The Turin Shroud Secret (34 page)

Édouard opens the mini-bar, ‘I need a drink. You?’

Nic does. He wants several cold beers and then a tumbler of Jack Daniels but a restrained voice overrules his desire to unwind.
‘Just some water please.’

‘As you wish.’ Édouard picks a couple of brandy miniatures and tosses a plastic bottle of still water to Nic. ‘The man who
killed Mario, I think I know something about him, where he came from.’ He empties the brandy into a glass. ‘Your writer, Madame
Jacobs, I met her in Italy with Roberto. We saw her together when I verified the results of the DNA tests. She had been worried
about the accuracy of tests carried out on something so old.’

‘I can understand that. A viable sample from centuries long gone – I wouldn’t have thought it was even possible.’

‘No, it was very possible.’ Édouard is dismissive even of the thought that he couldn’t carry out such a thing. ‘Mario used
standard PCR processing, you know what that is?’

Nic’s blooded enough rapists to have a basic understanding of the process. ‘I think so – Polymerase Chain Reaction – the lab
use it to build up a sample when there isn’t enough of the genetic code to do a full profile.’

He smiles. ‘A crude analysis of a scientific breakthrough that won its inventor the Nobel Prize in Chemistry more than twenty-five
years ago, but it is accurate enough. PCR
can amplify a single piece of DNA thousands or millions of times, certainly until we have enough genetic information to form
a reliable profile.’

‘But that wasn’t sufficient in the case of the Shroud?’

‘It was but we wanted verification by two techniques and two different testers. So I decided to use a new technology, something
more cutting edge than standard
PCR.’

‘Being what?’

‘Amplification of MicroRNA.’

Nic looks nonplussed.

‘I don’t have time to explain. Think of RNA as being like DNA, like a genetic code. But single-stranded rather than double-stranded,
with a much shorter chain of nucleotides than DNA.’ He stops, as if deciding something. ‘Let us just say that MicroRNA, coupled
with newer commercial kits like MiniFiler and Identifiler Plus, gave us a more trustworthy result, something we were certain
the scientific community would feel more secure with.’

‘What did Tamara Jacobs expect to prove with the results?’

‘The identity of the man beneath the Shroud of Turin. She thought she could use it to prove – or disprove – that it was Jesus
Christ.’

‘But how?’ Nic frowns deeply. ‘To do that she would already have to have a DNA sample of Christ to match it to.’

‘Not necessarily.’

Nic’s confused. ‘Yes, she would. It’s a problem we face all the time. You get DNA from a crime scene, but you’ve got
to match it to a suspect. The Shroud is essentially her crime-scene sample, but she had no subject.’

‘No, but she knew there was one.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Tamara believed there was another sample. Not taken from the Shroud. Taken from the cross on which Christ died.’

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

It’s almost midnight by the time Mitzi has checked in with Tyler Carter and finished processing Jenny Harrison’s statement.
She’s tried Nic’s phone several times and not managed to get through. Matthews is going to go ape again tomorrow.

Even though she could get the girl a cab or have a uniform drop her, she chooses to drive her back to Boyle.

The Robbery squad has been as good as its word and Harrison gratefully slides the new key into the lock fitted to her busted-up
door. ‘We should have a ribbon or somethin’ to cut. This place ain’t never had anything new before.’ She turns to Mitzi. ‘You
want to come in for a drink? I’ve got vodka.’

‘No thanks, I’m kinda beat. You have my number – find a pay phone and call me Monday. Earlier if you think of anything or
you’re just messed up and need to talk.’

‘Thanks.’

She watches the door close and listens for the lock to turn before she goes. The world is full of Jenny Harrisons – single
women born on the wrong side of the tracks and stuck there. On the drive back she thinks of the scan picture she found under
the mattress and wonders if one day Jenny will get her act together and be lucky enough to get married and have children.
Despite all her trouble with Alfie, she’d go through it all again if that’s what she had to do to have Jade and Amber.

Mitzi parks up and lets herself into the house. It feels horribly empty. No Alfie. No kids. Just her on her lonesome. Makes
her wonder what life will be like when the girls finally fly the nest. She glances at her watch. It’s kicking on for 1 a.m.
but she’s not going to be able to sleep. Her mind wanders. They’ll all be locked down now out at California State. A prison
built for two thousand inmates and jammed tight with more than twice that number. What the cops call
cosy.
Lights will be out. Strange noises banging and bumping in the labyrinth of stinking blackness. Thousands of guys – including
the father of her girls – staring up in the dark above their bunks trying to figure out how in God’s name they messed up so
badly.

‘Keep staring,’ she says with no shake in her voice. She opens the refrigerator and realises she should have gone shopping.
‘Think hard about what you’ve thrown away, Alfie Fallon.’

Her cell goes and she snatches it off the table where she dropped her bag. ‘Hello.’

‘Mitzi, it’s Nic.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Thank God. What the hell have you been doing? Matthews is going to tear you a new asshole.’

FRANCE

Mellow light filters through the reception windows of the Sheraton Hotel. It’s 7 a.m. on the kind of morning that promises
to be warmer than it should be for the time of year.

Édouard and Ursula pay the bill while Nic sits in a chair watching the hotel grind into life. This is his last week at work.
The thought is uppermost in his mind. It is the beginning of an end. The drawing to a close of his life as a detective and
the personal horrors that have accompanied it.

Late last night he gave Mitzi chapter and verse on everything that had happened in Turin and she promised to go straight to
Matthews today and explain things, including why he had to take evidence from the Sacconi crime scene. Soon, he and Broussard
will be on a flight into LAX and Ursula will be safe in Geneva. Tomorrow he’ll take Broussard’s statement and hand him over
to someone to run the case after
he’s left the force. Come Tuesday, with a little luck, all the forensic will have been processed and verified. It’s hard to
imagine the crap that’s going to fly as and when news gets out that there’s a DNA profile of Christ going around. Adam Geagea
and the other dorks in the Press Office are going to shit in their pants.

Nic thinks ahead to Thursday – by then the LAPD should have secured assurances from the French police that they’ll protect
Édouard and Ursula Broussard and the scientist could be heading back home. Friday night he’ll be lifting a cold beer in a
noisy bar and bidding a fond farewell to the LAPD.

The Broussards come into sight and shake him from his thoughts. They look like something’s wrong.

‘There is a strike.’ Édouard gives a resigned shrug. ‘French air traffic controllers.’

‘Lightning action,’ explains Ursula. ‘All planes are grounded for twenty-four hours.’

Nic buries his head in his hands. ‘We can’t stay here. We can’t just sit and wait for a day – that’s inviting trouble.’

‘I agree,’ says Édouard, turning to his wife. ‘We will drive you to Geneva and fly from there.’

Nic has no idea how far away Switzerland is. ‘How long will that take?’

Édouard shrugs. ‘It is Sunday, so traffic will be light. I would guess six, maybe seven hours depending upon whether we stop.’

‘I will have to stop,’ insists Ursula. ‘Such a journey is unthinkable without stopping.’

Nic gets to his feet. ‘Then let’s do it. The sooner we get going the better.’

‘I’ll get the car brought round.’ Édouard starts across the reception floor. ‘We can wait outside for it.’

‘No.’ Nic shakes his head.
‘Inside.
We wait inside until the very last moment.’

Édouard looks shocked. ‘As you wish.’

Ursula Broussard moves closer to Nic as her husband heads to the valet stand. ‘He is not a well man. He will not want to speak
of it, but it is true.’

‘What’s wrong?’

She puts her hand to her chest. ‘Last year he had a heart scare. Arrhythmia.’

‘That’s an irregular beat, right?’

‘Oui.
He has PVC – premature ventricular contractions. His doctor says it is stress-related, maybe also a little too much caffeine
and cigarettes. I have made him quit the smoking but the coffee he cannot give up.’

‘I’d be the same.’ He tries to give her a reassuring smile. ‘Madame Broussard, I’m not going to lie to you, you’re not out
of danger yet. I’ll do everything I can to protect you and your husband, but I’m not sure I can take the stress out of things.’

‘I understand. I just wanted you to be aware of his condition.’

Édouard is heading back their way.

‘Thanks, I’ll keep an eye out for him.’

‘Merci.’

‘The car is here,’ announces the scientist with a calm smile. ‘We can go.’

CARSON, LOS ANGELES

John James stands naked in his candlelit bedroom. A thin razor blade is pinched between the forefinger and thumb of his right
hand. His mind is aching from the inner storm of emotion and doubt still raging.

His eyes fix on the long thin wardrobe mirror. Without flinching he cuts from his left shoulder straight down three inches.
Before the blood flows he slices horizontally across the cut, an incision of two inches. He watches as a perfect cruciform
of red appears.

Normally, from the first cut he can feel the pain. Outer pain matching inner pain. The perfect balance. It is a sign God is
forgiving him, a signal his soul is being cleansed by the letting of blood. Just as Jesus suffered, just as the Lord bled
for mankind, he must bleed for Jesus.

But in the early hours of this Sabbath day, he feels nothing. He cuts again. Still nothing. Tears fill his eyes. He is being
forsaken. The rush of adrenalin that comes from the cuts, the sacrifice, the focus – they all help him to control himself,
to direct himself. They subdue him. But not
tonight. There is only emptiness. As though God has deserted him. He must try harder. Must prove himself more worthy.

JJ covers his entire breast in razored crosses. As the blood streams down, he works on his ribcage and abdomen. In the mirror
he sees not a reflection of himself but a fleshy canvas – a portrait of his love for God. Thin rivers of red now surge from
collarbone to hipbone.

It is not enough. Not nearly enough. He switches hands. He repeats the cruciform cuts across his right breast. Not as accurate
with his left hand, he clumsily slices into the tender bumpy area around the nipple – the areola. At last there is a rush
of endorphins, a sign of God’s pleasure. The Lord expects more of him. Jesus is asking he step up and prove himself.

He cuts deeper into the pink circle with its proud fleshy monument and steps closer to the mirror. His eyes fix on those gazing
back at him from the candlelit glass. He feels like he’s outside his own body. Disembodied. Separated from reality.

The razor slashes back and forth until the pain hits him. Rushes him like a shock of electricity. God is pleased. JJ tilts
his head back in proud delirium. His eyes are closed but his fingers and blade find his hanging nipple and slice off the last
hinge of flesh.

FRANCE

They head north from the airport then after a mile join the fast-flowing river of traffic moving west. Through the BMW’s tinted
glass Nic sees signs to places he’s only ever heard about: the ancient port of Antibes, a place dating back five centuries
before Christ; Cannes, the home of the international film festival; Saint-Tropez, the jet-set playground of the world’s richest
people.

Édouard passes time by adding colour to the towns they’re skirting. ‘Do you know how Saint-Tropez got its name?’

Nic takes an educated guess. ‘Some saint founded the place or took shelter there?’

‘Trés bon.
A martyr named Saint Torpes was beheaded in Pisa during the reign of Nero. His body was placed in a rotten boat – along with
a rooster and a dog – and it washed up here.’

Nic pulls a face. ‘A rooster and a dog? I’d hoped for something a little more romantic than that.’

‘Saint-Tropez has romance,’ insists Ursula. ‘Coco Chanel, Elsa Schiaparelli – much glamour has made its home here. And, of
course, Brigitte Bardot.’

Édouard’s face lights up. ‘Ah, Brigitte. Proof that God created Woman.’

Nic watches husband and wife reach across the seats and hold each other’s hands. For a second he thinks of Carolina. It was
the kind of thing she’d do when he was driving, then they’d both peek over the seats and look at Max in his tilted-back baby
seat and they’d say how beautiful he was and they’d imagine what he was going to grow up and do. ‘How did you guys meet?’
He asks the question more to break his own chain of thought than anything.

‘Us?’ Édouard laughs and whispers something in French.

Nic watches their hands tighten.

‘Okay,’ Édouard says with a smile. ‘My wife consents that I tell you. I saw her breasts and then I fell in love with her.’

‘Sorry?’ Nic’s eyes widen.

‘My father ran a cosmetic clinic in Nice and Ursula was a patient. I saw the photographs of her and I knew I wanted that beautiful
woman to be part of my life.’

‘So medicine runs in the family.’

‘Only from my father. He ran the practice in Nice and even though my mother divorced him, he always looked after us and I
stayed in touch. He was my inspiration.’

‘But your mother brought you up?’

‘Oui.
We were very close. Papa was at work all the time, I barely saw him. She was Italian. Unfortunately, she is dead now, God
bless her soul. So when they split she took me back to Rome where she was born and had family. I lived there from seven years
old.’