principality possessed and would never reveal. Giuseppe now knew that there were quite a few skeletons in the cupboard that must be kept from the general public at all costs, most of which were housed in the secret archives, a facility that had long ago provided Giuseppe with the truth behind John Paul’s demise.

The Catholic Church is nothing if not fastidious in keeping records, including the atrocities committed over its long history, such is its confidence that only those deemed worthy of entrance to the central repository will ever be privy to them. The secret archives were separated from the main Vatican library in the 17th century by Pope Paul V, with strictly controlled access allowed on occasion. This is always on the understanding that the person wishing to view any of the items has a letter of introduction from a recognized institute of research or a suitably qualified person in the field of historical study. The visitor must also specify what they wished to examine. Browsing is certainly not permitted.

There would always be items hidden from all except the most privileged, of which Giuseppe was immensely proud to be one. Among the many volumes hidden from view is the almost complete and earliest first Gospel of Mark, and was the reason for Giuseppe’s early morning audience with Pope Leo.

Most of Giuseppe’s men, numbering around ten at any one time, were trained to the highest standard and specialised in either weaponry and martial arts or in technology and it had been one of the latter, a young man named Lorenzo, relatively new to the group who had awoken him some hours ago. The information that Lorenzo had relayed caused the older man’s stomach to clench even now, around the knot that had developed since reading the two pages of transcript that the younger man had shown him. Giuseppe was not a techie in any sense of the word, having no interest in the latest scientific advances, but he had great faith in those who did. So, when Lorenzo informed him that the second page of what he immediately recognised as Koine Greek had been flagged up, he knew before reading it that it must contain certain keywords and phrases. Countless words and axioms had been fed into the powerful computer, but it was only when documents were found to contain a certain number of hits would it be highlighted and examined more closely.

That was the extent of Giuseppe’s knowledge of how the technique worked, but he was confident that any member of his team would only disturb him, especially in the early hours with good reason, as many items were routinely flagged each week and were dealt with by either Lorenzo or the other specialist, Paulo.

Now, in his moist hands he held a copy of an email sent within the United Kingdom along with an attachment that had also been printed out. The computer programme recognises all keywords and phrases in almost every known language, and contained within the second page were more than enough hits to have been worth waking him. When Giuseppe saw the list of highlighted keywords the knot had begun low in the pit of his stomach, but that feeling was nothing compared to the turmoil he felt by the time he had fully translated and appreciated the text for what it was.

Giuseppe had studied most of the ancient languages that were to be found in the archives over the years that he had spent living within the city walls. Greek, Hebrew, Sumerian, Akkadian, Aramaic and others.

This knowledge was just one of the many reasons that he had risen to his current position. Not only was he a skilled linguist with total commitment to the Church and to the pope in particular, but he also possessed a natural talent to kill without compunction when required to do so. During the past twenty years, aggression had only proved necessary on a handful of occasions, but his actions had protected the sanctity of the Holy See and the Pontiff in particular.

By the time he’d finished the translation, having sent Lorenzo away, Giuseppe’s hands shook with fear. He knew that the page was one of those missing from the much larger volume.

So, he had left the comfort of his bed chamber, his body protesting despite the fitness regime that he still inflicted upon it each day regardless of his sixty two years. He traversed the corridors and courtyards of the Vatican which led to the annals beneath the surface. The place he sought was adjacent to the official library that housed artefacts, relics and priceless documents, and which held a much smaller collection than the 85 kilometres of shelving that the library itself enjoyed. The official website of the archives states that the oldest document that the Vatican possesses was written during the eight century but Giuseppe knew different. Much of the contents of the smaller anthology pre-dated the fifth century, never mind the eighth.

The Prefect of the archives, Sergio Pagano, whom Giuseppe did not expect to be in attendance at this early hour of the morning, was visibly shocked to see anyone roaming the corridors, but had no choice but to allow him entrance, such was Giuseppe’s status within the Vatican. A palaeographer like Father Pagano, who had studied the form and processes of ancient writing, could have been of assistance, but what Giuseppe had concealed within his robe was too important to reveal to anyone but His Holiness. Sergio’s pleasant face, and slightly pug nose changed in appearance upon recognising his early morning visitor. It was now a mixture of annoyance and curiosity yet he smiled nonetheless as Giuseppe moved into the corridors of subdued lighting.

Having forgotten where the ancient volume was stored, Giuseppe was compelled to conduct a methodical search as there was no written record of the content of this library. For two hours, his hunt proved fruitless and he began to tire, feeling his throat grow ever more parched due to the constant artificial, climatically controlled flow of air through the store of hidden treasures. Some were so delicate that they had to remain at a constant temperature of 70 degrees Fahrenheit with 40% humidity in order to preserve their current state. Just as he was considering going back to his bed for a rest, he found what he had been looking for.

A large box caught his practised eye, totally innocuous to a casual observer. Not that casual observers were allowed of course. It had been labelled by hand; ‘Marci Evangelistae’.

It was not long after taking up his office that Giuseppe had been shown this large container by the pope himself. The title had been enough to elevate his curiosity and he had read the entire Gospel in one sitting, such was its explosive content. It was obvious that there were pages of text missing and this had led him to connect this fact to something he had read previously in the computer files that he had inherited following his appointment. Upon checking, he discovered that there had been intermittent observation of an English parish priest dating back to the early twenties, followed by that of his adopted son in the remote chance that the missing pages had been withheld by Father Smith. Guiseppe read the file but had not thought of it again, until tonight.

Giuseppe lifted the heavy lid of the box and gently removed the Gospel that fitted snugly inside. On the cover in a fine hand were the words, ‘το ευαγγέλιο του Μάρκου’ which he knew proclaimed this large volume to be ‘The Gospel of Mark’. He was one of the privileged few who, over the centuries since it had been in the Vatican’s possession, had kept the secret not only of the Gospel itself, but of the identity of its author.

That this was the earliest and only original edition of this book that existed did not trouble Giuseppe. He was aware that what was contained inside did not correlate to the biblical version of the life of Christ, but to him, it was the inviolability of his church and his pope that was of utmost importance. Maintaining the peaceful status quo was so much more important than the truth. The people of the world would not be able to handle the true facts of the life of their redeemer. Most were weak and used the Church as an emotional crutch. Who was he, or indeed anyone to kick that well used prop from under them? This made the subject matter all the more volatile should it become public knowledge.

Having replaced the large volume, Giuseppe left the library and walked at an ever increasing pace to his office where he called up the details of the file on his laptop and quickly learned these had been updated since he read them some years previously. He already knew that the original priest, Father Stuart Smith had adopted a son called Peter but was unaware that this man had fathered a child, now also a priest named Peter Norton. The Vatican operatives however, could not be sure if this younger man knew the identity of his father as no contact between the two had been found.

However, following his mother’s death almost two year ago, Peter Norton had asked to take a sabbatical to the Holy Land and Antonio Abate had been sent to tail him.

Despite visiting Nag Hammadi and Qumran, a decision had been taken to stop all surveillance of the priest, considering him harmless. Giuseppe had not been involved in what had seemed a mundane matter and as far as he was concerned, this was the only consolation. He had not been the one who had given the order to stop shadowing of the English priest, although should the worst happen, he was the one who would carry ultimate responsibility.

Before requesting an audience with the pontiff, he checked online news reports and social media as the intercepted email from the English police stressed the need for an urgent translation of the attachment and total privacy due to a significant incident which was linked to the enclosed document. By the time he’d found early reports of the death of a priest in an area close to the origin of the email, Giuseppe knew beyond doubt that Peter Norton not only possessed at least one page of the Gospel of St Mark, but that he was exacting some kind of twisted revenge on those he held responsible for withholding the truth.

Giuseppe’s role now was to persuade His Holiness to sanction the assassination of this former priest, albeit one who had spectacularly fallen from grace. The elimination would be a task that he alone would carry out to protect not only his way of life within the walls of the Vatican, but those of millions around the world.

Or he would die trying.

TWENTY

Peter entered the church of St Lawrence and looked around at the austere surroundings, offering him, and doubtless most that entered little comfort. He walked slowly up the aisle taking in the simple stained glass image of Jesus suffering the little children to come unto him. A mocking smile played around his lips as he examined the multi-coloured glass. He felt the weight of the codex in his pocket more heavily than the wooden device that was upon his back. He had been born to undertake this work and he was rejoicing in it. However, his reverie was short lived as he became aware of movement in his peripheral vision.

The door to the sacristy opened and a rotund, Friar Tuck-like clergyman bounded into the room wearing a smile atop his vestments. He waved cheerfully and his smile seemed to widen further as he moved his not inconsiderable bulk with a grace and fluidity that contradicted his heavy form. His age was indeterminate, primarily due to the weight he carried, his chubby face appearing smooth and almost wrinkle free. His hair loss gave the impression that he had taken tonsure, the crown being completely smooth, the only hair growing around the outer edges of his head.

‘Hello there!’ the small round man boomed, his voice enunciating to the back row of pews. ‘You must be Mr Baptiste. I trust you found us without any difficulty. I know the satnav can take you all round the houses before you end up in here in Lackford. You won’t regret moving to the village though, we have a good sized congregation, and if you like walking there are the Lackford Lakes, a positive oasis for oceans of birds and other wildlife. Oh, listen to me, I’m rambling on, but I just love this place and I like nothing better than to tell anyone who’s interested, all about it’. By the time the diminutive priest had finished his eruption of words, he was within three feet of Peter holding out a well-manicured, baby pink, plump hand in his direction. His smile was almost lost in the sea of well-fed flesh that emerged above his constricting clerical collar, giving the impression that it was strangling the little man, such was the florid colour of his face. Peter had not wanted to touch the priest until he was ready, but the situation demanded it, so he plastered on his fake smile and shook hands. Thankfully the palm was not damp as he had feared, and he allowed himself to relax.

‘Hello Father Coleman, it’s good to see a friendly face. I hope we get to know each other better before too much longer. Your church is wonderful, especially the stained glass window.’ The irony of the man’s surname being the same as the priest that had encouraged him when he was a boy was not lost on Peter.

‘Yes, it is beautiful isn’t it?’ the priest was saying. ‘Now, why don’t we sit in the front pew? I find that just being able to look at the altar and the tabernacle makes even my smallest worries just fly away!’ Peter could see that the holy man really believed his own rhetoric and he felt an assortment of emotions begin to surface. A small part of him was sorry that this man had been used by the church, but he felt a deep growing anger that was stronger than his pity. How could anyone believe in all the outdated principles that the Catholic Church still employed? Yet, he himself had been as deluded, so he must not make any quick judgements until Father Coleman had been shown the one true Gospel. Only then would Peter know if the years of indoctrination were too deeply embedded.

Before he sat beside the priest, Peter removed the backpack but held one of the handles in his right hand. He then reached into his left hand pocket for the handkerchief soaked in Isoflurane. He’d experimented with chloroform on a stray cat before embarking on his quest, but even the small amount he used had killed the animal. Further research revealed that to obtain the correct dose of chloroform was incredibly difficult so he’d returned to the internet and acquired, with only a small amount of difficulty, a bottle of Isoflurane. Most websites only sold this to veterinary practitioners who of course would have a licence, but as Peter had found on many other occasions, anything could be procured online if you looked hard enough. An added bonus was that it was totally untraceable at any post mortem.

As he sat beside the short, stout man of God, who at that moment was inhaling deeply, no doubt to regale Peter with more twaddle concerning the village, Peter brought his left hand up to the priest’s open mouth. He dropped the bag to the floor and used his right hand to force the smaller man’s head further into the cloth, so that he had no choice other than to inhale the toxic vapour.

The priest had no time for a last cognitive thought, he simply collapsed heavily to the floor where Peter watched him for a few moments before moving to the next part of his plan.

****

Sam felt weary as she entered the police station having risen too early but fed up with rolling around her large bed. She had texted Chris to see if he was alright but had not heard back from him as yet. Following a bowl of porridge she had also messaged Mike who had called her back straight away. He too had been unable to stay in bed at the hotel, saying that he had re-read the text once more to see if anything else occurred to him. Sam secretly hoped that she had been on his mind too, as he had on hers.

The only item of interest that he had come up with was that the supposed author of the canonical Gospel, St Mark the Evangelist, a companion and friend to St Peter, was also from Cyrene, the birthplace of Simon and his sons. It was a possibility that Mark and Alexander were one and the same person but nothing could be said for certain at this point. Sam thanked him for his input and he said he would continue to do some research and would be available should she need him.

Sam was trying to process all the information that she had gathered over the previous day and a half as she walked through the outer doors of the police station, past the desk sergeant who was trying to look interested as an old lady wearing a peculiar multi-coloured Rastafarian type hat was telling him that her next door neighbour, also a pensioner, was growing cannabis in his conservatory. The sergeant looked up briefly and nodded in her direction.

As she walked down the long corridor, thoughts of her killer swam around images of the dead priest like a predatory shark toying with its prey, yet as she entered the incident room, her thoughts immediately became focused as she looked around at the hive of industry being displayed by her team, most of whom were already hard at work.

‘Morning boss,’ chirped Tommy, his smile warm and welcoming, back to his old cheeky self after recent events. ‘Dr Cross called with the PM results. Want me to bring them through and give you the full SP?’ Sam nodded and glanced at the whiteboard as she strode purposefully toward her office, noting the grim image of Father Fisher at its centre. I must get justice for this man, she thought. An innocent person who had devoted his life to the church. What on earth could the killer gain from taking his life? She removed her coat and rounded her desk, followed closely by Tommy who placed the post mortem results in front of her.

‘There’s not much new to read guv, as you know, cause of death was a massive heart attack brought about by the trauma of multiple injuries. There was nothing on or in the body that helps us in any way. Dr Cross actually sounded pissed off. Oh sorry boss’. There was no trace of his customary smile as he apologised for his vulgarity.

‘No worries Tommy. It’s a bad one. The sooner we can figure out who this guy is and nail him, the less pissed off we’ll all be!’ Sam shared Nate and Tommy’s frustration, but it was still early days, too early to beat herself up too much anyway. She was only too aware that a killer always has the advantage initially, because only he knows what he intends to do next and what his agenda consists of.

’I chased up SOCO when I came in guv. There’s no trace of any forensic evidence whatsoever and all the houses in the vicinity have been called on and no-one saw anything other than what we know already.’ Tommy’s expression reflected the same exasperation that she was feeling.

‘Okay, so do we know anything fresh about the priest?’

’Not really boss. Seems like most of the villagers thought highly of him though, and not just the church goers. One or two had a go at the Catholics in general, but not the priest in particular. I called his bishop just now too, but he couldn’t give me any reason why this should have happened to this particular priest. Maybe it was simply coz he was old and frail and wouldn’t have put up much resistance. The bishop did say that Father Fisher was one of the old brigade of priests though, you know those that still believe the New Testament Gospels are the divine word of God. Took ‘em as Gospel, so to speak, pardon the pun. Same story we heard yesterday.’

‘So, we really don’t have a thing to go on then, do we?’ Sam stated with a sigh.

‘What about the page of old writing that was left for you guv? That tell us anything?’

‘Not really. It gives him a motive of sorts, but it’s just lunacy Tommy. I’ll brief you fully now so you can inform the troops, but I don’t think it takes us any closer to him as yet.’ For the next thirty minutes, Sam outlined the content of the text for her second in command, the feeling of disturbance building inside her as she read through the translation once more. When she’d finished, Tommy’s parting comment almost brought a smile to her face despite the circumstances.

‘So Jesus was just a normal geezer who liked the limelight then?’

He left, intending to copy the text before cascading the content to the team. He said that he would continue looking into Father Fisher’s background. For what, he didn’t have a clue.

Sam’s mobile rang. It was Chris.

‘Hi Sam, sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, didn’t have a very good night thinking about poor Father Fisher. I keep imagining all sorts of things, are you sure you can’t tell me what happened?’

‘Not yet Chris, but I’m pleased you called. I should have warned you yesterday. Please take extra care, this man seems to know things about me so I’m just asking you to be on your guard. Lock all doors and windows when you’re alone.’ If she had more resources, she would have a guard assigned to protect this man that she loved in every way but one.

‘Do you think that he will kill again?’ Chris’s nervousness was almost tangible as he spoke into her ear.

‘I think it’s highly likely, but I’ve no concrete evidence to back that up. It could be another priest, but I’ll admit I’m rather at a loss at the moment. If it weren’t for Mike, the linguist from Cambridge University who’s helped me decipher a document left by the killer, I wouldn’t have much of a clue as to the killer’s motives. Even if they do sound crazy!’

‘Mike from Cambridge eh?’ Chris’s voice had changed from apprehension to keen interest as quick as a heartbeat. ‘Is he young? Attractive?’ Ever the match-maker, Chris would dearly love to see his friend happy in a relationship. It had been too long, she needed someone to love and be loved by.

‘Just be quiet. You are always trying to pair me off. He’s just helping me with the case as it involves a page of ancient writing and he happens to be an expert.’ Sam was grateful that Chris wasn’t in the room with her as a blush crept up her neck and flushed around her cheeks.

’But he’s not ancient though is he?’ The young priest didn’t need to be in the same room to know when Sam was being evasive.

‘I’m not saying any more Chris, just drop it ok?’ Before he could ask any further questions she added, ‘And do what I ask about keeping safe will you?’

‘Of course I will.’ Just as she was about to hang up he added, ‘Let me know of any developments. On the man front I mean’. Sam was about to swear at her friend but he had ended the call before she had a chance. She smiled, grateful to him for lightening her mood, just a little.

TWENTY ONE

When Father Mark Coleman eventually regained consciousness, his world was dominated by pain. Although his vision was blurred he managed to discern that he was seated at his own desk in the sacristy but he was bent forward so that his head was touching the desk itself. Or rather it would be if he didn’t have something fixed to it preventing all but the smallest movement in any direction. His focus sharply became the extreme pain emanating from his hands which had been pinned to the desk with large flat topped nails. The magma-like inferno of agony was so intense that he screamed, something that he had not done since he was a baby. As he gasped to take another breath, a voice cut into his suffering.

‘Oh, you are awake at last. I was beginning to think that I had given you a fatal amount of anaesthetic. You’ve been asleep all night! I do hope that you can put the pain to the back of your mind for now, to enable us to talk.’ The priest struggled to turn toward the voice whilst attempting to blink tears from his eyes and attempting to keep his hands as still as he could, but the device that held his head did not allow for sufficient movement. Peter moved into his line of sight and sat down on a chair in front of him. ‘You probably have questions for me, no?’

Even if he had been able to nod his head, the priest would not have moved. He was profoundly afraid of this man. His voice was too measured, too emotionless, and as the priest looked up into the eyes, he saw no benevolence, no compassion of any kind.

‘I’m sorry that the nails are just shop bought father. It would have been fitting if I had been able to find some a little more of the time. Just like our saviour’s.’ The smile that sat on his captor’s face was a cruel parody of kindness. ‘Oh but I see that you are not concerned with such trivialities. Ok, let’s get down to business then in case you pass out and I have to wait for you again. Take my advice, just keep your hands still and the pain will subside somewhat. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, so trust me father.’ Tears not only of pain, but of sorrow spilled down the cleric’s face as he felt warm urine run down the inside of his trousers.

‘So, to give you some background,’ Peter began, oblivious to the priest’s distress, ‘I have been given a codex, a Gospel that I intend to bring to the attention of the Christian world. However, to get the world’s attention, I have chosen four witnesses to either come with me on my journey, or who will be used as instruments to make the world sit up and listen. You are my second father.’

Peter looked into his captive’s eyes to see if his words were being understood. He was unable to say for certain but carried on. ‘I am going to read you the pages of text that I possess which have been translated and dated to the first and fifth centuries. After which, we can discuss these and you can decide if you wish to become part of history. But first, you need to be aware of what the device is that you have fixed to your head, and how it was originally used by our forebears. It may give you some perspective.’ The pitiless words washed over the small man, who had closed his eyes to begin praying silently for salvation or failing that, a quick death.

Peter stood up from the chair and raised his hand in which he carried a small hammer and struck at something positioned above the priest’s head. The result of this was an immense surge of new pain that radiated throughout the priest’s skull. He screamed once more and begged Peter to stop.

’That’s just me hitting the top of the apparatus attached to your head father. It is known as the ‘Head Crusher’ for obvious reasons and was first used in Germany in the sixteenth century, then again during the Spanish Inquisition. Remember the Holy Inquisitions father? Of course you do. We’ve all read about them haven’t we? But have we really thought about the horrors inflicted by our church on those innocents? I know I didn’t, at least not until I realised that the atrocities were carried out to assist in preventing the populace questioning the Catholic dogma. That way, no one would discover the truth behind the birth of our great religion. You are listening to me father are you not?’ Peter bent down to look into the wretched face of the priest who was unable to move his head but who made a small noise, fearing what would happen if he kept quiet. ‘Good. I would hate to have this conversation with you if you were not paying attention.’

Peter removed the codex from his pocket, unwrapped it from its protective cover and continued. ’What I have in my hands father is a few pages taken from the original Gospel according to Mark the Evangelist. The ‘Lost Gospel of Mark’ if you prefer. These pages have been carbon dated to the first half of the first century so I assure you that they are indeed genuine.’ He looked once again into the eyes of his prisoner and although there was much pain clearly visible in the compressed features, Peter could finally see that he had the full attention of the man. ‘I have the translations here and I will read them to you, and if you should come to realise as I have, that we have been deceived, I will let you live.’

The priest closed his eyes, partly because of the intense pain that he felt from the nails that tore at his flesh, but also because he could patently see the madness in his gaoler’s eyes. He believed that this man had no intention of letting him live. He decided he would die with what was left of his dignity intact. The younger man began reading the first page of the translated codex, the original still held almost lovingly in his hands. Father Coleman listened in a kind of appalled wonder at the words. When the first page was complete, Peter paused and looked down at the heavy restricted form before him.

’So, we learn that Jesus was married after all father! Well, when you think about it, Jewish men, especially holy men, were all married were they not? There is no record of any other religious leaders in either the Old or New Testaments who were unmarried or celibate is there? Yet even today, we are still not allowed to marry or have relationships according to the rules of the Catholic Church!

‘In first century Israel, or Palestine if you prefer, it was expected that a Rabbi would marry because they were required to procreate. If a woman was barren, it was a huge burden to her and her husband, so for us to believe that Jesus never married is rather ludicrous, don’t you agree?’

Peter leaned forward, his eyes just a few inches from the priest’s, who made no reply. ’There is no argument really is there father, but you need to start engaging in conversation with me. The device attached to your head is restrictive, I know, but you are able to talk with a just little effort. I would hate to have to demonstrate what this wooden contrivance is capable of doing to your cranium!’ The priest’s eyes widened slightly but still he made no comment. Peter continued with his bombastic oration.

‘I love the part where the author talks about the hoaxes that Jesus performed. Hah! So, there were no miracles father, just parlour tricks, learnt whilst He travelled to other, more enlightened places’. This time the priest endeavoured to open his mouth as much as was able and uttered something but Peter was unable to make it out. ‘Come on, speak up, I can’t hear your argument if you don’t speak a little louder’. He was beginning to enjoy himself again as he had with his first witness. The priest dragged in a lungful of air before speaking, the contraption on his head causing him to keep his teeth clamped together much like a ventriloquist, and much to Peter’s amusement.

‘What about the miracles that couldn’t possibly be tricks? The raising of Lazarus or the feeding of the five thousand,’ the priest managed to get out. He could not allow this crazy man to simply dismiss the great miracles that his Lord had performed.

Peter couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud, relishing the look of horror on the face of his hostage. ’If you actually take time to read the Gospels with an open mind father, you must see that the miracles either only appear in one Gospel, never in them all, making it clear that they were invented, or that they are only witnessed by the disciples, not the masses! Take Lazarus, since you brought him up so to speak. His miraculous rise from the dead is only in John’s Gospel! Why? Why do the others not mention this most fantastic of all the miracles?

’You know as well as I do that the New Testament Gospels were added to and amended and often had the tenses corrected because they were not written by one person! It doesn’t take much imagination to work out that the miracles were a fabrication of the Gospel writers to add to the myth of the ‘divine’ Jesus. It was easy! They simply made up stories so mind-blowing that the early Christians just lapped them up!’ One glance into the older man’s eyes spoke volumes to the former priest.

‘I see you are still sceptical father. But let’s look at the miracle of the loaves and fishes at Bethsaida, to see if I can get through to you. Firstly, picture the scene. Thousands of people gathered around Jesus and His disciples. They can clearly see that there is insufficient food in the baskets if we are to believe the biblical account of this so called miracle. You follow me so far father?’ Without waiting for a sign from the priest Peter continued his rhetoric. ’So, there is hardly any food to feed these countless people, yet the loaves and fishes keep coming! What do those at the front do? Do they cry out and declare a miracle. Do they fall at the feet of this magical being? No, no one says a thing! They just eat the food that Jesus has inexplicably provided for the hoards.

’Yet on another occasion, when Jesus heals a single leper or makes a blind man see they go mad! Why? Because it is a work of fiction!’ Peter’s voice was reaching a higher pitch as he became more irate. ‘The miracle here if any such event occurred at all is that Jesus managed to get men of different tribes and beliefs to sit together in the first place! That my dear father was unheard of at that time!’ Peter’s former amusement had turned into a cold rage.

’As a direct result of this gathering, if you believe it actually happened, was that the people wanted Jesus to become their king, one who would unite the tribes once more. Now this part is more plausible, and when I have finished reading all these pages to you father, you will see that Jesus was never ‘divine’ and was not put on this earth to save us, but merely came along a time of religious strife and disharmony. He clearly believed that by uniting the twelve tribes of Israel, He could lead His people to overthrow their oppressors once and for all. But I am going too fast father, you will want to hear the rest of the Gospel I’m sure.’

Peter looked down at his second witness. The older man had closed his eyes once again prompting Peter to jump up and take another swing at the top of the device. A fresh bolt of pain cascaded around the priest’s skull causing him to cry out once more.

To compound the priest’s agony, Peter began to turn the large screw at the top of the device, bringing the skull cap down further causing the priest’s teeth to grind together, preventing him from any further speech, a fact that Peter was oblivious to in his fury. Years of preaching to his congregation had not elicited a fraction of the emotion he was experiencing now, even if the sentiment was a wrath that felt like a physical presence within him. He continued with his tirade as his weight bore down on the wooden handle as it turned.

’Remember what this first page says about the Eucharist father? That the people living in Qumran, the Essenes, had been using the metaphor of bread and wine for many years! I’ve carried out much research on the practices that the bible recounts as original, which were supposedly performed by our saviour before all others and I’ve found that the Eucharist is just one example of the many lies that we have been force fed for generations. Let me enlighten you more father.

’The religion of Mithraism, as you may know, centred on the god Mithra, which pre-dates Christianity, and celebrates the consumption of bread and wine as a sacred meal, not to mention the use of Baptism, and the fact that this deity’s birthday was December 25th!’ Peter was in full flow and his diatribe continued unabated. ’Oh yes, and strangely enough, he had twelve disciples, held Sundays as sacrosanct, described a heaven and a hell, and here’s the best bit father, you’ll like this one. When Mithra died, he was placed in a tomb, rose three days later and was considered to be the saviour of the people! Mind you Osiris and Orpheus also did most of that too, but you see my point don’t you father? The entire story of Jesus is an allegory, a metaphor if you like, of pagan and Egyptian stories that were told hundreds, even thousands of years before your so called divine messiah lived. And you may recall that the Vatican was built immediately above the place where the Mithra religion was practiced.

‘Do you think it a coincidence father?’ Peter finally became aware that there was no reaction from the priest.

The priest‘s eyes fluttered but he was incapable of making any kind of response. Peter decided that as he seemed conscious, he would continue, so he began to read aloud the second page of the codex from the translated page he held in one hand whilst absently turning the handle of the device with the other.

TWENTY TWO

As he sat waiting to see the man who governed the Catholic religion, made up of over 1.2 billion followers worldwide in absolute monarchy, Giuseppe was a worried man. Even if he shared no blame in allowing this former cleric to run riot taking the life of at least one priest that he was aware of, he nonetheless felt a measure of guilt. Peter Norton was obviously more than a mere loose cannon. He had allowed a copy of a page of the Gospel to be in the public domain, showing a total disregard for his Church. This could lead to a catastrophic chain of events should it continue and so it fell to him to urge Pope Leo to sanction the death of the traitorous priest, or risk the collapse of everything they held dear.

He took a deep breath as he heard movement from within the pope’s chambers and rose slowly to his feet.

****

Peter looked at the destroyed, not so round face of the priest. He was unmoved and resumed his hyperbole before continuing to read aloud the translation of the second page of his beloved Gospel, not knowing and by now not caring, if the man in front of him was alive or dead.

’The family of Joseph and my family and others travelled from Qumran until we arrived in Galilee which had been chosen by John as it was not under Roman control and was a place of Jewish resistance. John preached in Sidon and Tyre which also were free of Roman tyranny. John was known here as the Teacher of Righteousness.

We listened to John speak to his followers and I was impassioned to join them and to help him rise up against our oppressors uniting the tribes. John performed similar tricks that I had witnessed by Jesus to heal the sick and other magic that I had not yet seen and this made the followers want to go with John and to take back that which had been taken. The followers did believe that he was the messiah. He preaches that now is truly a time of division but that the time of the Kingship of God is come near and now is time to repent and believe in the good news but there would be danger ahead.

John used the water of the river Jordan to purify the souls of all the new followers and this was done with no charge which angered the Temple elders who were corrupt. He became known by some as John the Baptizer. He preached to those who were not only of Jewish faith thus his followers became truly from mixed tribes all together in their wish to rise up. We would sit each day to listen to what he told us. He said that every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire. He gave to us a special prayer to God that he had learned in Egypt so everyone could pray together in one voice.

He said he was sending us out like sheep among wolves but that we must go all together in peace. He said we must be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves therefore I tell you do not worry about your life what you eat or of your body what you will wear for life is more than food and the body more than clothes consider the ravens they do not. I now understand why this great man required not good clothing or banquets for he had the love of God.

On the last day of his ministry John gathered us all together to eat and to say to us these words that I commit to this account of John the Baptizer. Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are those that feel guilt for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the gentle for they shall inherit the land. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice for they will be satisfied. Blessed are those who show compassion for they too will receive compassion. Blessed are those who are guiltless for they shall from their flesh see God. Blessed are the peacemakers for they will become the children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of justice for they possess the kingdom of heaven within themselves.

These words are now part of our daily life and prayer and when we had been with John for some time and our numbers swelled to over one hundred John was taken by the men of Herod Antipas. Herod was a tetrarch of the Romans and would do their bidding and such was the threat of John to the Romans and his popularity among the peoples of the area that it made them afraid. John told us that we could worship God from within our own hearts we had no need of holy men or temples. John knew that he was under threat from our enemies and that Herod would do their bidding. The centurions came and we heard that John was slain for the word of God.’

Peter looked up from the text, his eyes threatening to spill the tears of emotion that he was desperate to contain, but he was unable to control the white hot fury that burned within and so began to pace around the room oblivious to the other man, needing to vent his anger.

’Can you not see that what I have just read is proof that John the Baptist was the true Jewish Messiah, the one chosen to lead the tribes of Israel against the Romans? It was he who spoke the words of the so called ‘Sermon On The Mount’, not your beloved Jesus! And if you read it correctly, it is a political statement and not platitudes of love and peace! Yet the biblical Gospels contain virtually no mention of John after Herod kills him!’

There was no response to Peter’s statement, but he did not expect nor want one. ‘I’ll tell you why not. They were too afraid that John would be seen as the deliverer, the one who would lead the Jews out of oppression. Also, there is no mention of John baptising Jesus and a heavenly voice booming out over the river Jordan! That’s all made up of course!’

Peter knocked his leg on the corner of the table where the priest lay slumped, but felt no pain. Spittle flew into the air as he continued. ‘There is nothing in the New Testament that would account for the massive following that began after John’s death and which still exists today! All the sects that are connected to John, the Mandaeans, the Simonians, the Dositheans and maybe even the Knights Templar were ruthlessly persecuted by the Catholic Church, because of their knowledge and deep respect for him. Those that survive today have been driven underground. But that’s our church for you!’

Peter’s breathing became labored as he continued to stride with more urgency around the small room. ’There are so many things that do not ring true once you can look at the Gospels without prejudice. Did you know that early Syriac Christians refused to give Mary the title of ‘Mother of God’? When the church council of Ephesus in 431 gave Mary this title, the Syriac’s thought the whole idea of a Holy Mother of God was preposterous!’ Humourless laughter fought to rise from within his belly.

’Let me illustrate how manipulated the early Christians were father. After reading the New Testament Gospels, the people wanted to know more about the early life of Jesus as it is virtually non-existent in the Gospels as you know. They wanted miraculous and anecdotal stories about Him so the ludicrous ‘Infancy Gospel of Thomas’ appeared, written in the second century in which the author clearly shows that he has little knowledge of the life of a Jew, let alone Jesus, at that time, other than what could already be found in Luke’s Gospel. This new ridiculous Gospel has Jesus performing absurd miracles not found in the bible, such as bringing clay birds to life and cursing a boy who then becomes a corpse! It is so contrived that it is laughable. Even you must agree with that father.’

It was only when there was an audible cracking sound that Peter realised he had once again been turning the handle during his discourse and that his captive had sagged further onto the table. He bent down and quickly realised that the pressure of the skull cap had compressed the priest’s head to the extent that his jaw had shattered.

Dark red blood seeped from every facial orifice.

The priest was very dead.

TWENTY THREE

MAR SABA MONASTERY 1922

It had taken Father Smith two weeks of intense hard work to translate the ten pages of the codex, all of which took place behind the locked door of the library. He found it very difficult to keep brother Antony at bay, telling him a variety of untruths which played on his conscience. But he could not have taken any other course of action. Although the young monk would have been unable to understand the words written on the vellum, it would not have taken a genius to see that the subject matter of the documents were torturing the priest.

His entire belief system had been shattered. If these pages were indeed written by Alexander, son of Simon, Jesus was not the divine saviour who was worshipped the world over. He was undoubtedly a great man, who had wanted the best for His people, but He had not performed the miracles described in the New Testament in the way that they had been written and He had not been born as a result of a virgin birth. It was now clear why Jesus had been crucified rather than beheaded as would normally have been the case at the time and why there was still a following of John to this day.

He already recognised that the Gospels were not literally the word of God, but he had believed in their general meaning. These beliefs and way of life became his entire existence since the day he had wandered into St Mary’s church all those years ago and now it seemed that it had all been taken away from him.

Having finished his translation of the final page, the one that was clearly not as old and written in Latin by another hand, his destruction was complete. He could no longer hold back the tears and he wept unashamedly at his desk as he had not done since childhood. He felt in his heart that the documents were authentic, the style of the writing, clearly similar to that of the book of Mark contained within the bible. Whoever had decided to include an adaptation of this Gospel in the early versions of the New Testament, for these pages surely came from a much larger work, must have removed and amended many passages. Stewart was certain in his heart that the larger volume that these pages belonged to was not only the earliest, but the only true account of the life of Jesus and John the Baptist.

When there were no more tears to be shed, he moved to the narrow window of the vast room to look out at the small vegetable garden where the monks toiled despite the raging inferno that was early morning in the Kidron valley. He had worked all night to finish the last page. From his vantage point he could see Antony hard at work with the other monks and had no idea what he would tell the young man. He could not tell him the truth, nor could he tell any of the other monks with whom he shared these humble dwellings.

The long robes of the monastics swept over the gardens, collecting the dust that masqueraded as soil as they laboured in the intense heat, endeavouring to grow what paltry produce they could to help sustain life in this almost barren wasteland. Father Smith began to wonder if any of the traditional stories about Jesus were true. Fresh tears escaped from his eyes mixing with the sweat that covered his face.

Just at that moment, a robin landed at the window only a few inches from where he was standing. It appeared to look at him without fear, apparently interested in his predicament. It cocked its tiny head and puffed out its rubicund chest and chirped as if to give heart to the man who stood before it in abject misery. The priest smiled. It was the first smile that had found its way onto his face since the day that he had removed the codex from the cave, and inexplicably he felt immeasurably better.

As the bird inevitably flew away, his eyes followed it for a few moments, then he looked around at the collection of buildings that made up his home, their multi-coloured hues gleaming in the heavy sun, their reflections almost blinding.

He had come to love it here and considered the desert to be strangely beautiful, yet he remembered the English countryside too, the rolling greens, the majesty of the landscape. His smile broadened. There must be an architect behind all this beauty! Just look at all the things that are created by nature and the wondrous sights there were to be seen in the world. The only bad things in life are created by man, so if man had seen fit to invent a saviour to unite believers around the globe, that didn’t mean there was no God, no heaven, nothing to believe in!

His mind began to formulate a plan. His first course of action would be to send a message to the Vatican to inform them of his discovery. It was his duty to tell the pope the truth about the origin of their religion. He would tell the monks that he could not be sure of the date of the codex and that they should wait until Rome had examined the texts before saying anything further. He knew Antony would be impatient, but he would understand.

The information contained within the codex was too big to be held by one man. His Holiness could elect what to do with the codex, and if he decided to tell the world, then so be it.

****

Sam wanted to continue discussing the text with Mike, but she was unsure how or even if, this would help her case. In addition, she needed to see him again to enable her to understand her feelings for this man that had come into her life in such a strange way. Never before had she experienced any problems separating her work from her personal life and she needed some clarity. She was about to text him when her phone rang. It was him! Before she had even answered the call, her heart accelerated. Ridiculous, she thought, how old am I, twelve?

‘Hi Mike, how did you find your hotel?’ Keep it light.

‘Yeah, it was good, thanks. Bed was comfy, which is always a bonus. Do you have time to meet me for coffee? I can’t stop thinking of the contents of the text and would love to talk more to you about it, but I’ll understand if you’re too busy.’ His voice was as mellow as she remembered and she had to fight against the urge to gush out an animated reply.

‘Oh, I think I can spare you an hour of my time Mike. We have little to go on at the moment, so it will stop me from getting too wound up about it. I can make it to Starbucks on St Stephen’s street opposite the covered market in about twenty minutes if that’s ok?’ Her heart had recovered slightly for which she was grateful.

‘I’ll find it. See you soon then.’

After she put the phone back in her pocket, she sat at her desk and looked at all the information she had so far. It didn’t help. How the hell were they going to catch this maniac? She continued to stare at the pictures of the dead priest and re-read the letter and text once again before putting her jacket on and informing her team that she would be out for an hour, but that they could contact her on her mobile if anything came up.

She left the confines of the station and welcomed the warmth of the sun on her face as she stepped onto the street which had become much busier since her arrival. Norwich was a magnet for consumers who either came to surf the profusion of modern shops or browse leisurely around the many curiosity shops and ancient cobbled streets. Some of the older buildings had been lovingly restored to how they would have appeared in the sixteenth century and Sam never tired of the multiplicity that the city possessed.

The coffee shop was buzzing with shoppers and business people. Many city centre businesses had meetings in the quiet upstairs area of the cafe and it was there that she thought she would sit with Mike when he arrived. She felt a tap on her shoulder as she joined the queue and turned to see the smile that she had already come to like a bit too much.

‘Hi, you made it then,’ was all she could get out as she gazed into the bottomless azure eyes.

‘Yes, I’m quite good even without the aid of Google maps!’ he quipped. They now wore matching smiles.

‘I’ll get the coffees if you find a nice quiet spot upstairs if that’s ok? How do you take it, I know it was only yesterday, but I can’t remember?’ He’s going to think I’m an imbecile.

‘Just black no sugar please.’ His smile gave her the reassurance she needed. He bent forward to whisper in her ear. ‘I used to have the hot chocolate in here until I read that it contains twelve teaspoons of sugar, so now I go for the less sweet, but teeth staining plain black option.’ His teeth looked perfect to Sam, but she just smiled once more and turned to the barista who looked about fifteen, and placed her order. She decided on a skinny latte. It took no time at all and she carefully carried the two drinks up the stairs where she saw Mike sitting in a comfy chair at the back of the room, the perfect place for a private conversation.

She placed the coffees on the table in front of him and sat down. ‘Thanks Sam, how much do I owe you?’ He reached into his jeans pocket for change. ‘Don’t be daft Mike. That meal last night must have cost a small fortune, let me pay for the coffee for now at least.’

‘Ok. Now do you mind if we just plunge in?’ Straight to the point.

‘Yes, of course. In the absence of any actual evidence, there was no trace of anything on the letter, the text, the body or the surrounding area, I have had little else to think about really other than our man’s motives, which brings us back to the text.’

‘I’ve been thinking about the canonical Gospels in general Sam and I’m not even sure this is relevant or if it will help your case but I would like to share my thoughts with you because they may be of a similar sentiment to your killer.’ Sam blinked at him but said nothing. Mike began to talk and within seconds Sam was captivated by not only the content, but of the soft timbre of his voice and the understated passion contained in his words.

‘Well for a start, apart from our document, why have there been no contemporary works found about the life of Jesus? And how could the biblical Gospels, written so long after Jesus’ death be in any way accurate? Sorry, rhetorical questions.’ A small smile then, ‘In Paul’s letter to the Galatians in 48-54 of the Common Era, he makes no reference to Jesus the man, or his life, yet he wrote extensively about himself and many others. After all, he was the one who almost single-handily launched Christianity as we know it.’ Sam nodded in agreement remembering her not dissimilar discussion with Chris only two days ago. Mike went on, ’The term ‘Christian’ hadn’t even been used prior to Paul writing it. The case for Jesus’ divinity was made solely through Paul’s visions and dreams. He believed that he alone understood Jesus’ message although he never actually met Jesus, whereas this man, Alexander, seems to have first-hand knowledge. We know that Paul believed the world would end during his lifetime, so one could argue that today’s Christian beliefs are founded on the word of a man who believed there would be no future for anyone! How does that fit with Jesus saving mankind?’ Mike didn’t stop for Sam to contribute, but she was happy just to listen to his hypothesis.

’However, out of all the emerging religions of the time including James the Just’s movement and Peter the Apostle’s, only Paul’s uses the resurrection as the pivotal ideal, which he believed would aid man on the ‘Day of Judgement’, thus ‘Jesus the Redeemer’ was born. The New Testament gives us the impression of one united religion, but given that almost every aspect of Paul’s new religion was different to all the others, this idea was clearly ‘spin’, invented by either the authors of the Gospels or those responsible for the inclusion of these into the bible. This explains why Paul’s epistles made it into the New Testament. Thanks to the sacking of Jerusalem in 74CE as the new religion gained ground, and as it was the Jews who had rebelled against the Romans, it was them that the Romans pursued and not the early Christians.’

Mike took a breath, giving Sam the opportunity to comment. She dived in. ‘It’s obvious that due to the fragility of the scrolls used for the Gospels that they would have been copied to preserve the text over the years, leading to the scribes’ own interpretation especially when translating from one language into another. Matthew, Mark and John were supposedly written in Koine Greek originally but these had to be corrected as many sentences contained different tenses. Luke, on the other hand was written in a more educated Greek style.’ Sam sensed that Mike undoubtedly knew all this but she couldn’t stop herself. She looked into his eyes as he stared at her and paused.

‘Sam, please go on, I love your passion on this.’

She tried not to smile so broadly and continued. ‘Take Matthew and Luke, these two books have many direct quotes or sayings by Jesus whereas Mark has almost none. The book of John sees Jesus’ mission as very different to the other Gospels as it was written from a Roman perspective and not a Jewish one like the others. Amazingly, the British Museum’s copy of the earliest version of Mark contains no resurrection, this was clearly added later to cover the omission.’ A quick breath and a glance at Mike encouraged her to go on.

’Over recent years, scholars have come to realise that there are other sources, other Gospels that could and maybe should have been incorporated into the bible, not least some of the Dead Sea scrolls and those found at Nag Hammadi. Thanks to modern day authors such as Lynne Pinknett and Clive Prince, among others, the Catholic version of events is finally being challenged. I’ve read a few books on this subject over the years including my favourite, ‘The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail’ by Baigent, Leigh and Lincoln, a non-fiction version of the Jesus and Mary Magdalene marriage scenario. The authors really believe that the descendants of this partnership settled in France starting with Mary herself and where the locals still believe that her bones are in a cave in the village of Saint Max, something or other.’ Wow, I’d never have got through all that uninterrupted if Chris has been here challenging each sentence, she thought.

‘Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume,’ said Mike with a matter of fact quality to his softly spoken words.

‘You knew all that and you let me prattle on?’ Sam replied with more annoyance in her tone than she actually felt.

‘Yes, but you put it so well! Still how does this help you, other than to show that although we don’t condone his actions, we probably agree with the killer’s way of thinking more than disagree with it?’ Sam was about to respond by saying that she didn’t feel that she had anything in common with anyone who could so callously murder a man of God, but realised that in fact they did share some of the same views. This is why he chose me, she realised.

She was about to say as much to Mike but was prevented by the ringing of her phone. She removed it from the inside pocket of her bag and looked at the display. It was an unknown number. She answered.

‘Inspector Brown’.

‘Hello Samantha.’ Not a voice that she immediately recognised despite the familiar greeting.

‘Who’s speaking?’ She enquired.

‘Sorry, let me introduce myself. You know me only as Titus. That will suffice for now.’ Sam felt a rush of fear and something else she could not understand, which momentarily prevented her from taking a breath.

‘I used this name in my letter to you because in Paul’s letter to Titus, Book 1 verse 2, he says that God who cannot lie, promises eternal life. I thought this to be a good play on words, as my mission is to show that although God does not lie, man has been lying for eons.’ The voice was calm, measured and completely devoid of inflection.

Mike reached out to touch Sam’s hand as he watched the colour, the flush of their animated conversation, drain from her face faster than a receding tide from the shore.

TWENTY FOUR

MAR SABA MONASTERY 1922

The more Father Stuart Smith thought about the upcoming visit, the more nervous he became. Finally unable to sleep on the eve of the Vatican representative’s arrival, he sat up in his small bed, feeling the sweat run down his chest and back, only in part due to the temperature which during the summer months remained at almost thirty degrees throughout the night. He rose and walked from his solitary unadorned room and headed to the library.

The corridors were quiet and almost totally dark with only a few candles ensconced within the walls to light his way. He had no idea why he was going to the library other than to take one final look at the pages that had changed his perspective on his religion totally and utterly. He was certain that he wanted to remain in the service of God in whatever way he was able, but now that he was in possession of part of what he believed to be the only true Gospel that held the origins of his faith, he no longer believed that he could return to his parish in England. The lush and beautiful land of his birth seemed further away than ever before.

He entered the library, retrieved the text from its hiding place and sat down to read the words it contained for the last time.

****

The phone shook in Sam’s hand and she was unable to stop it despite gripping it furiously against her ear. He was still addressing her in that calm and steady voice.

‘I hope this call finds you well Sam. Has your man from Cambridge had a chance to translate the page that I left for you? Fascinating isn’t it? I can imagine that you feel vindicated now that the truth surrounding the Gospels is beginning to come out, are you not?’ Sam looked up at Mike who seemed to understand what was happening, and gripped her free hand a little tighter.

‘You killed an innocent, defenceless old man,’ was all that she managed to say, her voice betraying her emotions. She had never been contacted like this before, either by letter or phone, and the inner turmoil that she felt in attempting to focus and to be professional was immense. After a brief pause, she believed she could hear muffled laughter. That sound brought her back into sharp focus and she made an effort to draw him out, to get something from him that would help. ‘What is your real name Titus? Let’s meet and we can talk about it,’ her tone now strong and authoritative.

‘Yes, I did take his life Sam, but you mustn’t worry about that. He chose to ignore the evidence I presented to him. Unlike yourself, I feel sure. We have much in common, but I don’t think that meeting face to face at this juncture would be advantageous to either of us. I have more to show you before we converse in person. But I must admit, it would be pleasant to look closer into those pretty hazel eyes of yours.’ Suddenly Sam understood what it meant to feel your skin crawling. This man, who had so callously taken another life was complimenting her on her looks. It was too much and she snapped, anger overtaking fear in an instant.

‘You listen to me. My job is to catch you, that is all. We have nothing in common! I believe that every life is sacred otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I have to protect all life, even a scumbag like you!’ She was unaware that Mike now held her free hand in both of his as it had begun to shake for a second time, but not with alarm. It was rage and indignation at the audacity of this man. When he spoke once more, it was as if they were having an everyday normal conversation. His tone remained level, almost pleasant.

‘It’s ok Sam. I understand how you feel, believe me. I used to value all human life too, but that was until my Gospel was given to me and I finally saw the light, if you’ll pardon the pun. You just need to see the rest of the pages and you too will be of the same mind as myself. I know that I can rely on you to join me in my quest to rid the Christian world of its hypocrisy. Forgive me, I digress. The main reason for my call, apart from hearing your voice, which is lovely even when you’re angry by the way, is to let you know that I have left a copy of the next page with my second witness. It turns out that he was as blinkered as the first.’

‘You’ve killed another priest?’ Sam struggled to keep her feelings in check once more as she spoke. She didn’t want this snake to know how much his words were affecting her. It wasn’t simply that he was a cold blooded killer with the all the compassion of Joseph Stalin, it was more that he seemed to be fixated on her, imagining that she would agree with his reasoning, even flirting with her at the same time as he was revealing details of his latest crime! She pushed her personal concerns away as she struggled to take in his words.

‘Oh, it was pretty much unavoidable Sam. Anyway, I prefer to think of his death as another sign of the inflexibility of the average Roman Catholic priest. Such an obstinate lot, don’t you think? Mind you, some are a tad less pig-headed, your friend Father Carter for one. I think he might be willing to believe the facts if I were to show him, don’t you think?’

From the cadence in his voice, Sam could hear that he was smiling as he spoke. The tumult of her emotions abruptly sharpened to anger once more at the mention of her friend.

’If you hurt him, I will not just catch you, I will kill you!’ she almost screamed earning the attention of the other patrons in the upstairs café.

‘Don’t worry about your friend Sam. He was fine the last time I checked. He at least, seems to have a sense of humour about his God if his tee shirts are anything to go by. And anyway, he doesn’t quite fit my criteria. So as I was saying, you might want to drive over to the village of Lackford. St Lawrence’s church to be exact. Father Mark Coleman, late of that parish isn’t in a rush, so drive carefully Sam and enjoy the second page, it’s a corker!’

He hung up, which immediately released Sam from her fixed position on the chair. She rose but lowered her voice as she addressed her companion in an attempt to prevent any further interest from the other customers.

‘Sorry Mike, I have to go. He’s killed again in a village about forty miles from here. I have to get my team over there as soon as.’ She started to call her sergeant.

‘Hang on a minute Sam. Do you know if there’s another page of the codex with the body? Sorry, I don’t mean to be unfeeling. I just want to help if I can.’

‘No, that’s good thinking Mike. The bastard just told me he’s left another page of the text. It may give us a head start if you come with me, but you will need to do as I say. We can’t afford to muck up any evidence, should there be any.’ She put her phone back to her ear but said to Mike, ‘I don’t want you anywhere near the body though, and not just because of possible contamination. It’s likely to be nasty.’

And with that she began barking orders at her second in command as she negotiated the steps leading out of the café.

****

Having read the apocalyptic words one more time, Father Smith sat looking blankly at the pages in front of him. Sounds of life were beginning to reach his ears as the monks stirred to begin their day of prayer and labour. The Louds, or Dawn Prayer is usually undertaken as the sun slides up and over the top of the valley, the coppery orb illuminating everything in its path. The priest was excused this as well as the Prime prayer which took place at six am, but joined the brothers most days around nine o’clock for what they called Terce prayer which consisted primarily of psalms. The prayers themselves were a respite from the hard outside manual work that the monks undertook daily, so in addition to worshipping God it gave them a chance to cool down, especially during the summer months when the temperatures could reach an almost unbearable level by early morning.

Stuart re-read the communiqué from the Vatican in which the Pope’s envoy had indicated in no uncertain terms that as a specialist in ancient writings, he believed the codex to be a thirteenth century forgery, having seen the main body of the Gospel within the Vatican itself. Father Smith had sent Pope Pius one of the pages together with a covering letter in order that the pontiff could see for himself the importance of the find. So, when this man arrived later today, he would remove the codex and take it back to Rome where the priest now realised it would stay, never to see the light of day.

He wished that he had never informed the Vatican of his find, but it was too late now.

Or was it?

He quickly selected four of his codex pages, the ones he considered to be most significant and secreted them inside separate books within the vast library along with the skin of the codex. His hands shook with the realisation of what he was doing.

He would give the remaining pages to the Vatican emissary. He had not informed them of the total number of pages that had been discovered, nor had he revealed that they were held within a binder. As he sat shuffling the remaining pages together in chronological order, he was satisfied that he was doing the right thing for all concerned. He alone would know the whereabouts of the most damning pages and he would no doubt go to his grave carrying the weight of them. If they were discovered after his death, then so be it. There was no way he could bring himself to destroy the pages or indeed give them to a man who would never believe in their authenticity.

Feeling nervous at having to lie to a delegate sent by His Holiness himself, but better than he had for weeks, he joined the monks for the Dawn prayer and asked God’s forgiveness.

****

Sam summarised the phone call from the killer with Tommy and told him to meet her at the church as soon as possible with a couple of PC’s, but she also asked him to call the ARU, the Armed Response Unit, as she could not be sure that the scene at the church wasn’t a trap set by this madman. She knew that she couldn’t be too careful in dealing with this violent, religious devotee.

She drove faster than usual to the village of Lackford. Mike used his tablet to look up not only the location of the church within the parish, but also any information that he could find about Father Coleman, which turned out to be very little. They spoke infrequently, both absorbed in their own thoughts.

When Mike broke a silence that had lasted for over ten minutes, Sam jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Did you hear anything during the call that would help Sam? I know it must have been traumatic listening to his voice, but was there anything? I hope you don’t think I’m sticking my nose in, the thought just occurred to me, is all.’

’Don’t worry Mike. I’ve been thinking about that among other things but there wasn’t even an accent that I could determine. But I can tell you one thing, he’s educated, I could tell by the kind of words he used, yet there was little or no inflection in his voice. He’s a cold fish Mike, totally lacking in empathy or remorse, a typical psychopath. And there didn’t seem to be any background noise which doesn’t help.’

‘What about the content of the conversation, anything there that’s occurred to you?’ Their eyes met fleetingly as Sam turned to face him. His face was a mixture of worry and she felt, concern for her which was ironic as she was the one who had had dealings with psychos before, he being professor bookworm! Her smile was as fleeting as the look they had shared. He produced a note pad and pen and waited for her to speak.

‘Yes, that may be useful.’ Sam knew that any information could be vital in apprehending a killer. She began to speak as Mike made copious notes. ’As I said, he’s well educated, he used words like ‘juncture’, and ‘converse’. In fact, his use of words seems almost old fashioned, but I know he isn’t that old by the resonance of his voice. Most of the time his tone was very matter-of-fact, lacking in any emotion, and given what I expect to find at this church, that scares me more than anything Mike. He even tried to flatter me as he spoke of the second priest that it looks as if he’s murdered. How sick is that?’

She could see Mike looking in her direction out of the corner of her eye, but she kept her eyes on the road and continued.

‘I just want to stop him from killing again and I don’t care if he gets off on chatting me up. I need to toughen up and if he calls me again, I won’t be such a wimp!’ Once again, she didn’t turn her head to see what expression Mike was wearing but added, ‘Anyway, he also said that he had pages of a Gospel so if I’m not mistaken, that means there could be many more pages to come.’

‘Yes, it could mean that Sam, but it could also mean that it only contains two or three pages. After all when this Gospel, which is more likely to be a small codex, was put together it may have originally contained many pages but as they were usually only attached loosely with thread during the first few centuries, it is entirely possible that his texts are not complete, but I guess we’ll only know that when we find it?’

’Yeah, ‘suppose so. He did say that he was given the gospel or codex. I wonder who gave it to him and when? We don’t know if he’s had it for years and has been wondering what to do with it, or if he’s only had it for a short time. Having said that, the chair he used for the first murder must have taken him a long time to construct. It’s not as if he could have bought it by mail order.’

‘Chair?’ Mike turned to her, his eyes questioning.

‘Oh shit!’ she exclaimed, realising that she had previously spared Mike the intimate details of how Father Fisher met his end. It was too late now. ‘Sorry Mike, I didn’t mean to let that slip. It was how the first priest was killed. We believe he was tortured using a chair that had hundreds of nails sticking out of it. He died of a heart attack thank goodness, but it was undoubtedly caused by the shock of the multiple injuries which were inflicted on his body.’

She turned to him for a moment to look into his face, and was pleased to see that he seemed to be handling this new information better than most civilians would have.

He was quiet for a moment then, ‘Was it the type of thing used by the inquisitors?’

‘Yes. Well we think so. No one has seen anything like it before apart from in a waxwork torture chamber or in a museum. He hammered large nails through the priest’s hands too.’ She decided that she might as well tell him everything now.

‘Stigmata wounds?’ She nodded and they rode in silence for a few minutes, both deep in thought. Then Sam remembered something else that her nemesis had said during their brief conversation.

‘He also mentioned my friend Chris. That could mean that he’s been following me or him or both of us for God knows how long. He stated that Chris has a sense of humour and might be more inclined to understand why he is doing this. So, he’s either met Chris, or he’s seen his tee shirts from a distance.’ Mike started to say something, but she waved her hand at him. ‘Not important now Mike. Anyway, I’m slightly worried that Chris could be on his hit list.’

There was something else but it was hidden behind the concern that she felt for her oldest and dearest friend. ‘He also mentioned you, not by name, but he knows that you’re here to translate the pages. I think that is about all I can think of….. oh except that he said he too used to value all human life. It does look as if he has a religious background of some sort or that he worked in some capacity to help people? Or is that too contrived?’

She noticed that Mike had stopped taking notes and was looking at something on his tablet.

‘What have you found?’

‘I was looking at images of the types of chairs used during the inquisitions. It’s terrible. How could anyone in any age, but especially today, want to inflict this agony on another person? There are lots of other devices here Sam. Do you think that this new victim has been tortured as well?’ Mike’s voice was in danger of breaking as he spoke.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of Mike, but let’s wait and see. We’re almost there.’

****

Father Smith was helping the brothers tend their scant crops, sweating not only due to the heat but his upcoming meeting. He had been unable to eat, his stomach grinding away at nothing but his insides. When he heard the rattle of the by now familiar bus, his heart lurched and it was all he could do not to be physically sick. He turned to see the dust cloud pursuing the old vehicle down the hillside, and he put down his hoe so that he could get a drink of water as his tongue, and the roof of his mouth suddenly felt that they consisted primarily of sandpaper.

Now, as he walked toward the gateway, he was aware that he most likely appeared to be in a frightful state, his soutane stained from the dusty ground, his hair unkempt and his weather-beaten face, slick with both honest and dishonest perspiration.

Metaphorically shaking himself, he strode toward the bus from where a few local women and a handful of foreign tourists alighted. For a split second, he could see no one else and began to take an almost audible sigh of relief when he spotted a tall, very slight man dressed in a black suit, totally inappropriate for the climate, and he knew this was his visitor who had travelled all the way from Rome.

****

When Sam and Mike arrived at the village the church was clearly signposted. There were two police cars and a white unmarked van already in situ.

‘Would you like me to stay in the car Sam?’ Mike’s voice was once again steady, and she was heartened especially now that he was aware of all the pertinent facts.

‘Yes please Mike, but as soon as I can, I will bring you the document if it’s there. There’s a pair of gloves in that bag at your feet. Be ready.’ She grabbed a second plastic bag which contained a full protective suit.

‘Sam?’

‘Yes what is it’.’ She really needed to get going, to take charge of the scene.

‘Just be careful, that’s all.’ Sam stopped momentarily and then on impulse leaned toward him and kissed his cheek.

‘Always, but thanks.’ She exited the vehicle and began striding toward the man who was obviously in charge of the ARU who were putting their weapons back into their respective holders.

‘I take it that you’ve been in?’ she said showing her warrant card to the tall, well-built black stranger.

‘Hello DCI Brown. Yes, I sent a small group in about ten minutes ago. All clear as far as anyone being inside with a weapon that is. I’m Inspector Wes Davis.’ They shook hands briefly and Sam felt slightly more at ease knowing the team had been stood down.

She quickly donned her suit as the imposing man filled her in. ‘There’s no danger, but there is a dead priest in the room at the back of the church. Bit brutal to tell you the truth. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, but it looks as if your perp has long gone. We made sure we did nothing to compromise the scene.’

Sam thanked him and took a deep breath as he added, ‘You lot must have strong stomachs is all I can say. I’m used to gunshot wounds but this…..Anyhow, we’re just waiting for the SOCO’s to go in before we leave, looks like they’re here now.’ He motioned toward another white van that had just pulled up with the logo, ‘Crime Scene Investigation’ emblazoned across the side along with the legend, ‘100% Electric’.

Oh good, at least they are environmentally friendly, Sam thought sarcastically. ‘We’ll leave you to it if that’s ok Chief Inspector. Don’t envy you. Looks like the work of a complete nutter if you ask me. Terrible way to die.’ Sam shook his hand again and saw for the first time the haunted look in his deep brown eyes.

‘Well, thanks for your assistance. I thought it best to call you just in case. This is the second victim and he isn’t going to stop unless we can catch the bastard.’

‘You did the right thing Chief Inspector Brown. Good luck. This lunatic needs locking up, if only to prevent me from having nightmares over what I’ve just seen.’ He tried a smile but it died on his lips.

Sam nodded her thanks and turned to the entrance of the small church and picked her way over the gravestones, careful not to step on any. Old habits die hard, she thought, deliberately trying to prevent her imagination from taking over. It was no use visualising what she would find, she would just have to wait until she saw it for herself.

As soon as she passed through the narthex and into the nave of the building, she spotted Tommy in one of the pews at the front with his head down. Oh Lord, it must be bad if Tommy has been this affected for a second time, but as she moved closer to him, she saw with relief that he had his head bowed as he was looking at a tablet. Maybe he wasn’t as much of a dinosaur as she had imagined after all.

He heard her approach, gave her a small smile and stood. ‘Hi guv. He’s in the back room, I’ll take you through. It’s not quite as bad as the last one, but that could be because I was expecting more blood or something even worse. I’ve just been looking at the torture device he’s used on this poor bloke. I’ve sent the two PC’s out the back coz I think they were going to throw up. Don’t want them contaminating the scene right? The armed officers did a recce and assured me that it was all clear before I went in.’

‘Thanks Tommy. So, what have we got this time?’

’This one’s called a ‘Head Crusher’ boss. Basically it does what it says on the tin! Sorry, bad taste. I don’t really know what to say, I’ve never seen anything like these two murders in twenty years on the force.’ He entered the sacristy and moved aside to allow Sam to see the body.

At first, it really didn’t seem as bad at the first one. There was very little blood and the priest’s body looked intact but what stood out immediately were the hands nailed to the table. It was difficult from an upright perspective to see much of the priest’s head due to the mechanism that was wrapped around it. She approached the dead man, walking around the small table so that she was facing him and bent over to see his injuries.

She didn’t know what to expect. No-one would have seen anything like this for centuries. Even in the old Hammer horror films such as the Pit and the Pendulum, there had been nothing to prepare her for this. Tommy began to inform her how the mechanism worked after studying the description on the tablet. She didn’t want to hear it but knew that she had to.

‘The implement has a lever at the top which tightens or loosens with a turn of the wooden bar which then forces the cap down onto the victim’s skull. The head of course can’t move due to the bottom bar securing it in place, resulting in the head literally being crushed.’ Sam felt bile rise in her throat but forcibly swallowed it down. Tommy continued.

‘The jaw bones are broken by the immense force applied to them together with the teeth that are compressed. The facial bones will then give way lending the overall shape of the head a squat appearance.’ As Sam examined the devastated face, she saw that the priest’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, the whites all but disappeared amid the broken blood vessels and it was clear from the blood and clear liquid that had been forced out of the mouth, nose, eyes and ears, that the brain had been crushed. Sam just hoped that the priest had died earlier rather than later in the shocking process.

‘Christ, how could he do this Tommy? What could warrant such torture? He was so nonchalant about it when he called me too. He was completely detached from what he’d done, but even so…….’ She didn’t know what to say as there was nothing a rational person could say. Before Tommy could reply a voice from behind them startled them both visibly.

‘Hello Sam, Tommy. Another one eh?’ It was Nate Cross the forensic pathologist, having to duck down as he stepped into the room. He stooped down even further to take a cursory look at the corpse. ‘Good God! I’ve seen proptosis a few times in my life, that’s bulging eye balls to you, usually caused by Graves decease, but never when it’s been inflicted on someone else. Be lucky to keep this from the press Sam. Two tortured priests in such a short time! I’m happy that I’ve only the dead to deal with.’ Despite his apparent flippancy, Sam could see that Nate was shaken by the scene.

‘Let me know anything as soon as you can will you?’ she said.

‘Of course. SOCO’s are here. Do you want me to get them to do the note first?’ Nate replied nodding his head toward the envelope left on a dresser in the corner of the room that Sam hadn’t even noticed.

‘Oh, yes please. I’ll wait for it. I have the linguist in the car with me and I’ll need him to look at it if it’s what I think it is. I’ll go and get one of the team now. No need to walk the scene on this one. Let’s just get cracking shall we?’ Nate began talking but Sam was unsure if it was for her benefit or his own.

‘Looks like cerebrospinal fluid from the ears. Hope he died before his brain was crushed.’ He looked closer at the remains of the priest’s skull echoing Sam’s thoughts of a moment ago. She left him to it. Tommy followed her into the body of the church, breathing a sigh of relief to be out of the same room as the dead man.

‘Guv, I forgot to tell you in all this excitement, sorry not excitement, I mean……’

‘I know what you mean Tommy. What is it?’

‘I had a call from the university just before you called me. They told me the results of the carbon dating on that fragment of text that we sent. They rushed it thanks to a call from the prof.’ Sam felt a familiar exhilaration, circumstances notwithstanding.

‘And?’ she didn’t know if she wanted the document to be genuine or not. She inhaled deeply.

‘Dated to first half of the first century, no doubt about it.’

Well, that’s it then, Sam thought as she left the church to tell Mike. It’s real. Those words that seemed to contradict almost everything she thought she knew about Jesus were written earlier than any of the New Testament Gospels. What happens now?

****

Father Stewart Smith walked toward the man who clearly didn’t belong in this desert land, with an outstretched hand and a smile fixed to his face. ‘Hello there, I’m Father Smith. I take it you are here on behalf of His Holiness?’ As the priest could not speak Italian, he hoped that the man who accepted his hand in his own clammy one could speak English. He wasn’t disappointed.

‘Hello father. Yes, I am the representative of His Holiness. My name is Pascal Valente. How are you? You look worried. I can assure you there is no need. I am here to take these papers off your hands and leave you to your work here.’ His English was excellent, with the merest trace of an Italian accent but the priest could detect no warmth in his voice despite his reassuring words. In fact, as they walked toward the gateway, the words themselves seemed increasingly ominous to the cleric.

It seemed as if this man planned to simply remove the pages and he was expected to just carry on with his cataloguing of the library. Still, he might be proved wrong, perhaps this man who towered over him, shielding him momentarily from the sun’s rays, was a little unsure of things himself. He may be as nervous about the whole situation as the priest himself was.

‘So, do I call you Pascal?’ I take it that you are not ordained?’ The priest stole another look at the tall man who had removed his black Fedora which revealed a perfectly hairless head that reflected the sun’s brightness giving him an almost saintly glow. Father Smith hoped that he would not spend much of his time in the full glare of the sun or he would end up nursing him when the inevitable sunstroke occurred. Although given the task at hand, he doubted this would be the case.

‘You may call me Pascal, and no, I have not taken Holy Orders, as you can see by my dress. I am the head of Security Services within the walls of the Vatican. My job is to ensure the safety of all the inhabitants of the city, from the cleaners and tourists to the pope himself and of course anything that threatens the sanctity of the church.’ Father Smith met the unemotional dark stare and a cold chill filled his body despite the relentless heat that invaded every corner of the courtyard.

They walked in silence until they reached a cell, much the same as the priest’s own. ‘Here’s your room Pascal. It isn’t much but you can freshen up here after your long journey. When you are finished, just ask any of the monks to bring you to the library and I can show you the papers.’ The tall man said nothing, but moved into the room and placed his small case onto the bed. ‘How long do you think you will be staying?’ the priest ventured.

‘Oh, I’m confident that we can conclude our business quickly father. I will be on my way back to Rome in a couple of days, I am sure.’ The smile he wore expressed neither humour nor friendliness.

Thank goodness for that, thought the priest as he walked with leaden feet to the library and the few pages of remaining texts that he prayed would satisfy the intimidating man that had invaded his corner of the world.

****

Sam could see that a small crowd of people had gathered in the churchyard, undoubtedly locals wondering what was happening in their small village. One of the PC’s had had the foresight to take charge of them, preventing any panic or contamination of evidence. Sam turned to her sergeant. ‘Tommy, can you get the PC’s to ask those locals if they saw anything? I doubt it, but you never know. If you can do some door to door too, that would be useful, but please tell the constables not to give anything away. I don’t want the press to get hold of this yet if we can avoid it. We don’t want widespread panic on our hands but if we can’t narrow down the possible candidates for our next potential victim, we may have to go public anyway to warn other priests.’

‘Right guv. When I get back to the farm, I’ll start looking for any connection between the two, ok?’

‘Good Tommy, thanks. I’m just going to wait for the note to be checked so we can get on with translating it, for all the good it’ll do. It’s not giving us anything at the moment apart from a warped motive that this guy seems to have as justification for murdering two innocent men.’

‘Oh, that’s Mike in your car then boss? I was wondering who that was.’ The cheeky smile was back, and was well and truly plastered over Tommy’s face. Sam guessed that light relief, even at her expense, was a good thing, so she went easy on her second in command.

‘Yes, he is essential to us at the moment Tommy. And you can wipe that stupid grin off of your face.’ Even as she said the words, a small smile made its way across her own face.

‘Yes, sorry boss. Just trying to lighten the mood a bit.’ He saw her trying to wipe the smile away and grinned as he turned and headed off in the direction of the crowd. She headed back to her car but was cut off by one of the scene of crime officers.

‘Ma’am, I’ve got the envelope containing a page of foreign writing and a page addressed to you. It’s clean as far as we can tell, but I’ve put both sheets into an evidence bag so you will be able to read it without needing to touch it. Hope that’s ok?’

Young and inexperienced, Sam thought, but she was grateful for the quick turnaround. She took the plastic bag, nodded her thanks and went to her car where Mike had his head down studying an image on his device. Before she opened the door, she looked down the lane into the village where nature was still painting her daily canvas. How could there be such evil in a world as artistically beautiful as this. Her ruminations were interrupted when Mike leaned over and opened her door.

Have you got the text already?’ Sam looked down into his open face, the reddish brown hair effulgent in the rays of the luminous golden sun, one side flopping down, partially covering one eye, affording him a schoolboy look.

‘Yes, very efficient my team.’ Sam was happy to take the credit seeing as she had to shoulder the burden of the two deaths. She sat down in the driver’s seat and passed the plastic envelope to Mike.

‘I don’t know how long this will take, but it shouldn’t be as long as the first one now that I know which variation of ancient Greek I’m dealing with. How was it in there?’

‘You don’t want to know Mike.’ She wanted to spare him if she could, she needed him to decipher the second page of the codex, not to be haunted with the image of the dead man, even if he hadn’t seen it for himself. His imagination would supply the vivid details if he knew what had happened.

He was not to be swayed.

‘But did he use a torture device?’

Sam wished he hadn’t asked but didn’t want to actually lie to him so she replied, ‘Yes Mike. Apparently it’s called a head crusher. According to my sergeant anyway.’

‘Ok, I won’t ask any more, I’ve seen that thing on here, and I don’t want to think about it. If you have work to do here, I’ll crack on with the translation.’ Mike had already begun to scan through the document held within the plastic covering and Sam was grateful that he hadn’t pushed her for any further details.

She was about to return to the ghastly tableau when Mike said, almost casually. ’I can see the name Γιάννης on this page a number of times, that’s John to you and me. Did you know that the name itself derives from the Hebrew word ‘Yahweh’?’ Sam did a double take, turning her head so quickly toward Mike that she felt a sharp pain in her neck.

‘Yahweh? You mean the Hebrew word for God?’

‘Pretty much yeah,’ he replied, a small smile sitting comfortably on his face. ‘It was originally represented in Hebrew as a tetragrammaton which means four letters, YHVH and which has been transliterated into Roman script as YHWH. However, because it was considered blasphemous to speak the word God, it was only ever written down and not spoken. This resulted in the original pronunciation being lost. There seems to be an abundance of things getting mistranslated in the New Testament doesn’t there?’

‘Yeah, there certainly is. Oh, and by the way, Tommy’s just informed me that the fragment of text sent for dating does indeed come from the first century, in fact, the first half. Thanks for your input on that.’ Mike’s face brightened and he turned his head to the second page to begin work on its translation. Sam didn’t know what to make of it all, but she knew her area of expertise lay with the corpse, however disgusting that sounded, so she headed back into the church, absently rubbing her sore neck as she walked.

****

The door to the library opened within ten minutes of Father Smith sitting at his favourite desk with the six pages and the translations in front of him. He’s wasting no time, thought the priest. Still, better to get it over with. He tried a friendly smile and said in as cheerful a voice as he could muster,

‘Welcome Pascal, I have everything ready for you. Please sit down. Can I get you a drink? We do have a small quantity of tonic wine that I have sent over from Buckfast Abbey in England. It is very popular with the tourists.’

‘Water is sufficient father. I need a clear head to read these documents, don’t you agree?’ The priest had not considered the possible effects of wine when he offered it, he was merely being hospitable.

He felt his face redden and flustered he quickly replied.

‘Oh no, I didn’t mean anything by my offer Pascal, I’m sorry if I caused offence. I will get you a glass of water immediately.’ The tall man said nothing but slipped his slim frame into a chair and began to read the first page of the translation in the subsequent silence. The priest shuffled off to get a pitcher of water, knowing that his presence was unwanted.

When Father Smith returned with the water, the pope’s envoy did not look up from the document, nor did he speak as the priest placed the water and cup on the table and so he moved to another chair to wait quietly whilst the still form of the big man remained with his head down devouring the pages that lay on the desk.

****

Sam chatted to Nate about the possible cause and time of death and what may have preceded it when Tommy came back into the sacristy looking more animated than she had seen him since the start of this nightmare. ‘What is it Tommy?’

‘One of the parishioners outside boss. Says she saw a man walking up the lane out of the village.’ He opened his notebook and read from it. ‘It was early this morning, too early for most folks to be out walking anyway. She was picking some flowers from her garden before she left for work. She says she had never seen him before either.’

‘Couldn’t it have simply been a walker? There are lots of public footpaths around here Tommy.’ Sam couldn’t quite accept that they may have their first proper sighting of their killer.

‘Might be guv, but this was at sunrise. Plus, this woman says he was carrying a large backpack but that it appeared to be empty!’ Tommy smiled, knowing that this kind of information could be as rare as rocking horse poop.

‘Sounds promising Tommy, as long as she can give a better description than our previous witness. Does she seem reliable? She’s not some dotty old woman who wants to get some attention is she?’

‘Don’t think so. She’s in her forties I would say, and she’s a local solicitor!’

‘Great. What about a description?’ Sam’s enthusiasm went up another notch.

’Yeah, he was in his thirties, and her words were that he was ‘hot’.’

‘What?’ Sam was appalled.

‘Well, she doesn’t know what we know about him, if it’s him, does she boss?’ Sam conceded the point. ’She said he had a slim athletic build, tanned, healthy looking. Dark hair, bit wavy, ‘bout six foot.’ Still reading from his notes he added. ‘He was wearing jeans and a tee shirt which was tight across the chest. Think she was getting a bit hot under the collar giving me this description guv. Good job she didn’t start chatting to him or she might have been our next victim eh?’

‘I somehow doubt that Tommy. He’s too focussed on what he sees as his mission. I don’t think that women are part of his plan, do you?’ Well, apart from me of course, she thought with a sinking feeling.

‘Probably not guv. Anyway, this lady has gone with PC Stone back to the station so we can get an e-fit done.’

‘Good work Tommy. I’ll see you back there later. You get off if you’ve finished.’

‘Alright boss, see you later then.’

Sam said her goodbye’s to Nate, had a quick chat with one of the bobbies to make sure no new information had turned up, and headed back to her car where Mike was hard at work decoding the page of manuscript. They smiled at each other as Sam pulled away and headed back to Norwich where she hoped to go through the document with Mike if he managed to complete it in time.

****

Father Smith had been sitting still for about an hour, trying desperately to stay calm. The silence was like a cold hard blanket that enveloped the two men, daring either one to break it other than with the soft susurration of the vellum as Pascal Valente delicately handled the ancient pages.

Suddenly, the man in black turned to face the priest, who visibly started at such an abrupt movement.

‘Well, I will say that you’ve done a good job of the translation, very similar to my own. I cannot be too sure without my reference books, but I will able to spend more time with the texts back at my home within Vatican City.’ His voice was free from inflection, and the priest was unsure what the other man really made of the content of the pages.

However, he did not have to ask as the thin man continued. ‘In my opinion, I can confirm what I originally determined upon reading the sample you kindly sent to us. These texts are a thirteenth century falsification Father Smith.’

‘But, I was so sure……..’ Father Smith began before his brain had engaged with his vocal chords.

‘It’s an easy mistake to make father, but I am certain that these pages will have no ill effect on the Holy Roman Church. They are clearly part of a volume that was found some years ago and which is held in the Vatican archives and that according to gossip if you believe such nonsense, is an early version of Mark’s Gospel. But I can assure you there is no truth in that and I am one hundred percent sure that there is nothing to concern us here with these few pages.’

‘Why would the See of Rome keep a document that is a fake?’ The priest knew in his heart that this cold, insensitive man was not telling him the truth and he was pleased with the decision that he had made by withholding the most significant pages. He was also aware of the provocative nature of his question but felt that he could not stay silent.

‘I hope that you are not questioning the office of His Holiness?’ The thin man rose from his seat and walked the few paces to where the priest sat, towering over him. The unyielding face that loomed over his much smaller countenance was filled with a calm menace that the priest had never encountered before.

Although intimidated, the Italian’s reply and threatening move made the priest more determined than ever to keep his discovery a secret from this man and consequently from the pope himself. He stood, drew himself up to his full height, and addressed the man before him.

‘I would never question the Supreme Pontiff of course Pascal, my question was simple curiosity that is all. It is His Holiness’s business, not mine. I apologise and I meant no offence.’

‘In that case father, let us not quarrel. I will take the papers back to Rome to be placed with the larger volume there. After all, we both know what our church is like. Every ancient document is kept, regardless of its worth.’ His voice remained even as he added, ‘Are you sure there are no more pages? Maybe hidden in the cave where you found these?’

The priest turned around to walk back to his desk, not wanting this man to see his expression in case the lie was discernible. He attempted to slow his beating heart as he sat down, worrying that the policeman or whatever he was, would detect the quick throbbing of his pulse and he would give himself away.

‘No, there are no more texts I’m afraid,’ he replied keeping his voice as even as he was able. ‘I went back to the cave where I found these just to check, and there is nothing else there, only the broken pot that I smashed on my first visit revealing these pages inside. If I hadn’t been so clumsy, I may never have come across them.’

He knew that he could not allow this man to visit the cave as he had not informed him or his office, about the ossuary contained within. If the large man insisted on looking in the cave, he would misplace the location, knowing that the other man could never find the correct hollow in the rock face of the valley. He had also not disclosed that he had been with a fellow monk and he hoped that Pascal didn’t want to talk to the brothers as he knew that Antony would never be capable of telling a lie to a representative of the pope.

However, his fears were allayed immediately as the solemn looking man seemed to accept his version of events.

‘That is good to know Father Smith. I am satisfied that there will be no more of these shameful words which could fall into the wrong hands and cause any embarrassment to our Mother Church. I do not think I will need to stay longer than two days father. I do not like the temperature here and other than reading these pages again, there is little to entertain me.’

The priest said a small silent prayer of thanks.

‘Have you ever been to the Vatican father?’ The question took the priest by surprise. He shook his head not knowing what to say. ’It is a wonderful place to live and work. We are surrounded by much iconic art and architecture, with lots of museums housing among other things, ancient Roman sculptures which are my personal favourites. I especially love the famed ‘Laocoon and His Sons’ unearthed early in the sixteenth century. This work was written about by Pliney the Elder and consists of an almost life sized statue of Laocoon, together with his two sons being attacked by sea serpents. It was their punishment you see, following Laocoon’s attempt to expose the ruse of the Trojan horse. The exquisite agony on their faces is mesmerising.’

Father Smith was unsure if he should be impressed, sickened or threatened by this story.

As he looked at the hard face of the agent of the Bishop of Rome, he sighed with resignation that the pages of the codex he had given up would never be seen again. However, if the Vatican believed them to be a threat, then who was he to betray the faith of millions.

‘I can assure you father, that your enthusiasm for the huge task of putting this library in order has not gone unnoticed, even before your communication with the Vatican, and His Holiness has given me a sum of money for you to use as you see fit here at the monastery.’ The priest was confused by this turn of events but remained silent.

‘We spoke at length of your future Father Smith, and the Holy Father and I agreed that it would be beneficial if you consider this place as your home from now on. After all, this is a life time’s work is it not?’ A wry smile played around the slim cruel lips of this man who had the pope’s ear, as he swung his long slender arm around the expanse of the library. The priest could not put up an argument to what was clearly an instruction and not a suggestion.

‘Yes, of course.’ He muttered, rose to his feet and quietly left the room, knowing that he would never again see the green fields of England.

Following the departure of the Italian, whilst changing the bed he had slept in, the priest came across a large package under the wooden bed containing more money than he had ever seen. He was unsure what to do with these notes that had been left to buy his silence, but he truly believed that God would guide his actions over the coming years.

****

Mike continued to work on the document for the duration of the journey back to the station, occasionally looking straight ahead, clearly deep in thought. Sam was pleased for the silence. She too was thinking hard about what she had witnessed inside the small room in the church. Why would anyone think that they were justified in this course of action? Of course, the killer was deranged, but even so, to torture a priest simply because he didn’t accept another version of a story, even one relating to the birth of their religion, was unthinkable.

So, what did she have to go on? This man was young, in his thirties, good looking and athletic. Hopefully the e-fit would yield some results if the guy had form or failing that, if and when they were forced to go public. In addition, he seemed well educated, skilled in making these appalling appliances, and quite possibly deeply religious at some point, albeit now in a bizarre and vicious way. The manuscripts that he had been given (by whom, she couldn’t even guess at), showed a very different man to the Son of God portrayed in the Gospels, but hadn’t that been her argument with Chris over the years?

She had a sudden urge to speak to her friend, just to make sure that he was safe.

‘I’m just going to call Chris, Mike.’ She pressed the button to speed dial the priest and was forced to leave it on loudspeaker so that she could continue driving. It rang half a dozen times and a small knot of panic squeezed her insides. Finally he picked up.

‘Hello Sam. You ok? Has anything else happened?’ The concern in his voice was clearly discernible to both listeners.

‘I’m ok Chris, but there’s been another murder, in the church at Lackford.’

‘St Lawrence’s you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. Do you know the priest there, Father Coleman?’

‘No, don’t know him, but how awful.’ A pause then, ‘So it’s a maniac going round killing priests?’ The fear in his voice was tangible, and Sam felt a niggle of guilt for telling him, but she had to put him on his guard.

‘Listen Chris, this is probably overkill, but I can’t take any chances. As I said, this man seems to know me and he knows about you too as a friend of mine, so I don’t want you to take any chances. Please take extra care and take your curate with you when you go into the church. Can you do that?’

‘If you really think it necessary, of course I will Sam. Do you want to talk about anything? I know you can’t tell me about the case, but you know I’m always here for you.’ Mike glanced across at Sam who felt slightly embarrassed talking to her long-time friend with someone else listening.

‘That’s ok Chris, I’ve got Mike Severn with me at the moment. He’s working on another page of text that we’ve just removed from the church.’ She felt a blush redden her cheeks and needed to get off of the phone now that she knew her friend was safe.

‘So long as you’ve got someone big and strong to protect you just in case……..’ Sam interrupted before he had a chance to say any more.

‘Yes, thank you Christopher. I had better get off now, lots to do as you’d imagine.’

‘Ok love, see you soon I hope.’ He said, finishing with a familiar giggle.

‘Yes, will do. Bye.’ Sam sneaked a look at Mike who was smirking into his tablet. ‘And you can shut up as well!’ The smile broadened.

TWENTY FIVE

As he gazed affectionately at the remaining contrivances contained within his basement, Peter decided that it was time to inform the public of how and why he was taking action against the Roman Catholic Church. He could not reveal his name yet of course, not until his mission was complete, but it would be amusing to see the panic within the closeted community that he had come to despise for its falseness.

So, after returning from Lackford village, he called a local TV station. He simply looked up the number and drove to the city to make his call from one of the few remaining phone boxes. There was a distinct lack of public call boxes thanks to the advent of the mobile, a device that Peter had managed to avoid owning until recently, but he eventually found two phone booths side by side in the busy Tombland area of the city, catering for those looking for a bit of old Norwich. Lopsided Tudor houses squeezed themselves in, adjacent to chic café’s that served overpriced coffee and pastries.

There was a notice on both of the phone boxes asking people to sign an online petition to prevent these iconic features of the city from being converted into miniature coffee shops or tiny ice cream parlours. Peter wore a sardonic smile as he opened the one nearest to him and was pleasantly surprised that it smelled of nothing in particular and that it was working.

He dialled the number after removing a small piece of paper from his coat pocket. The website had stated that this number would get him through to a journalist.

‘Hello, this is Look East. Paula Last speaking, how can I help you?’ Nice calm voice, thought Peter Hope she’s good under pressure.

‘Hello. I want to give you a local interest story, are you the correct person to speak to?’

‘Yes, absolutely, what is the subject matter sir, crime, environment issues, weather, missing persons?’

‘Well, I guess that you’d call it crime. However I would prefer public service.’

‘Oh, right, is it a crime that you wish to report or comment on?’ The voice was showing more interest now.

’It’s what you would call a crime I’m sure. Or rather, it’s two crimes that have been perpetrated by myself in order to unmask the lies that all Christians have had to suffer.’ No inflection was evident in his voice and the reply from the reporter was still curious but a slight nervousness was instantly detectable.

‘Ok, what are these crimes Mr………’

‘Oh, I don’t think that I will be giving you my real name. You must know better than that. You can call me Titus. I will overlook your faux pas as I’ve obviously caught you off guard. Anyway, I was left with no alternative other than to take the life of two local priests who, despite being shown the error of their ways, chose not to believe.’

There was no comment from the reporter.

‘As I said, I simply had no choice in the matter. Their details are; Father Matthew Fisher late of St Walstans in Costessey and Father Mark Coleman also late of St Lawrence’s church, Lackford, which is near to Bury St Edmunds.’

‘You’ve murdered these men, these priests?’ No mistaking the fear now.

’I would never use the term ‘murder’ young lady because I gave them both the chance to join me in my work to rid the world of the pretence that has been in place for two thousand years. Now, just keep quiet my dear whilst I tell you all about it. You may record this interview if you wish. That way you will not forget anything that I am about to tell you. When I am finished, you should be able to check the facts with Detective Chief Inspector Samantha Brown at Norwich Constabulary. I think it is my civic duty that we get this out into the public domain, don’t you?’

The young reporter, who had completed her degree in journalism only six months ago, and had so far only dealt with local human interest stories, had trouble in replying, but knowing that the call was already being recorded, she managed to stammer out the words, ‘Yes. Please carry on.’

****

By the time Sam had gathered her team around her, briefed and instructed them, and had asked Tommy to see if he could get a fix on the call that she had received, she realised that she was very hungry. She had ensconced Mike in her office, so that he could use her computer if he needed to, to aid in his hurried translation of the document, but had popped her head in to ask what kind of sandwich he wanted, and then walked the two hundred metres or so to Pottergate Pantry, her favourite sandwich bar.

She had felt the need to get out in the fresh air, to clear her mind for a precious few minutes. She ordered a hot beef and horseradish baguette for Mike, and a bacon and brie one for herself. Given the amount of stress she had been dealing with, she felt she owed herself these calories. With a silent apology to the pig, she inhaled the heavenly smell of the baguette, and left the shop.

She headed back to the nick at a good clip, deep in thought about the case, but slowed her steps as she became aware that the sun was warming her body, leaving benches and pavements steaming after the heavy rain that had soaked the town earlier in the day.

The sun brought out the shoppers from all over the county, their emergence resembling ants scuttling around in the street as if from nowhere, causing her to wait longer than usual at the pedestrian lights on St Giles street.

She could feel the usual pushing from the crowd behind her, some of which would be workers on their lunch breaks, wanting to ensure that they got across the road without having to wait once more for the lights to change. She tried to push back but as she was now at the edge of the pavement, but she was unable to get anyone to move. The surge continued until she was in real danger of being thrust into the busy road.

Just as she was certain that she would be forced into the path of the oncoming cars, she felt a hand gripping her upper arm from behind, preventing her from being thrust into the road and she half turned toward the strong arm holding her in order to steady herself. She caught sight of a denim jacket for the briefest moment, then the danger passed, the lights changed, and she was propelled across the road with all the other pedestrians.

As soon as she was able, she spun around to thank the person that had held her back, possibly preventing a nasty accident, but there was no sign of a denim jacket anywhere nearby. She finally spotted him, but he was walking along the pavement across the road back the way she had walked. She felt she owed him at least a thank you so she shouted as loud as she could without looking like a complete idiot. ‘Hey, thanks a lot mate.’ He turned back to face her, revealing an attractive tanned face, with slightly long, very dark wavy hair, and a smile that revealed nice teeth.

He raised an arm by way of acknowledgement then turned back once again and was swallowed by the ever increasing crowd that began to mass like so many automatons. Strange man, she thought. Stops me from getting pushed into the road then decides to go back in the opposite direction.

Her thoughts, however, quickly switched from the handsome Samaritan to the other good looking man who had come into her life and she wondered if he had finished deciphering the second page of the codex. She started up the slight incline to Bethel Street Police Station lost in thoughts of Mike, ancient Palestine and wondering how the hell she would catch the man who was killing priests in the name of religion.

****

Peter’s heart was racing, thanks to the close and unplanned encounter with the lovely Samantha Brown, carrying her aromatic paper bags of food. He had possibly saved her life, or at least prevented a serious injury. It had been pure chance, but Peter no longer believed in coincidence. No, he decided that he had definitely saved her life and when they finally came face to face at a time and place that he would engineer, she would know how much she owed to him in so many ways.

His footsteps became light and carefree, not only as a result of seeing his counterpart in the most unexpected circumstances, but also because he had taken the first step to ensure that the masses became enlightened as to why he was carrying out his so-called crimes. The Christians among them would finally realise that the wool had well and truly been pulled over their eyes, but that salvation was at hand in the form of Titus 1:2.

He almost laughed aloud at his choice of epithet, and his smile broadened further when he imagined what the young reporter must have felt listening to his narrative. Maybe she was wondering if she would get some kind of journalistic reward for the story when it was broadcast. Peter thought it more likely that someone higher up the food chain would claim that honour.

As he turned into Grapes Hill making a round trip back to his car having had to double back from the crossing, he began to whistle under his breath when he managed to finally stop smiling.

****

‘So, it seems that most of the information we have in the bible about the mission of Jesus is more accurately a description of John, don’t you think?’ Sam was full of questions once again, now that Mike had read the translation of the second page out loud, as it lay in on the table between them.

‘Yes, I agree Sam. This text is telling a similar story to a wide collection of Gospels, but not those found in the New Testament. There are twelve more or less complete non canonical Gospels that were found in caves in Qumran as I’m sure you are aware.’ Sam nodded in agreement, so Mike continued. ‘You only need to read these Gospels and the others found at Nag Hammadi to realise that although Jesus was a good man, a great prophet even, that’s all he was.’

Mike looked thoughtful for a moment as if he wished the truth to be different. At least, that’s what Sam hoped he was thinking, just as she was.

’I think I’ve read that there are more ‘lost Gospels’ aren’t there? Sam queried.

’Oh yes, loads of them in fact. The book of Cerinthus, for example, according to Epiphanius, bishop of Salamisis in Cyprus, is a lost Jewish Gospel of the Ebionites, which translates as ‘the poor ones’ and who were a joint Christian/Jewish movement. This work is said to be a smaller version of Matthew’s Gospel, but I doubt if it fits into the ideals of the biblical Gospels any more than any of the gnostic ones.’

He paused once again.

‘I know that I’m going off at a tangent Sam, so I apologise, but this subject is most interesting to me.’

‘I feel the same Mike, and at the moment my team are doing all they can using conventional means plus we are waiting for the e-fit which isn’t complete yet, so if this helps us get inside his head, maybe we’ll catch a break.’

The fact that Nate hadn’t called made Sam think that the latest victim held no information that they could use either.

’Well, I will just mention a certain book which concerns the subject matter that we are discussing. It’s by Barbara Thiering. It’s called ‘Jesus and the riddle of the Dead Sea Scrolls’. Have you read it?’ Sam shook her head and motioned for him to continue. ’She uses a technique that she calls ‘pesher’ which is a Hebrew word meaning interpretation. She thinks that there is an underlying hidden meaning in some of the scrolls, and especially in the Hebrew writings which she believes could even apply to the New Testament Gospels.’ Sam became even more alert.

‘Do you mean like Clements letter, the one discovered by Morton Smith at Mar Saba where he admits to knowledge of a second secret, or mystical version of the biblical Gospels?’

‘Exactly like that Sam. You certainly know your stuff. I’m impressed.’ A quick smile before beginning once more. ’Thiering maintains that using this method, she has determined that Jesus was a member of the Essene community just as our document confirms, and that he not only married, but divorced and married again and had three children! She says that his distinctive ideas arose from the Essenes which again is the same information as contained in our texts, plus she states that John the Baptist was known as the ‘Teacher of Righteousness.’’

‘Just like ours!’ Sam piped up before Mike had a chance to say it.

’Indeed! However, she also says that Jesus split from John to lead another group calling themselves

‘The Twelve Apostles’ which contained Judas Iscariot and Simon Magus who were well known zealots who would not have been adverse to using violence against the Romans. Then, she says that John was against all violence and would only use reason and morality to defeat them.’

’Maybe we will find out if we get another page. God forbid that there is another murder before we find it, and the killer.’

Sam looked again at the document. She was very aware that the killing would go on until either Titus or whatever his name was, made a mistake or they had a breakthrough. Mike too was deep in thought for a moment whilst looking at the words on the desk.

Mike finally broke the silence. ‘Did you realise Sam, that most historians view the New Testament Gospels not as an objective account of Jesus, but as the product of men writing at a particular period and who grappled with both theological and political issues of the time. Specifically, they assume that after Jesus’ death, his sayings and the stories told about him circulated among his followers until, at some point many years later, someone or more likely a group of men wrote down these tales and sayings, primarily in Greek. These were then edited and organised into an historical narrative, namely the Gospel of Mark with, I now believe, the majority of the work being originally written by our friend here, Alexander. And as we’ve already said, these were then added to, edited, copied and embroidered into the four Gospels we know today in the New Testament.’

After a moment to consider Mike’s ideas Sam added, ’The sentence that says, ‘every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire’, that’s something that we’ve been told was said by Jesus isn’t it?’ Mike nodded and chipped in.

‘Yep! Matthew, chapter 7, verse 19. I agree, it’s shocking that these words could have migrated to the lips of Jesus, along with the part about teaching the followers a special prayer. That too is found in Matthew and Luke, again spoken by Jesus. I am assuming that the special prayer is that which is in the next section which is almost unbelievable, even for a cynic like me. It’s almost identical to the Sermon on the Mount!’

Sam too found these words almost too far-fetched. How could such an iconic speech not have been said by Jesus? She knew this speech off by heart ever since her Sunday school days and she felt like weeping to think that it had been misconstrued in such a way.

Could it really have been said by John? When Mike spoke, Sam could feel the salty taste of unbidden tears slipping silently down her cheeks but was powerless to hinder their progress.

’It would seem that it was John who told his followers they could worship God from within, that there was no need for churches or Holy Men, a sentiment taught by the Essenes. He must have known that his words would condemn him, but he said them anyway. He was clearly put to death for his teachings and not on a whim of Salome, daughter of Herodias as we are told in the bible, which I believe is widely thought to be rubbish by most theologians.

‘According to the great writer of the time, Josephus, John had a great following and was seen as a threat by both the Romans and Herod. In Josephus’s works, he makes no mention of Salome, so that has clearly been invented. He also says that John’s ministry ranged to over fifty miles and that he preached to other faiths. He makes no mention of Jesus in all of his writings, and considering that he was alive in the first century and was a hagiographer, a writer of the lives of the saints, it sadly all seems to corroborate this codex doesn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid it does Mike, but it’s such a shock for me and I am finding it hard to take it all in.’ She looked up at his face, which was now full of concern as he had noticed her tears.

Before Mike had a chance to offer a shoulder for her to cry on, Tommy knocked on the door and entered with the e-fit in his hand.

Sam was glad that she had not succumbed to Mike’s kindness, she could not allow emotion to cloud her judgement, at least not until her killer was safely put away. Only then would she mourn the loss of her faith. She angrily swiped at her tears, and held her hand out for the picture.

‘Thanks Tommy. Right, let’s have a look.’ As he passed the image to her he confirmed what Sam had thought to be the case concerning the call to her mobile. ‘Nothing on the call boss. Burner phone of course.’ He handed her the Electronic Facial Identification Technique which Sam hoped would help their case.

Both she and Mike looked at the features. Dark shiny hair, good teeth, tanned complexion.

‘Oh God!’ She put her hand to her mouth as if to stop any further words from emerging, her face blanching noticeably.

‘What?’ Mike and Tommy shouted in unison.

‘I’ve just seen this man. In fact, he prevented me from being shoved into the road at the crossing at St Giles on the way back from getting the sandwiches,’ Sam managed to splutter from behind her fingers.

‘Are you serious boss?’

‘Of course I’m bloody serious! I wouldn’t joke about something like this. Oh my God, he grabbed my arm as I felt the crowd behind me pushing just before the lights changed. When I got across the road, I turned to thank him but there was only an old lady behind me. When I looked back across the road, he was walking back the way that I’d walked. I even shouted a thank you to him, and he half turned toward me. I saw enough to recognise him from this e-fit.’

Sam continued to stare at the face of the killer knowing how close she had just been to him. She had another thought, ‘If I’d only seen this before I left!’

‘Yes, but then you would have tried to apprehend him in the street and you would have been in grave danger.’ Mike’s concern was palpable, but Sam was incensed and in no mood for any male macho sentiment.

’I’m not completely without skills you know! I didn’t get to this position without being able to tackle even the fittest perp, and sometimes it’s even a man!’ Sam immediately regretted biting Mike’s head off. She simply felt extremely frustrated at how close she had come to catching him. She had no time to apologise as DC Moss also knocked and came into the room. The expression on her face did not bode well.

‘Yes Sandy, what can I do for you?’

Sam was experiencing not only frustration with the case, but also a sense of grief for both John the Baptist who had obviously played a more pivotal role in early Christianity, and even for Jesus who had been portrayed as something he clearly wasn’t.

‘Sorry to interrupt guv, but the super’s asking to see you. He said to tell you that he has some bloke from the BBC in Norwich with him,’ Sandy announced looking sheepish as it was obvious why the visitor was at the station. Sam voiced what Sandy and Tommy were thinking.

‘Don’t tell me that the press have got hold of this?’ Sam wondered what else could possibly happen to make the situation worse.

‘Don’t know guv, but chances are…….’ Sandy quickly left the office, no doubt glad to be out of the way.

‘Ok, I need to go upstairs right away. I have to see if we can stop the world from finding out that we have a religious nut killing priests in East Anglia. And if I find out that it was one of my team who blabbed to the press, their feet won’t touch the ground.’

She informed Mike she would call him later and to return to his hotel to double check the most recent page of text. He could see that she was under immense pressure so he simply packed up his things and said maybe they could meet later if there were time. Sam was grateful that he understood the demands of her job at a time like this and hoped that they could meet up later.

If she hadn’t resigned by that point!

As she climbed the stairs at a brisk pace she tried to look on the positive side of her investigation. At least they now knew what their killer looked like. She also pondered the question of who had gone to the BBC with details of her case. She had trouble believing that it was one of her team as she had worked with all of them before, albeit not on such a harrowing case as this, but nonetheless, she had come to trust each one of them.

She knocked and waited at the door of Superintendent George Butcher, a man that she both liked and admired. He had been in the force for almost thirty five years and was due to retire next year. Considering the way that women in the police had been treated when he was a young officer, he had done everything he could to assist in her promotion to the rank that she now held, and she would always be grateful to him for his support.

‘Come!’ The Superintendent’s familiar strident voice frightened the younger officers, but Sam was so used to his ways that she usually smiled as she entered his office.

Not today.

She took a deep breath and went into the room with a bravado that she didn’t feel. George was sitting behind his desk, his ever increasing paunch threatening to burst out of his shirt that strained at every button. His usual florid face, no doubt the result of the copious amounts of whisky he consumed whilst off duty, looked especially inflamed today betraying his emotions.

‘Thomas, this is Chief Inspector Samantha Brown. Sam this is Thomas Duvall head of the BBC at the Forum.’ The two shook hands briefly and when their eyes met for a split second, Sam saw kindness where she had expected, what? Deviousness? Guile? She didn’t have much time for reporters in any shape or form except when she needed something from the general public.

Thomas Duvall was unlike any other person that Sam had encountered from the media. He looked every inch the distinguished, dapper and successful middle aged man and when he spoke, his public school voice revealed he was well-educated and didn’t appear to be a person who would be prone to the customary exaggerations and sensationalisms that most members of the press displayed.

He began, ’The BBC received a call a short while ago from a man calling himself Titus, detailing his….. ‘activities’ shall we say over the past few days and the reasons for them.’

For a moment Sam was so relieved that it hadn’t been one of her task force that had blabbed to the press, that she didn’t immediately respond. Better to wait until she had all the facts anyway.

‘I think it best that I play you the recording, if that is acceptable to you Chief Inspector?’ Sam noticed for the first time that the smartly dressed man in front of her seemed to have hair growing from almost every visible area of skin. On his face, his hirsuteness took the form of a bushy beard which leant him the appearance of a walrus minus the tusks. His face also had wispy grey strands emerging from the nose and ears but most disconcertingly, there was an abundance of black hairs on the back of his hands. Sam was surprised that given this situation, she would even notice the hairiness of the man, but she guessed that her training for observation was forever present.

She nodded in agreement and sat in an available chair close to him as he manoeuvred a large, no doubt top of the range smart phone, out of his pocket. After a couple of taps with his furry fingers the recording began.

As soon as she heard the voice coming from the phone, Sam knew immediately that it wasn’t a fake, even though the use of the name Titus had all but confirmed the call came from her killer. She looked up at her boss, who, knowing that she had heard the killer’s voice on her own phone, raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly as if to say, ‘Is this him?’ to which Sam nodded again without attracting the attention of Thomas Duvall. The last thing they needed was for the media to know that the killer had already been in contact. She was well aware of how the press worked, even this man wouldn’t hesitate to share this with Joe Public if he thought he had a great news story. The press didn’t approve of the police keeping things from the populace even if it was for their own good.

Their killer had told the BBC just about everything, whom he had killed and where, and worst of all as far as Sam was concerned, why he was doing it. Up to now, only the death of Father Fisher had been released, and the information shared was vague to say the least, on the perp’s motive. ‘Ongoing enquiries’ was the phrase given to the media. Now they would have no choice other than to be as candid as possible with Thomas Duvall to avoid any negative coverage. However, as the call came to a close, Sam realised that although Titus had revealed his motives, he had not mentioned the notes to Sam or the codex. He simply said that he had proof that the Roman Catholic Church had been lying to everyone.

There was nothing specific about Jesus or John so Sam figured that she should be able to keep a lid on exactly what he possessed to prevent mass hysteria as people panicked. The last thing this investigation needed was thousands of Christians howling for the truth to be shared. The killer’s words during the three minute, one sided conversation, made him come across as a fanatic who wanted revenge on the church. Not ideal, but better than she feared. By the time he had bid the young journalist a cheery goodbye, Sam was ready to tackle the delicate matter of releasing this information to the masses. Before she could say anything however, Thomas Duvall looked into her eyes and asked the question that he must have been bursting to ask from the moment he had been given the recording.

‘Up to this point, I have asked your Superintendent no questions. As this man has asked us to confirm his actions with you specifically, I would like to do just that. Is this true? Have two priests been tortured and murdered in the past few days?’ His voice had risen an octave higher as his emotions began to take control of his usual calm demeanour.

‘Yes Mr Duvall. We are investigating two such murders, and before you ask why we have not so far released a full press statement, I must say that the killings have been in very quick succession and we have obviously been tremendously busy trying to catch this man.’ Sam didn’t want to be on the defensive but she felt that she had no choice.

‘You do realise that we have to run with this and that it will be national news by this evening. I have no choice in the matter.’ Thomas Duvall felt in total control of the situation despite his high emotional state and he was convinced that he had the best story of his career dropped conveniently in his lap.

However, Superintendent Butcher was not used to being on the defensive and so decided that attack was the best strategy.

’Thomas, we’ve liaised a few times in the past and I think now, more than at any other time we need to work together on this. We cannot afford a panic either among priests, or Catholics in general. You know as well as I do that this man really doesn’t have anything that will fundamentally change Christian beliefs, but there will be countless people out there who will believe it.’

A reluctant nod from beneath the whiskers encouraged Sam to add to her superior’s comments.

‘Of course you will need to release this information Mr Duvall, at least the part concerning the killings. May I suggest that Superintendent Butcher give you an exclusive interview on camera, detailing the basics of the two murders, location and such like, with an appeal for the public’s help? At this stage, I don’t think it advantageous to disclose the killer’s motives. Let’s put out that we believe there is a connection between the killings and leave it at that.’

Sam could see her suggestion was being mulled over, so she quickly added. ‘I must just check with my sergeant for next of kin for the second victim Father Coleman, and then you can release the names. Will that do you?’ Sam finished by giving ‘Catweazle’ her most winning smile. It was imperative that she keep the most gruesome details and Titus’s codex out of the public domain for now. She noticed that the super’s face had crinkled into a small grin, so she was confident she had said the right thing.

’I think that would be acceptable. For now at least. But I want full disclosure if there is another murder, ok?’ Typical, thought Sam. Her first impression of the man had been too generous. All he was concerned about was getting a scoop, never mind the fact that another priest would be dead.

‘Of course.’ Superintendent Butcher’s smile had extended to the rest of his face which now seemed to have more lines than ever, but Sam was grateful for his back-up, once again.

Sam stood and held out her hand, not once glancing down at the monkey hand that came out to grasp her own.

She left and scuttled back down the stairs to brief her team. She was glad to see that everyone was busy. Tommy was scribbling on his whiteboard. She could see additional photos had been added of the latest victim, also the e-fit stared out at her as she approached. It seemed to mock her as she closed in on the board. Tommy smiled over his shoulder as he added to the two columns of facts in an attempt to connect the victims. Sam read through the bullet points, to focus her thoughts as much as anything else.

Matthew Fisher

Catholic Priest

Very devout (even for a priest!)

70’s

Tortured by chair (see below), nails hammered though the hands (Stigmata?)

Found on steps of own church altar, but tortured elsewhere

Cause of death: Heart attack due to trauma

No next of kin

The image of the chair was sickening but it helped to give clarity to their imaginations. Moving her

gaze to the other column she read;

Mark Coleman

Catholic Priest

Also devout (as above)

55

Tortured by head crusher and nails through hands, device present

Found in sacristy of his church

Cause of death: skull, mandible and facial bones crushed inducing death

No next of kin

No image printed from the internet this time as there were plenty of shots of the real thing taken from the crime scene that were almost too gruesome to look at for any length of time.

‘Oh, so you’ve established that Father Coleman had no living relatives either then Tommy?’

‘Yes boss, spoke to his bishop. But I don’t see where this is getting us. There doesn’t seem to be any correlation between these two other than the obvious. The priest thing I mean.’

The priest thing! How funny she thought, that anyone could have no religious feelings at all. She wondered if Tommy had married in a church or a registry office. She was sure that it would never occur to him that it would be just a tad hypocritical to have been married by a man that served a God that Tommy clearly didn’t believe in. Still, it takes all sorts. After all, it is religion that is at the root cause of our killer’s actions.

‘Keep at it Tommy, get all available info on here and I’ll be back to cast an eye on it later. Oh, and by the way, tell everyone to watch the news tonight. Would you believe the murders were leaked by Titus himself! Bastard obviously wants media attention for his cause, but I’ve managed to mitigate the damage upstairs. The super’s going to do an exclusive for BBC Look East which will be picked up nationally, but it’ll only contain specifics of our victims and where they were found. There’ll be no details of the torture or why he’s doing it as yet. I just hope that this doesn’t upset our killer too much.’ Tommy pulled a face at that.

‘But, we’re no further forward in connecting these two which could help prevent another murder! Could you run upstairs Tommy and catch Mr Duvall, that’s the BBC guy, and tell him that Father Coleman didn’t have any next of kin. I said I would let him know before the story goes live.’

‘Course boss. Would you like a coffee brought down from the nice coffee maker on the Super’s floor?’

Sam felt guilty that she had thought of Tommy as a hypocrite a moment earlier. Not everyone had been brought up in a religious household and it was unkind of her to think less of him just because he hadn’t. She nodded, then glanced once more at the whiteboard to once again read through the few facts that they knew about the two men whilst they were alive and sadly, the manner of their deaths.

As she stared at the two names, something jumped out at her. It was so simple that she had trouble believing that she had not already thought of it.

She shouted at the disappearing form of her sergeant.

‘Matthew and Mark, Tommy! It can’t be a co-incidence that our two victims have the names of the first two canonical Gospels can it? That must be the connection! The two pages of codex that we have are most probably part of a different or earlier Gospel of Mark that totally contradicts the biblical Gospels. Titus is doing this because he believes that we have been lied to throughout, both by the Gospel writers and by those that chose them. It fits with his warped views, don’t you think?’

Tommy rushed back to stare at the whiteboards, the rest of the team having discontinued whatever they were doing. Even the two that had been on the phone had heard what she said and had stopped speaking.

‘If you’re right boss, then we know the name of the next victim don’t we?’ His face burned with alacrity.

’Yes Tommy. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a perverse kind of poetic justice to murder priests whose names are those of the New Testament Gospels! Ok, so the next target is going to be a ‘Luke’ then. There can’t be many priests with that name in whole of the UK, so if we can find, warn and protect him or them, we can not only prevent the next killing, but hopefully catch the killer at the same time!’

TWENTY SIX

Giuseppe Danza looked down on the green fields of West Sussex as his flight neared its destination. He felt an enigmatic mixture of anxiety and exhilaration, both sensations vying for dominance. Killing a man had become second nature to him since the first time he had been required to do it for his pope and had never had any regrets. But never before had he been obligated to terminate the life of a priest, regardless of the circumstances. He remained ambivalent about the task, but he also knew that he could not and would not fail his His Holiness.

Pope Leo had been torn when he sanctioned the kill. His sentiments were clear on his expressive face, but he had finally given the order to maintain the status quo. There could be no question of the world finding out about the original Gospel of Mark. So, Giuseppe had kissed the Piscatory, the Fisherman’s Ring, made especially for the Pontiff upon his appointment as the Bishop of Rome, as it had for every pope for the last seven hundred years, before packing a few things and heading off to Ciampino Airport.

The small aerodrome, situated approximately the same distance from Vatican City as the larger Leonardo da Vinci airport is usually only used by the budget airlines, but a charter plane belonging to Alitalia airlines is saved for sole use of the Pontiff or in this case, his envoy. Amusingly, known by some as ‘Shepherd One’, it was rather disappointingly similar to a normal jet airplane, no conference rooms, no up to date technology and gadgetry as there was on the American ‘Air Force One’. Also, as Giuseppe was travelling alone no Vatican flag was displayed.

Not that he wanted any undue attention. He needed to remain inconspicuous, and so dressed accordingly in a plain cheap suit, carrying a battered holdall that contained his 9mm Beretta APX, his weapon of choice and not solely because it held 17 rounds. Giuseppe was not only a devoted Catholic, he was also a patriot. He had used a double action Beretta for twenty years until this particular model arrived on the market in 2015. He had been required to use this new firearm on two occasions since taking ownership of the lightweight model.

Giuseppe was beginning to feel his age as he descended the steps of the small aircraft, gripping the handrail to ensure that if his right knee gave way which it had a tendency to do of late, he could steady himself and not fall. He had been awake for many hours, and although the flight had taken less than three hours, he knew that he would need to rest before the next stage of his journey. He

noticed his slender frame reflected in the windows of the passenger terminal and was slightly worried that he seemed to look more emaciated with every year that passed.

His facial skin was a rich copper and heavily lined thanks to the Italian sun, but even when he was a young man, he could never be described as attractive, with eyes that were too small and close together. That was just as well, as he had no interest in relationships, he was too committed to his career and to the one man he would die to protect. But there had been a few sexual encounters with women over the years. Various departments of the Vatican owned many properties. One unit in particular, the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith, had possession of hundreds of high-value buildings. Some of these were known in certain circles as the places to go for high class prostitutes, and Giuseppe had made use of them from time to time along with many cardinals living within the protection of the Vatican.

He decided to spend the night at a hotel close to the airport, such was his fatigue, before driving to

the Ipswich home of the Bishop of Edmundsbury. Giuseppe had arranged to meet Bishop Taylor in an attempt to discover what was supposed to have happened to Peter’s body that had been sent back from Egypt, and more importantly, to find out if at all possible where he could be hiding. It was likely that he had found somewhere secluded to enable construction of the devices required to torture the priests. Although he had no idea where to start, Giuseppe was confident that his unique skill set would lead him to the man who dared to threaten his religion, and more importantly, his Pope.

****

‘Sorry Mike, I don’t think I can make dinner. I must stay here with the troops until we’ve managed to locate any and all priests by the name of Luke.’ Sam enlightened Mike with her theory concerning the next possible target of the killer and he had been almost as enthusiastic as she had. Since then, her team had been working flat out, and she held the fervent hope that they would be in time to save the next priest whom the callous predator had no doubt already chosen.

’No problem Sam, just call me if you need me. I’ve been over the two pages again and there isn’t really anything new to tell you, apart from the section concerning the prayer that John taught his followers. It led me to dig into the origins of what we know as the Lord’s Prayer. I found that the first line of this, as we know reads, ‘Our Father who art in heaven’, actually comes from an ancient Egyptian invocation, clearly demonstrating that this prayer wasn’t first delivered by Jesus either.’

If she had not realised it before, Sam now knew that she would go to any lengths to ensure that everything they learned from the codex pages would never become common knowledge. Mike seemed oblivious to her fears as he carried on. ’There was a Welsh New Testament scholar C H Dodd who, in the middle of the twentieth century retranslated a phrase from John’s gospel and which relates to John the Baptist. ‘Ho opiso mou erchomenos’, which is usually deciphered as ‘he who comes after me’. He believed that it should be translated as ‘he who follows me’, which totally transforms the relationship between Jesus and John. Dodd also believed that the phrase ‘Kingdom of God’ alluded to present day reality rather than a future apocalypse, but I’m rambling now and you have work to do, sorry Sam.’

In spite of everything rattling around in her mind, she smiled at the phone. ‘That’s ok Mike, I’ll call you if I need anything, thanks for all your help so far.’ She hung up and turned back to the search engine on her screen. She gave herself the task of looking for any deacons with the right name in the event that her killer had been unable to find any priests by the name of Luke, as her team so far had found no priests with the correct name, either christian or surname. Although a deacon was usually someone who was studying to become a priest, every avenue needed to be explored.

After an hour of searching, she was unable to find a single deacon with the name of Luke, so went back into the incident room to check on the progress of her team. Tommy was looking at the same screen as Sandy so Sam walked over. ‘I can’t find any deacons called Luke, any luck with the priests?’

’Well guv, we’ve found just one priest in the whole of the UK, and that was only when we expanded the search outside England. However his church, ‘The Lady of the Star of the Sea’, if you can believe that name, is on the Isle of Barra in the Outer Hebrides!’

So much for my theory then, she mused. The frustration that they all felt was a physical thing that hung in air. ‘We should still make contact with him just in case,’ was all she could think of to say. Her shoulders slumped as she dropped into a nearby chair.

‘Done that boss. There was no reply from the number listed but I spoke to the local bobby at Castlebay which is only a few minutes’ drive from the priest’s home. He confirms that the priest was inside the church where there’s no phone and that he’s fine and he’s agreed to sleep at the constable’s own house until we tell him it’s safe.’ Tommy had been his usual efficient self, for which Sam was grateful.

‘There is something else I’ve been looking at.’ Sandy Moss had looked up from her screen. Her open face could not disguise the stress that threatened to overwhelm it, but her voice was steady.

‘What’s that Sandy?’

‘Churches called St Luke’s, seeing as we’ve run out of priest’s with that name. I’ve made a start.’

‘Yes of course, that should yield more results.’ Sam was buoyed by this suggestion. It could hold the key to their next objective.

‘Trouble is boss, that there are over twenty in Norfolk and Suffolk alone.’ Tommy obviously didn’t like Sandy’s idea half as much as Sam. ‘We don’t have the manpower to get hold of all these quickly enough.’

Sam was slightly annoyed at Tommy’s defeatist attitude even though his sentiments were understandable. ‘We may not have enough people to get hold of all the priests from every St Luke’s church immediately but we can make a start can’t we? It’s not like you to be so pessimistic Tommy. Have a little faith!’ She realised what she had said and looked at her team who thankfully saw the funny side and were either smirking or laughing aloud including Tommy. Sam thought that was a good sign. ‘Right, let’s break it down into areas and get to work.’

****

The church of ‘Our Lady St Mary’ at South Creake is situated approximately five miles north of the market town of Fakenham and thirty six from Norwich City centre. It was built over nine hundred years ago and made originally of wood. However thanks to constant disruption including the Reformation during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it was partly destroyed and rebuilt a number of times.

The first time he’d entered the building, Peter thought it the most bizarre interior of a church he had ever seen.

The first thing you notice when you look up is that there are many tiny angels positioned around the bottom of the pitched roof, precariously leaning over at a forty five degree angle as if preparing to nose dive into the laps of the parishioners as they worshipped. Each one has coloured wings of either red and white or green and white, and if you look very closely you can see that every golden haired angel holds a different object in their hands from wreaths and crowns to inexplicably, a pair of pliers!

Among this satirical array of colourful seraphim, there is a garish stained glass image of the ‘Coronation of Mary’, its exaggerated colours reminiscent of an old George Kuchar film.

Worse still, close to the altar stands a rather peculiar statue of Jesus, wearing only a golden loincloth, hands tied behind his back, not a cross in sight and covered in arrows piercing his body from chest to ankle.

Peter had attended the church services a few times with the sole purpose of becoming acquainted with the priest. He had endured sermons with the rest of the medium sized congregation, which were expounded with a true intensity of feeling by the young cleric. There seemed to be a larger contingent of women among the worshippers as was usually the case when the parish priest was under fifty. What did these women think they were going to get from these young ministers, Peter thought? However, his own mother must have been behaving similarly when she attended his father’s church all those years ago and his birth had been the result of that flirtation.

There was no chance of this priest breaking his vows. At least not with any of the women, Peter thought with a wry smile. As soon as Peter shook the hand of Father Welch after the first service had concluded, he saw naked desire staring back at him, despite the banal words that issued from his mouth. Peter had been treated no differently to any of the others that evacuated the church, but as he walked slowly down the path, Peter could feel the younger man’s eyes watching his toned body. He had been wearing slim fitting jeans and a long sleeved tee shirt that clung provocatively to his torso.

He had been unable to resist turning around as he went under the arbour at the church gate. Just as expected, the eyes of the priest were still upon him. He smiled. Just enough to give the younger man hope that not only would he return but that there was a chance that there would be more between them than a shared religion.

It had been ridiculously easy to become close to Father Lucas as the younger man was almost immediately completely besotted with Peter. They had chatted, at first within the walls of the church when Peter deliberately arrived early for Mass. At the outset, the conversation concerned religion, but soon turned more personal and they had finally been for a drink together at a country pub a few miles from the parish where there was little chance of b

eing seen by any of the congregation. The priest tried desperately to persuade Peter to come back to his clergy house in spite of it being located next to the church and visible to anyone who happened to be passing.

Peter would not commit to being alone with him at his home, until it was his time. He couldn’t risk having to rebuff the young man and therefore ruining his carefully laid plans. Besides which, Lucas had a housekeeper, who cleaned and maintained the clergy house most days.

Peter had not seen Lucas for over a week as he had been ‘busy’. Now the timing was perfect. He’d phoned the priest the previous evening to say that he had the whole of the following day free and would he like it if Peter were to pick him up early so that they could go for a drive, maybe a nice walk and picnic if the weather was good, and then back to Peter’s house. Peter thought Lucas sounded so eager that he had almost laughed out loud.

Now, as he made his way toward the picturesque village in the early morning sunshine, his thoughts turned to Samantha Brown. He had been correct not to underestimate her skills. He had listened to a news report on the radio the previous evening to discover that not only was his statement to the press heavily censored, no doubt by Samantha or her superior, presumably to lessen the panic of the masses, but that she had worked out his method of choosing his witnesses.

Her superior had taken the credit for this of course, but he knew it could only be the extremely talented DCI Samantha Brown who had figured out the link between the names. Well, she had almost worked it out. At present, according to the news bulletin, the police resources were busy chasing priests whose churches contained the name of St Luke. Although brilliant, Sam was not thinking quite laterally enough to see that Luke is often a shortened version of another name.

Having discovered that Father Lucas Welch was clearly willing to engage in carnal activities with him, Peter knew that he had been guided in the right direction. If this hypocrite would not listen to reason once he had been shown the texts, there was no hope for the rest of the Catholic world.

He may not even have to take the fourth witness, but if things didn’t work out with Lucas, his last witness could finish up being the leverage required to give Samantha Brown the fortitude to join him. He dialled her number and pulled over at the side of the road leading into the village.

****

MAR SABA

10th OCTOBER 1965

It had been an exhausting day for Father Smith. He was so used to the heat that it generally didn’t bother him too much but as he neared his eightieth birthday everything seemed to tire him, and today had been a momentous one. Forty four years in the desert had hardened his skin so that it resembled old, dried leather. He‘d made the most of his time within the monastery walls, forging life-long friendships with the monks, and raising his adopted son, Peter. It had been difficult to keep a child entertained with almost no outside influences and only rare contact with any women but he felt that they had coped well and the boy had become a fine and well-adjusted adult.

The old man stood in the relative cool of the main church, wishing he could take a seat. Yet his eyes lingered on the strong handsome man his charge had become and he was as proud as any parent as he observed Peter assisting the other monks as the relics of St Sabbas were interred within a glass case surrounded by images of the saint. On either side, winged wooden angels resembling images usually depicted on the Ark of the Covenant, remained forever watchful. Stewart began to lean heavily on the cane that had become part of his daily life during recent years.

He decided that when the pomp and ceremony was done for the day, and if the Lord allowed him a few more lungfuls of breath, he would show Peter the ancient pages that had come to define his own life here in this place. He’d retrieved the parchments from their hiding places within the library as soon as Pascal Valente had departed in order that he did not forget where they were. So, for more than forty years his codex remained hidden in his cell. His decision to hide the pages proved to be a wise one, as there had been two visits to the monastery library over the years that could have unearthed his texts.

The first was in 1941, the other only seven years ago, both by the same man. Dr Morton Smith an American professor had spent all his time within the library. He had become excited when he found a letter which contained a reference to the ‘Secret Gospel of Mark’, but it was just that, a suggestion of the work, not the gospel itself.

Stewart believed that apart from what was held within the Vatican, only he had the actual words as written by the Gospel’s author, Alexander. During the scholar’s second visit, he had taken a picture of the documents he had found, at which point Stewart decided it was best to remove said document and to burn it. It was only a copy of some fragments of the original work but if the professor were to drum up interest in the story, the monastery could be swamped with theologians looking for more. Once the evidence was destroyed, he was confident that there would be nothing left for anyone to find.

As he watched Peter assisting the monks, Stewart reflected upon certain actions he had taken. When his ward had turned sixteen, he had transferred the money that had been left for him by the Vatican into an account in Jerusalem Bank Leumi in his son’s name, where it continued to grow. He had no idea if the young man would use it once he knew where it came from but it would be his choice. Maybe his recent desire to become a priest would dissipate after he had seen the codex, maybe not. Whatever he chose to do with his life, he would have sufficient funds with which to do it should he choose to accept the money.

Stewart continued to observe the ceremony and was deeply moved to see the remains of the monastery’s founder finally returned and encased forever under glass for everyone to see, not that the priest expected to be around for long to look at them. He sensed that his time was short and as such he needed to put his affairs in order, such as they were. He had been carrying the codex with him at all times during recent weeks, primarily so that if he were to drop down dead before speaking to Peter, he knew that the texts would find their way to him as there was a covering letter for him within the pages of the codex.

His mind wandered back to his arrival into this desert land all those years ago, and to the day that he and Antony discovered the manuscript in the cave on that blisteringly hot day. Poor Antony. He suffered a heart attack and died when he was only thirty three. Father Smith had been heartbroken as the connection between them remained strong, despite the priest having never disclosed the contents of the codex with the younger man. Now, before it was too late, the time had come to pass the Gospel to Peter, whatever the consequences.

The old man looked toward the glass case once more and as he watched, Father Seraphim, the Abbot of the monastery and the all monks in attendance, stepped back enabling the old priest to finally see what remained of St Sabbas. The old monk had finally come home to rest under the large blue dome with its small bell tower, having being stolen by the crusaders all those centuries ago, during what was possibly the bloodiest time in religious history.

Father Smith believed that his old heart had continued to beat out its rhythm for two reasons. Firstly, he had wanted to stay alive long enough to show Peter the texts once he had become an adult. But secondly, since the day that they were given the joyous news that Pope Paul VI had decided to return the Holy Saint’s relics to Mar Saba, the old man had wanted more than anything to see the homecoming of the holy man who had not only founded this place that he called home, but who had written the fourth page of the codex that he now found himself gripping as if his life depended upon it.

TWENTY SEVEN

The ringing of the phone cut into the dreamless sleep that had taken Sam from the moment she had closed her eyes. It had been almost one in the morning when she had finally called it a day with the rest of her team. They had managed to contact or be contacted by approximately three quarters of the priests within a radius of about one hundred miles who presided over churches with the name of St Luke in their titles. The rest she had decided, they would tackle in the morning. She hoped that most of the remaining priests had seen the news the evening before and would therefore be alert to any danger. It was defeating the object to keep everyone working when they were all desperately tired. Mistakes would be made which could cost a man his life and she didn’t want that on her conscience. She left a couple of PC’s who were on duty in the station, trying the numbers of those yet to be contacted in between any other tasks that they had to carry out throughout the night.

When she arrived home at her chilly unwelcoming house, she poured herself a large glass of single malt, a habit that both she and Chris indulged in every now and then, usually together and more often than not when one of them had had a particularly bad day. It was usually her bad day that caused the opening of the bottle.

The last thing she needed was to toss and turn thinking about the case, when she seriously needed to sleep and the whisky would help with that problem. She decided to call Chris first thing as she’d not spoken to him for a number of hours. He would by then, have seen or read the news reports which contained the e-fit of their suspect. She knew that he would be worried. Not about himself of course. That thought would never occur to him, but he would worry for her and for all the priests that could be targeted.

Superintendent Butcher had decided to release the e-fit and the fact that they were trying to contact all priests whose church contained the name Luke, which although she had initially been sceptical, had proved to be a good move. They had been contacted by quite a number of priests who were told to leave their homes and make other living arrangements until told otherwise, and to be on their guard. There were a few protests, but they’d been told in no uncertain terms that their lives could depend upon them doing as they had been requested.

Sam looked at the clock before picking up her phone. Seven fifteen. Could have been worse, and besides, she had asked her team to be in by eight thirty, so she would need to get up anyway. She peered at the display and was momentarily frozen with an enigmatic mixture of fear and anger. The caller ID showed the name. ‘Titus’.

‘What do you want?’ She was instantly more alert than she would have been if cold water had been poured over her.

‘You sound grumpy Sam! Did you not sleep well? I used to lie awake worrying about the mundane needs of others too. I take it I have your attention?’ His voice was so calm, so matter of fact. God I hope he’s not calling to tell me where to find another body she thought before replying with what she hoped was an even tone.

‘Please tell me what you want Titus. I am sure we can discuss the texts together to prevent any further bloodshed. Just tell me where and when and I will meet you, alone. I’ve read the two pages that you left for me and I know that we have some common ground, there is no need to involve anyone else is there?’

‘I’m pleased that you concur with the point that I am making Sam, but unless we get the full attention of the media and the church itself, nothing will change. You have no idea what is hidden inside the Vatican have you? If only a small proportion of what is in the secret archives was released to the world, the catholic religion would be finished!’

There was still no real emotion in the voice despite the words. This disturbed Sam more than the content of his conversation. He didn’t wait for any reaction from her but continued, ’Anyway, that is not why I called. I see that there were some amendments to the press release that I gave to the reporter. That was naughty of you Sam! And, you have a picture of me, which I admit was inevitable at some point but at least you know that it was me that saved your life yesterday at the crossing. That was a thrill I can tell you. It was not planned, it must be kismet Sam. You are I are inextricably linked. We shall tell the world the whole truth about why those men had to die, with no censoring next time. You know the old saying, ‘the truth will out!’’

‘My hands were somewhat tied by my superiors Titus, I……..’ He interrupted, exhibiting the first signs of anger.

‘Never lie to me Samantha. You really don’t want to make an enemy of me. You know better than anyone what I am capable of.’

Before Sam could respond he continued, the placid quality to his voice returning almost seamlessly. ‘I apologise for that outburst, but as you must know by now, I detest hypocrisy and lies, so I strongly advise you never to attempt to play me Sam. Nonetheless, I wanted to congratulate you on your deduction of how I have chosen my witnesses. I’m sure it was your intuition and not that bloated old goat who took the credit. I think my method has a certain poetic justice doesn’t it? Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, what could be better to illustrate my point that the biblical Gospels are not worth the parchment they were written on!’ Sam could hear the smile once again in his voice.

She remained silent in the hope that he would give her something, anything. There were no background sounds as far as she could tell. ‘So, we get to Luke, our third witness for the prosecution so to speak. I admire your lateral thinking in checking all the churches of that name, seeing as there is a distinct shortage of Luke’s in the priesthood is there not?’

‘Yes. Was that the correct move Titus?’ Sam prayed that she would not anger him by pressing for an answer in this way but she need not have worried, he was having fun.

’Now, you know I won’t tell you exactly where to look Sam. You have to work that one out for yourself. Just stick to using that ‘out of the box’ mentality that you do so well. You will have to excuse me for now Sam. Duty calls. This one is already a hypocrite, so willing to break his vows that it may transpire that he will join us once I have shown him the veracity of my ‘lost’ Gospel. Either way, I’ll be in touch.’

The line was cut and Sam was left gripping the phone, staring at the display in dismay. She tried to think back over his words. What could he have meant about thinking more outside the box? She decided to call Tommy to update him and to ask that he get to the station as soon as he could. She felt a little guilty in calling her sergeant so early, as he was lucky enough to have a family, something she had all but forgotten.

He was clearly sound asleep when she phoned, and her call had obviously awoken his baby son who, at six months old still slept in the bedroom with Tommy and his wife Rita, and was now making more noise than something that small should be capable of. She apologised, shouting over the sound of the horrendous crying, but Tommy told her not to worry, he was used to it and that he would be there in 30 minutes. She felt a little better, but still could not imagine how she could find the priest in question before it was too late.

Her thoughts turned to Mike. He was a linguist and no doubt had a very creative mind. She decided to phone him too in case he had had any thoughts to add to the maelstrom inside her head. He answered immediately and didn’t sound at all sleepy. She repeated the conversation and put the call on loudspeaker while he thought about what she’d said. It gave her a chance to get dressed. The line had been quiet for about 30 seconds and for a moment Sam thought that the connection had been lost. She leant over the phone and was startled when Mike’s rich deep voice came back on the line.

He sounded animated.

‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of this yesterday Sam!’

‘What? What?’ She didn’t need cryptic at this point, she wanted the bloody obvious.

‘Luke can be an abbreviation of Lucas, as in the Latin Lucius. Have you looked for priests with that name?’ It was so simple, yet she had totally missed it and now it may cost another man his life. Due to the silence, Mike sensed her train of thought. ‘Don’t blame yourself Sam, you can’t predict what this nutter is going to do.’ He knew her so well already.

Let’s just hope that if you’re right, we can find this ‘Lucas’ and that we’re not already too late. Now, I need to get to the station, thank you so much for your input Mike.’

She was anxious to go, but he said, ‘Tell you what Sam. I can start looking for priests in this area on my laptop whilst you are driving into the city, it could save you some time. I could meet you at the station in what, thirty or forty minutes?’

She wanted to kiss him now more than ever, but had little choice at the moment other than to be professional. ‘Thanks Mike, that could be invaluable, see you there.’

****

Giuseppe walked smartly up to the door of Bishop Taylor’s residence and knocked sharply. He was impatient to find Peter Norton and needed some kind of indication of where he may be. He had to be stopped at all costs, even if it meant the suffering of others in order that he succeed in his remit given by Christendom’s highest authority.

He had spent an almost sleepless night in a hotel room that was far too hot, and which served an artery hardening breakfast included in the price. He had chosen a simple meal of toast and lime marmalade, a sweet treat that he allowed himself once in a while since being diagnosed with type two diabetes, this in spite of his ever decreasing weight.

He had always tried to look after his body to ensure that he was ready for whatever was asked of him. It was shameful, he pondered as he sat sipping a lacklustre coffee, no match for Italian, that more British people didn’t do the same. There seemed to be more obese guest’s queueing for their fried fare than the healthier looking ones who had chosen cereal, toast or yoghurt. He noticed a young boy of around eight, staring intently at him from another table, the chubby face and little sausage fingers indicating that he would sooner or later become the same as his parents, both of whom had rolls of fat spilling over the restrictions of the too small restaurant chairs. He smiled pleasantly at the boy then quickly looked away. In this day and age, you could never be too careful of how you were perceived around children.

He knocked impatiently once more, anxious to take care of his duty and return to the cocoon that was Vatican City. He was about to rap on the heavy wooden door for a third time when it was opened by the bishop himself, dressed formally in a black cassock with a purple waistband, the symbol of ruler or leader of people since ancient times. The man smiled warmly at his visitor, extended his hand which wore the obligatory purple ring on the fourth finger and said, ‘Welcome Mr Danza, I hope our climate here is not too cold for you?’ They shook hands and Giuseppe returned the smile.

’Thank you for your warm greeting My Lord, it makes up for your lack of sunshine, I think. I do hope that my English is, how you say, ‘up to scratch’. The bishop stepped back to allow the Italian into his house. They walked up the long hallway and into a bright, homely kitchen.

What is your position within the Vatican Mr Danza? As you called yourself mister during our telephone conversation, I assume that you are not ordained?’

‘No, I am a mere employee of the Catholic Church in Rome. I am actually head of security there and as such it has fallen to me to conduct an investigation into the murders of the two priests that you are no doubt aware of.’ The bishop was visibly shocked, and could think of no reason why this serious looking Italian should be paying him a visit in connection to the deaths of two priests, neither of which were within his diocese.

‘Oh! But I had no idea that was why you were coming to see me. Surely it is the job of the British police to do that?’ The colour of the bishop’s face had changed to a paler than normal shade. He was unsure why he felt afraid, but afraid he was.

‘Normally it would be so, yes, but in this case, the person committing these terrible crimes is a former priest.’ Giuseppe had decided that to get any pertinent information from this man, he would need to be as honest as he was able, without revealing to the old man what his full directive entailed. The bishop’s mouth dropped open and he grasped the back of a kitchen chair to steady himself upon hearing this news.

Giuseppe hoped that he was not about to have a heart attack, at least not until he was able to give him any relevant information that would assist in his investigation. The bishop’s rheumy eyes cleared and his heavily lined face became puzzled.

‘But how can you know this? I listened to the radio last evening and this morning but there was no mention of the police knowing who had committed these crimes, there was no name given, nor the fact that they believe him to be a priest!’ He sat down onto the chair that he was holding, as he felt too weak to stand. He absently ran his arthritic gnarled hands through a surprisingly thick head of pure white hair. Giuseppe could see that the hand shook as he too sat in a chair opposite the older man. The Bishop raised his head toward Giuseppe who could now see raw emotion in the watery gaze.

‘I take it that you have not seen a report of the murders on the television, or in a newspaper, My Lord?’ His tone was flat and controlled.

‘No, I hardly ever watch the thing, there is too much violence in the world. Most of the time it’s sufficient to keep up to date with just the radio. At least then I don’t have to watch what is going on, and I only have a paper on a Sunday, they are too costly to have one every day even if I wanted one.’

‘Well, I am glad that you have not, because if you had, you would probably have contacted the police yourself.’ The older man touched his silver Pectoral Cross for spiritual comfort and waited for the Italian to continue. After all, there was a reason why he had been singled out as the starting point for this man’s visit and if he were able to help prevent any further bloodshed, he would do his utmost.

Giuseppe was reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket and unfolded a piece of paper which he proceeded to pass to the bishop who had to concentrate to hold it in his unsteady grasp. He looked down at the e-fit, for a moment not believing what he was seeing. He reached for his glasses to enable him to clarify the image that seemed to be of a man he knew to be in his grave. The eyewear did nothing to lessen the pace of his heart and he began to feel lightheaded.

‘I take it you recognise this man? This image was released last evening by the police as the man suspected of carrying out the two homicides.’ Giuseppe studied the Bishop’s reaction closely. He could see that he was badly affected and he hoped that the old man could keep his emotions under control sufficiently to offer any helpful information.

There was an uneasy silence as Bishop Taylor continued to stare at the image for what seemed to Giuseppe to be whole minutes. The bishop knew instantly who he was looking at, but he was unable to process the information that not only was Father Peter Norton still alive, but that he was killing fellow priests. No, it made no sense. He shook his head and finally spoke.

‘This can’t be, Mr Danza. This man is Father Peter Norton. He died two years ago in a bombing in Egypt and is buried in the churchyard where he was a priest for over ten years.’

‘Yes, that is what he wanted us all to think. He somehow managed to swap identities with one of the unfortunate victims of the blast, whom I would imagine is inside the casket in his place. He did this so that he could return to England under this false persona and begin his campaign of violence against the Holy Roman Church.’ The two men looked intently into each other’s eyes both searching for the truth.

‘You must be mistaken,’ replied Bishop Taylor, his usually friendly features twisted in disbelief. ‘Peter was a very devout priest. He was completely devoted to God and the Church, more so than any other young priest that I’ve dealt with over the years. He didn’t have many interests outside of his religion, didn’t seem to need them. Even I play golf twice a week and bridge when I can.’ He was aware that he was rambling but could not believe what this stranger was telling him and he felt his eyes threatening to spill unshed tears.

Giuseppe almost smiled as he witnessed the naivety displayed by the older man. It was apparent that the bishop was struggling to contain an altogether different emotion and the Italian hoped that the old man would not weep in front of him. Giuseppe was good at his job, but confronting naked emotion was not part of his job and so he decided to steer the conversation away from what a good priest Peter Norton had been and concentrate on the man that he had become, and the diabolical offences that he had performed since the bishop had seen him last.

However, Giuseppe decided to give the bishop a few moments before continuing with their conversation. He moved over to the patio door and looked out upon the immaculate garden. The bishop clearly had time for more than golf and bridge if he were the gardener here. Such a magnificent display of early summer flowers, as pretty as picture. Not that the paintings inside the Vatican were not magnificent, but almost all of them ranging from Michelangelo and Raphael to Caravaggio and others, portrayed scenes of the agony or ecstasy of religion so it was refreshing to see such a picturesque outlook and one that this old man was lucky enough to enjoy each day. He chose his words carefully and kept his face impassive as he turned to speak.

‘Bishop Taylor, I am sorry to be the one to bring you this news, but there can be no doubt as to the identity of the architect of these atrocities. Peter Norton was given some papers upon the death of his mother that were being held for him since the death of his father some years before.’

Bishop Taylor’s mind suddenly filled with a multitude of questions but the first to emerge was, ‘I didn’t think that Peter knew who his father was? In fact, I’m sure that he only ever mentioned his mother, never his father. Are you quite sure of this?’

‘Yes, we are. The Vatican became aware of the existence of Peter’s father many years before when he himself had been given these papers by his adoptive father at some point during his upbringing in Palestine.’ Giuseppe could see another question forming so he speedily continued, ‘This adoptive father was a priest who lived within a monastery near to Jerusalem and who claimed to have found a section of a lost Gospel in one of the caves nearby that he said dated from the first century. Of course, he had no proof of this.’

It was too much for the Bishop.

‘A Gospel? What do you mean a Gospel? And from the first century? What has this got to do with what you say Peter has done?’ The old man was breathing hard but Giuseppe was confident that all those rounds of golf had conditioned his heart to withstand the racing that it was undoubtedly being subjected to at this moment.

‘Just what I said. A collection of papers that the priest at Mar Saba monastery believed told an alternative version of our Saviour’s life. Now, how ridiculous is that? He even contacted the Vatican about them. This would be in the 1920’s. A representative of His Holiness, who at that time was Pope Pius XII, was sent there. He was an expert in ancient languages as well as head of Vatican security, a similar position to myself. He concluded that the texts were nothing but thirteenth century forgeries. He was in a much better position than the priest to know these things.’

‘I see. But as that was all so long ago, how would you know that this is connected to Peter?’ The old man clearly had not lost any of his perceptiveness with his advancing age.

‘Normally, we would not. However, it was thought by Pope Pius that in the unlikely event the priest had not surrendered all of the pages of his find to the envoy and may one day decide to show them to the world, there should be some surveillance undertaken from time to time. After all Bishop Taylor, there will always be people who delight in embarrassing the Holy Roman Church, and there are many people who will believe anything they are told. In any event, our concerns proved to be well founded.’

He quickly explained. ‘The priest decided to make the monastery his permanent home. You see he had been sent to Mar Saba simply to catalogue the library. He lived there until he passed in 1965. However, before he died he must have given the texts to his adopted son, a boy that had been born illegitimately at the monastery, the son of a local woman and a British soldier. The son, also named Peter, came to England with the documents where he made provision that they would be given to his own son after his death.’

‘My goodness that is some story Mr Danza.’ The old man had pulled himself together and taken in the information and was busily processing it. He stood up to fill the kettle whilst he considered everything he had been told. His hands had stopped shaking and Giuseppe was relieved that he had regained control.

‘Tell me, why didn’t Peter’s father give him the documents himself? Did he die suddenly?’ He really had retained all his marbles, Giuseppe realised. He would have to tell him more than he had planned to gain his trust.

‘He was unable to marry Peter’s mother and did not play a part in Peter’s life. I don’t think Peter knew of his existence until after his mother had died.’ The bishop’s question was written on his face, so Giuseppe resumed his narrative. ‘He could not marry Peter’s mother because he too became a priest.’

The bishop had been just about to tip milk into a cup and Giuseppe thought he did well not to slop the contents over the worktop.

‘Peter’s father was a priest?’ His voice rose in pitch and volume as he tried to comprehend what Peter must have felt when he was given this information. ‘Did Peter know all of this?’

‘Yes, we think so, but it is the contents of the texts that he now has in his possession, that have driven him to attack our church and he must be stopped.’ The hardness that appeared in the eyes of the Italian was not lost on the bishop.

‘He must have suffered a breakdown to have acted in this way Mr Danza. I know Peter and I would never have believed this story if it were not coming directly from His Holiness. I assume that you are here to assist the police and to recover the er…… texts.’

’My Lord, I have been sent here by the Pontiff himself, as you rightly state, and it is under his orders and authority, that I intend to act. The reason that I am here with you today is that I was hoping that you may shed some light on where Pe

ter may be hiding. It would seem that he has either made or purchased implements with which to torture these poor men using the techniques employed by the Holy Inquisitions, so he must be somewhere secluded, a house away from others, maybe his mother’s house?’

The bishop could see the intent in the Italian’s eyes and he quickly understood two things. Firstly, that this man who appeared on the face of it to be acting on the orders of the pope intended to eliminate Peter Norton to cover up the supposed fake documents. Secondly, that if he were to oppose him in any way, the security chief or whatever he was would not hesitate to kill him too. He knew in his heart that he could never excuse what Peter had done no matter what the texts contained or indeed if they were authentic, but he also could not condone what in effect would be another murder. Although he was in a dilemma, he answered the Italian’s question truthfully.

‘Peter’s mother lived in a small terraced house. I do not know if she owned this property. I doubt if he would have gone there if what you say is correct, so I have no idea where he would be. I thought he was under the ground in his coffin until you arrived. I suggest that you liaise with the police inspector that they keep mentioning in the news broadcasts.’

The bishop suspected that there was no way this man would work with the police. How could he if he intended to take Peter’s life?

‘Maybe I will My Lord.’ He did not look the older man in the eye, but turned back and looked at the garden once more. ’I also heard on the news this morning that the police are asking all priests serving churches that contain the name ‘Luke’ to take refuge elsewhere for their own safety. Do you know of any such churches that are close by?’

‘Well, I would need to check online to be sure, but there’s one in a village called New Catton, close to Norwich and another in Orton Goldhay near Peterborough. I am sure that there are others, but surely the police would be better placed to find and investigate these?’ The bishop had given up the task of making tea, and sat at his kitchen table, wondering what would happen next.

‘I would like to find out for definite who is buried in the plot that is supposed to contain Peter Norton’s corpse but I am sure with all the rules that you have here, it would take far too long.’ The bishop looked at the younger man in disbelief.

‘You want to exhume the body? Is that really necessary?’

‘Maybe not. If I can find Peter Norton in time to prevent any more killing. In the meantime, I will give you my card so that you can keep me informed if the police contact you for any reason, or if you can think of anywhere that Peter Norton may be.’

‘I am surprised that they have not been here already. They must know by now that I was Peter’s bishop.’ He looked up at the implacable face that now stared back at him and he could see the truth even before he spoke.

‘They do not know who the killer is Bishop Taylor and I hope that they do not piece it together before I can……….take care of the problem.’ The Italian sat opposite the old man, and held eye contact as he did so. His face contained no hint of emotion of any kind and the bishop was once more afraid of the coldness in this man. He was plainly clinical in his approach to the task that he had been given. It was as if an automaton had been sent by the Vatican, not a man who clearly had the pope’s ear.

His next words added even more chill to the room if that were possible and Bishop Taylor found that he was unable to sustain eye contact. Giuseppe was aware of the effect that his presence had on people when he was so single minded. ’You need not concern yourself any further My Lord. This is the reason why our pope, along with all those who have gone before, commission a handful of men like me. How do you think we have dealt with certain awkward ‘situations’ over the centuries?’ The bishop did not have a response.

‘I will tell you a story Bishop Taylor that will illustrate my point. You may remember the deaths of Alois Estermann, newly appointed captain commander of the Swiss Guard, his wife Gladys Meza Romero, and also a 23 year old guard back in 1998?’ The bishop tried to think, but his mind was racing and he was unable to think clearly.

’They were all killed within the walls of Vatican City. There had been no such deaths within the limits of the city for many years. In any event, it seems that, according to your English press, Pope John Paul II was ‘baffled’ by the killings. I am still unsure about the word ‘baffled’ but I think it means that the pope was unaware of who had carried out the killings and why.’ He looked toward the bishop for confirmation of his assumption of the correct translation of the word. The bishop nodded as he could think of nothing to say or how he could stop this man from telling him what he did not want or need to hear.

‘Good. That is what I surmised. Of course the pope was not baffled by news of the killings, he was the one who ordered me to carry them out. This man, who had been elevated to a position of trust was a traitor to our religion and would have used his influence in this role to cause many problems for us. The wife’s death however was an accident. She was supposed to be out of the house at the time. Unfortunately, the guard tried to stop me, so I had to kill him too. This turn of events however was fortunate for me as he proved to be a perfect………what is the word?’

‘Scapegoat,’ sighed the bishop feeling his heretofore total conviction of his faith in papal infallibility profoundly tested but he felt completely hopeless to prevent or alter the course of coming events.

Giuseppe saw the resignation in the old man’s face and he was pleased that he had chosen to reveal to him as much as he had. It would ensure his silence. He would never betray his church or his pope. Giuseppe had played his hand as an unfeeling, cold blooded killer to perfection, which he supposed was what he was, yet to have displayed any emotion to this man would be to instil false hope that he could in some way prevent Peter Norton’s death.

He bid the bishop goodbye, leaving the old man looking at least ten years older than when he arrived. He had as yet no real plan to find his prey but the gut feeling he experienced demonstrated that God was on his side, that something would present itself to enable him to do the bidding of his beloved pope.

TWENTY EIGHT

Father Lucas Welch felt the familiar burning desire for Paul Lee when he answered his front door. He took in his image in a split second before welcoming his guest inside and turning to walk back to the kitchen to grab his jacket. Although the weather was warm, he felt under-dressed in just a sleeveless tee shirt and jeans, but he desperately wanted to impress this man who had come into his life so unexpectedly.

He had always known that he was gay, long before he realised his vocation, but he had taken his vow of celibacy as seriously as any other priest, believing that he could always look but never touch. That was, until this beautiful man had turned up in his church and who quite obviously felt the same about him. The lingering looks that he received from him were almost too much to bear. Lucas was aware that he should never have encouraged the friendship, knowing where it could lead but he was unable to resist.

They had been to a couple of pubs far away from South Creake and once to the cinema in Kings Lyn where there had been the most fleeting touch of hands as they shared a large tub of popcorn. The exhilaration he experienced following that most tenuous of connections was something that he never thought possible, yet it was all he could think about for days. He prayed for guidance, but God seemed to be uninterested in his pleas for self-control.

So, when Paul had phoned him last night with a proposal of a drive and a walk followed by an afternoon at Paul’s house he could not stop the words that tumbled excitedly from his mouth in acceptance. Since then, he had been unable to sleep, to read, to even watch the television. He was so animated, so frighteningly, deliciously, wound up in anticipation.

He knew as soon as he opened the door revealing the tall, slim outline of his friend which prevented the sunshine blinding him, that was going to break his vows but couldn’t bring himself to care. His step was light and his slim hips swayed almost imperceptibly as he walked back down his hallway, knowing that Paul’s eyes were following his progression.

Conversely, Peter was overtaken by a chuckle that almost made it out of his mouth as he watched the overt display of hip wiggling. He was amused by the obvious infatuation that this priest had developed for him. It was clear that he wanted to do more than hold hands. Peter was pleased that he had gambled correctly when he had asked the younger man over to his house today, imagining that he would be in too much of a tizzy to watch or listen to the news which he did rarely even on a normal day. It was obvious that the younger man had not seen the e-fit.

’I thought we could drive to Cromer as there is a good circular walk that I know and there’s also some nice places for a picnic, and it’s not far from my place.’ Lucas looked the former priest in the eye as he turned to face him, just as Peter took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. The blush seemed to stem from somewhere in his chest and rose to cover his whole face as he squeezed back.

After some nervous packing of food and drink they made their way into the sunlight and towards Peter’s car. As they approached the vehicle, Lucas caught sight of his housekeeper arriving early and gave her a quick wave. Although the woman saw Peter, he doubted that she had managed to get a good look at him as he quickly ducked into the car.

As he drove he made small talk with his companion who had by now completely relaxed. Peter decided that he would take a chance and show the first page of the text to Lucas whilst they were in the car, providing they could find a secluded spot to stop. He hoped that he had found an ally, admittedly one who fancied him, so that he could finally share his codex with another person who would understand how he had been feeling for the best part of two years.

***

‘There’s only one priest with the name Lucas in the whole of the British Isles as far as I can see Sam and he’s based in a village called South Creake, about thirty miles north west of here, just past Fakenham.’ Mike was waiting outside the station so that he could give this information to the policewoman as soon as she rounded the corner from the car park. Her heart raced even quicker, at the sight of Mike or his news, she couldn’t be sure.

‘That’s got to be it Mike, well done.’ Sam felt her spirits rise as she looked into the passionate face of the linguist.

‘Let’s go inside and I’ll make a call, see if we can’t get hold of this guy before it’s too late.’ They almost ran up the steps, both knowing that every minute’s delay could cost the priest his life.

Sam spotted Tommy in the foyer and quickly updated him. Mike had been a little concerned that he may have taken too much on himself but Tommy’s smile put his mind at ease. He assumed that they all just wanted to catch the killer, everything else was secondary.

‘Right let me have the number Mike and I will call from my office.’

They entered the small room that had served as Sam’s office for over five years. She took the tablet from Mike and hastily dialled the number listed for the priest. It rang five times and she began to get a sinking feeling, when the call was picked up. It was a woman.

‘This is Father Welch’s residence, can I help you?’ Oldish woman by the sound of it, Sam thought.

‘Oh hello, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brown from Norwich CID, I wonder if I could have a word with Father Lucas Welch please?’ She held her breath and waited for the reply.

‘I’m sorry Inspector, the father has gone out for the day with a friend. He’s taken a day off for a change. I saw them both leave a short while ago in his friend Paul’s car. I’m Father Lucas’s housekeeper by the way, in case you were wondering why .………’

‘Paul? Paul who?’ Sam interrupted, hoping that this woman was going to say that Paul was an old friend of the priest, maybe of advanced years, or someone else that sounded nothing like their killer.

‘He’s just a friend of the father’s. He’s not known him long. Don’t know his surname. Must have moved into the area recently I should think. Been coming to church for a few weeks according to Father Lucas, but I’ve never actually met him. Why are you asking Inspector?’

How much to tell this lady over the phone was troubling Sam, but she had no choice other than to

press on. ‘Can you give me a description of Paul please? I would like to come over to see you later today, but for now, I just need to know what this man looks like.’ Sam felt her grip on her own volume control wavering, but she realised that she must not panic this woman at least until they were certain that this Paul was or was not their man.

‘Ok Inspector, but he does seem like a nice young man, and Father Lucas really likes him. He’s such a sensitive man, the father. Anyway, Paul is fairly tall, good looking as far as I can tell from a distance, I’ve seen him at church, but not really close up. He’s quite dark skinned, but he’s definitely British, I’ve spoken to him on the phone. He has a nice voice, pronounces his words correctly, if you know what I mean. His hair is a lovely reddish brown, a little long, but that’s nothing nowadays is it?’

‘How old would you say, Mrs……’

’Jones, Gladys Jones. Well, I would guess that he is just a little older than Father Lucas and he’s thirty four. That’s why the father seemed to look up to him I think, for guidance in matters other than religion. He’s such a shy man when he’s not behind his pulpit. He never used to go out much, but since he met Paul, he seems more confident, happier even. What is the problem Inspector? Is Paul in some kind of trouble? I hope not because as I say, he seems so nice.’ Sam ignored her questions.

‘So, Mrs…… Gladys, do you know where they’ve gone? It’s very important that we find them.’ Sam was by this time crossing everything except her toes. There was a delay as if Gladys were thinking twice about giving any further information over the phone, she could after all, be anyone. But, just when Sam was going to try an alternative approach to get the information she needed the older woman piped up.

‘Well, when I spoke to Father Lucas yesterday evening on the phone, he said to let myself into the house to clean if he’d left before I arrived, as he was going on a nice walk followed by a picnic and then on to see Paul’s house. He was very excited about it, I could tell. He also said not to worry if he didn’t come home today as his friend may have a couple of glasses of wine and not be able to drive him back. Is there any need for me to worry Inspector?’

The housekeeper’s voice was not as cordial as before. She was clearly becoming worried that something was wrong. Sam felt she had no choice but to give this woman who plainly cared about the priest, a little information, if only to force her to think harder in the event that there was anything else of any use that she could tell them.

‘Gladys, have you read the newspapers this morning or seen the news at all?’ She waited, giving the woman time to think. Suddenly there was a noise in her ear that sounded like a wounded animal.

‘You don’t mean the two priests that have been killed do you? I listened to that on the radio last night and I felt sick, but as I had spoken to Father Lucas just an hour before and of course I saw him only a few minutes ago with Paul, it didn’t occur to me that you were calling because of that!’

Before Sam could respond, another pitiful cry echoed in her ear. ‘Oh! You think that Paul is the killer don’t you?’ she wailed and began to cry. Sam felt helpless, but she had to at least attempt to allay the old woman’s worst fears.

‘We don’t know anything for sure yet,’ she lied. ‘But I would like to come over to see you to show you an image of the suspect.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Unless of course, you have a daily newspaper there do you?’

‘Yes, there’s one in the basket on the door. It looks as if the father didn’t see it. Shall I get it?’ Her voice trembled with emotion, she was unmistakably still weeping. She put down the receiver and the line was quiet. It was just bad luck that Father Lucas hadn’t seen it. It had been under his nose! If only he had opened the paper before his ‘friend’ arrived.

She heard another wail from the earpiece. Gladys had obviously seen the image in the paper. She came back on the line, almost unable to speak due to the copious tears that were undoubtedly flowing freely, but she managed to say, ’It is Paul Inspector. It’s just like him. Does this mean that he is going to hurt Father Lucas?’ Sam felt desperately sorry for the woman, but she had to get every scrap of information that she may have before she let her go.

‘We are going to do everything we can to prevent that Gladys. Now, please, if you can, think back to when Father Welch spoke about Paul. Did he give you any indication about where he lived?’ Sam didn’t believe that he would have been that imprudent but she had no other avenue to go down.

After another interval consisting of the clearly distressed woman sobbing into a hanky, she replied in a voice that was barely audible. ’I don’t know where he lives but when I was cleaning in the front room last week, Father Lucas was on the phone to him in the hallway. I knew it was him because the father never stopped smiling as they chatted, I could hear it in his voice. When he came into the room after the call ended, I asked him how his friend was and his words to me were, ‘’Gladys, if I can ever get him to stop talking about John the Baptist, I’ll feel that I’ve achieved something!’’ I didn’t understand his meaning, so he explained that Paul was passionate when it came to Saint John. He even said that Paul had chosen to live in a village that has a church with the Saint’s name, but no matter how strange that all sounds, it didn’t put Father Lucas off. He told me that he’d found a true friend and it didn’t matter if his beliefs were a little odd.’ She sniffed, doing her best to hold herself together.

‘Gladys, do you know what kind of car Paul was driving?’ Sam didn’t think she would get anything other than a colour, so the older woman’s response surprised her.

‘Yes, it is a bright red Fiesta. I only know coz my son has a blue one. It is one of those with two doors. Does that help?’ Her tone had taken on a glimmer of hope. Sam thanked her but knew that her final question was going to be a dangerous one, yet she thought it worth asking. ‘Gladys, I can tell how much you care for Father Lucas, and I promise that I will do everything that I can to save him, but I would like to ask you a very personal question about him.’ She waited for a response and was about to ask her question, when the woman beat her to it.