The Camelot Code (6 page)

A windy six-hour flight from Washington brings Owain Gwyn back to British soil, or, to be more precise, the blacktop runway at Heathrow.

A VIP escort team meets him airside and whisks him through diplomatic channels to his waiting helicopter. The armour-plated Bell is quickly in the air, covering the one hundred and thirty miles west to his country estate in Somerset at a cruising speed of more than two hundred and fifty miles an hour.

From the window of the ten-million-pound thirteen-seater, he watches the deep green of the lush English countryside slide beneath him. Mile by mile his spiritual connection renews. By the time he sees the Somerset Levels he feels whole again.

Glastonbury.

No other town triggers so many mystical associations.

The Isle of Glass. Joseph of Arimathea. The Holy Grail.

As the former British Ambassador to America looks down upon Glastonbury Tor, tales of history and legend blur in his mind. This is said to be Avalon, the place where Excalibur was forged. Where Arthur, the warrior king, was brought after being savagely wounded in battle by his mortal enemy, Mordred. Where some believe he died and others maintain he was ‘born again’ and rose to become immortal.

The helicopter circles a grand estate and begins its cautious descent. Owain Gwyn is back where he belongs, where his ancestors fought and died for freedom and Christianity. Back home.

He checks his phone as the descent begins. He has several missed messages but there is only one that truly interests him.

The one from Myrddin.

Booze seeps through Irish’s bloated pores as he stands over the buried corpse. He uses his stained hanky to wipe alcohol slick from his forehead.

The crime scene is only a mile from Amir Goldman’s store. Given that the most exciting thing this hick-town settlement ever sees is the traffic signal changing, he’s willing to bet his pension that they’re connected. Not that his pension’s worth that damned much.

For once, he’s arrived at a scene ahead of the ME and has already briefly interviewed the guy who apparently came here for a leak and splashed more than his feet.

He takes out a small camera bought more than a decade ago, with half the pixels of the one built into the new-fangled smartphone that he doesn’t know how to use. He shoots off three-sixty degrees’ worth of surrounding shots so he can always revisit the body and scene. CSIs will get better ones, but the process of doing it opens up his mind.

Irish concentrates harder than a chess player and picks his way around the scene, careful not to trample evidence underfoot, shift bushes, or knock any trace from thorns or branch snags.

Through the lens, the dead guy’s head looks like a dropped paper plate on the grey-brown soil. He’s been buried in the shallowest of shallow graves, face up, along a rough track that cuts through a copse of trees starting near the rest stop. There’s not enough flesh above ground to tell much about who he was. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. A big nose that he probably got teased about at school. He was probably mid- to late-twenties with fifty years still to burn.

The way Irish figures it, this is the only place the killer could have sunk him. The roots of nearby trees and bushes are too big for anyone to dig either left or right. It’s hurried and messy. Whoever did it was hoping the burial would buy him time. Meaning he’s not local and is long gone.

Even though the cop’s head is pounding from a hangover, he has a good idea of what’s gone down. The antique store had been a two man job. After the old man’s death they’d stopped and rowed. Things got out of hand and one killed the other.

Irish picks up boot prints: deep heel marks made in soft soil. Deep because the victor was carrying the body of the loser. He sees two drag lines. Parallel tracks right up to the shallow grave. And another set of footprints, smaller than the boots made by the poor schmuck who found the body.

Irish walks past the body. The path loops back onto the road and he can see a single set footprints heading that way.

The killer’s.

Jade and Amber are playing Swingball on the lawn when Mitzi pulls up. They’re belting the roped ball at each other and splitting their sides laughing as it lashes back around the centre pole and they swipe at nothing.

‘I’ll play the winner,’ shouts their mom, as she carries a bunch of flowers from her car towards the back door of her sister’s house.

‘It’ll be me,’ boasts Jade.

‘No way,’ Amber adds a Williams-sisters grunt to her backhand return.

Mitzi finds Ruth in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Red, yellow and green peppers cover a butcher-block island. ‘Hi honey, I’m home!’ she jokes.

The look on her sister’s face confirms her suspicions that this is going to be a tense meeting. ‘I brought you some flowers. Lilies – of some kind. I don’t know which, but they’re pretty.’ She offers the bunch of purple, pink and cream trumpets.

‘They’re Longiflorum and Aurelian hybrids. Thanks.’ Ruth opens a cupboard door, brings out a vase with a wide fluted neck and fills it three-quarters with water. ‘You were out early this morning.’

‘Yeah. First day at work had my head spinning.’ Mitzi takes a beat then plunges into the big request. ‘They want me to go to Washington to help on a murder. Would you mind looking after Jade and Amber for a couple days, till I get back?’

Ruth looks around for scissors. ‘When do they want you to go?’

‘Kinda now. Late flight tonight, gets me there at stupid o’clock in the morning.’

She finds the scissors in the dishwater, cuts the flower stems at a slant and drops them into the vase. ‘I saw you.’

‘Saw me where?’

‘Last night, with Jack. I saw you both.’

Mitzi turns cop and goes on the front foot. ‘
And
?’

‘Huh, is that all you can say?
An
d
?’

‘
An
d
’s a reasonable question —’

‘It’s not a question; it’s a conjunction.’ She slams the scissors down on the marbled worktop. ‘I saw Jack pawing you.’

Mitzi waves a dismissive hand. ‘He was drunk, Ruth. Men paw when they’re drunk. They paw anything. Shit, if you’d had a dog and it had been up on the back porch instead of me, he’d have most likely pawed the hound instead.’

‘I didn’t just
see
you – I heard you as well.’

‘Good. Then, you heard exactly what I said to him. I told him he was drunk and should behave. That was it. Nothing happened and I went to bed.’

‘Nothing? You threw him at the wall.’

‘Yeah, well, he’ll live.’ She moves towards her sister. ‘Don’t make too much out of this. Man plus drink equals something stupid. Every time.’

Ruth is in a bad place, doubts circle her marriage like buzzards over road kill. ‘I heard him say how he’d always liked you.’ Her voice slips towards a sob. ‘Liked you more than me and —’

‘Jeez, Ruthy, give this up!’ Mitzi holds her by the shoulders. ‘When guys are juiced, they say all kinds of shit. You know that. It’s a lesson learned on prom night and remembered every time you walk in a bar or club. Right?’

She nods. ‘Still, it’s best you go. I’ll look after the girls while you’re away, but when you come back, I don’t want you staying here. I want you out, Mitzi. I’ll pay for a motel – anything – but I don’t want you under my roof again, not anywhere near my husband.’

Soil falls in clumps from the corpse as the ME’s team lift it out of the shallow grave and rest it respectfully on a thick plastic sheet.

Irish squints to get his first full look at the vic. He has dark hair and is well-built. He’s dressed in a blue linen jacket, faded denims, a white T-shirt with the word
DIESEL
across the chest and ankle-length suede boots. His skin has been paled by death – dried out, cracked and creased by mud and earth.

Cherrie Archer, the examiner who worked Amir Goldman’s case, uses a soft brush to clear insects from dead eyes. She looks up at the detective and anticipates his question. ‘Right now, all I can tell you is what you can see. He’s male, late twenties, well-nourished, around a hundred and seventy pounds. Looks perfectly fit and healthy, except for being strangled to death.’

‘No gun or knife?’

‘Not that I see.’

Irish had expected a weapon. ‘Did the unsub use a ligature?’ He works his way around the pit so he can stand next to her and the body.

‘I don’t think so. The body’s quite dirty, though.’ She leans across and inspects the neck from several angles. ‘I can’t see any ligature marks, but look here…’ She points. ‘There’s bruising, abrasion, as though he’s been held from behind in a very strong choke hold.’

Irish bends over the corpse. ‘I see it. How would it have been done?’

‘Stand up and turn away from me.’

He does as he’s told.

Up close, Irish’s odour of sweat and alcohol is worse than the corpse’s. She ignores it while she uses her right arm to demonstrate a v-shaped lock on him. ‘The assailant probably jammed his head in the crook of his arm and then swung him up and over his hip.’ She leans a little so Irish can feel the choke.

‘Whoa, whoa, enough. I get it!’

She lets go. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah.’ He rubs his neck.

‘Hold a person long enough like that and they choke out. Keep doing it and they die.’ She moves back to the body. ‘I used to be a soldier. Learned close-combat skills along with medicine in the Marine Corps.’

‘I see.’ Irish carries on nursing his neck. ‘I guess not many guys took first dates too far with you, then?’

‘Not many.’

He turns his head left and right to free the cricks in his neck. ‘You got any gloves? I want to go through his pockets.’

She dips into her coveralls and produces a spare vinyl pair. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look pretty pale.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Apart from being half-killed by you, I picked up a cold, that’s all.’ Irish stretches the gloves and works his fingers inside. Truth is he feels weak as a kitten and wants to sleep for a year.

The vic’s jeans yield a squashed carton of cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, sticks of gum and the corner of a newspaper. There is a Washington phone number written on it. Irish pulls out his cell and calls it. The techies told him there’s a facility to record calls but he can’t remember how to do it.

The call beeps out and trips a message service.

An old voice, slow and precise, rolls down the line. ‘This is Amir Goldman; I’m not available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone – and be sure to visit our showroom in Kensington, the antiques capital of DC.’

Irish hangs up and looks at the scrap of paper. The dead man lying in front of him no doubt called Amir to check he was in the store. Then he turned up and killed him. ‘I need this bum’s prints, ASAP.’ He peels off his gloves and dumps them on the sheet. ‘Thanks, doc.’

Nabil stinks of garage grease. He hates the smell almost as much as he hates America.

It rides with him now, an unwelcome passenger in the cab of the white flatbed truck that he’s ‘borrowed’ from work to get home. Even in here, he can’t get away from it.

The twenty-four-year-old parks outside a verminous brownstone apartment block and climbs filthy stairs to the sixth floor. There’s no point trying the lift; he can’t remember when it last worked – doubts it ever will again.

He lets himself in to his short-term rental and slams the door so hard it makes the frame tremble. Hopefully, it pisses off the old guy next door who beats on the paper-thin wall every night.

He goes straight to the squalid kitchen, pulls a ready meal of Mac and Cheese from the refrigerator, forks the top and puts it in the microwave. While it cooks, he sticks his phone to his ear and speed-dials the only number on the handset.

‘It’s Nabil. I’m home.’

That’s all he says. All he ever says when he enters the apartment.

But it’s enough. It’s what’s expected of him. A coded phrase to let them know he’s alive.

Safe.

Not captured or killed.

Gwyn’s ivy-covered stately home has ten bedrooms, two dining rooms, a library, drawing room, study, orangery, two reception and living rooms, a ballroom, gymnasium, indoor and outdoor pools and more than thirty acres of heavily fortified and constantly guarded grounds.

He and his wife have a live-in chef, who has previously held two Michelin stars. All vegetable produce is grown in the house’s gardens, fish comes from the private lakes and meat and poultry from the estate’s farmland. It’s quite a place to come home to.

Outside the mansion’s great arched entrance door are the figures of waiting footmen and his wife, Jennifer. Lady Gwyn’s waist-length blonde hair is being blown by the down draft of helicopter blades and her silky amber dress sparkles in the bright sunlight.

Within moments of the copter’s door being opened, Owain’s in her arms. Holding. Kissing. Reconnecting.

She takes his hand and hurries him inside, away from the noise of the dying motors.

‘There’s a call,’ she says in the quiet shade of the marbled hall. ‘It’s from Gareth, he says he couldn’t get through while you were in the air.’

He takes it on an encrypted phone.

‘I’m sorry not to give you any time with Jennifer,’ says Madoc. ‘I’ve just had a message from Antun. Things are changing. The cell commander is nervous. A target has been fixed.’

‘Does he know where and when?’

‘Wall Street, tomorrow.’

‘Wall Street? Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure. More importantly, he’s sure. I’m going to send you the details of where they’re plotting up, so you can talk to the Americans.’

Owain checks his watch. ‘I’ve got the Inner Circle meeting in an hour.’

‘It’ll be after that.’ He takes a long pause. ‘Are you going to tell them everything?’

‘I have to, Gareth. We have no option. Our old “friend” has left us with no choice but to issue the mandate.’