The Turin Shroud Secret (6 page)

‘Sheesh, it looks like the whole of the Middle Ages just fell through a time tunnel and ended up here,’ says Mitzi, feeling
like a tourist.

‘Thirty-three AD to be precise,’ says Sarah, still sounding sad. ‘You’re looking at Pilate’s house in Jerusalem. Mr Svenson
had a team of historians in here for weeks supervising the build just to ensure accuracy. He’s such a perfectionist.’

Nic reads the signs. ‘You got a thing for him?’

‘No.’ She blushes a little, then motions off-stage to an area filled with drapes, dead-eyed lights and unmanned cameras.

‘Sure you have,’ Mitzi insists. ‘Honey, be careful what you do. Tongues wag like you’ll never believe. Things you do,
people you do,
right at the start of your career – they have a nasty habit of coming back and biting you in the ass.’

Sarah turns bright red. She reaches across a table filled with scripts and pulls over a copy each for her guests. ‘The scene
about to be filmed is just after the execution of Christ.’

They hear a male voice shout ‘Action!’ and dip their heads to the script.

EXTERIOR
. Pilate’s House. Night. Building illuminated by strong torchlight in plush green gardens. Centurions pacing on guard
duty.

Scene 31

HIGH CRANE SHOT, SLOW ZOOM IN TOWARDS GRAND PILLARS. CUT TO –

INTERIOR

Scene 32

PONTIUS PILATE
sits on an ornate red and gold chair on an elevated platform as befits his position. He looks anxiously (camera left) as
an out of vision
SERVANT
makes an official announcement:

SERVANT

Nicodemus of the Pharisees and Joseph of Arimathea, my Lord.

PILATE
gets to his feet and forces a business-like smile as he steps from the podium. He glances towards the
SERVANT.

PILATE

Leave us. Clear the room.

PILATE
walks towards the two men and embraces Nicodemus, a man he knows is a powerful figure, capable of causing him immense problems
– or doing him considerable favours.

PILATE
(continued)

Nicodemus, guiding light of the Sanhedrin, always a delight to see you – though I suspect it is
not
pleasure that brings you to my home in the dead of night.

NICODEMUS

Indeed it is not pleasure – but it is the dead that have me disturb you at such an irreverent hour –

(He gestures to his right)

– this is Joseph of Arimathea. You have heard of him?

PILATE

I have.

PILATE
cautiously considers the baby-faced man in rich robes and extends his arm. They grasp each other’s wrists in Roman fashion.

You are a relation of the man we crucified – Jesus the Nazarene. The uncle of the woman claiming to be both a virgin and his
mother.

JOSEPH
(defiantly)

I am.

PILATE

Then I need not explain to you the difficulties I have had – the problems your kin have thrown in my way.

JOSEPH
(pointedly)

Under Roman law the body of an executed man must be laid in a common grave for a year before the family is permitted to collect
it.

PILATE

That is the custom.

JOSEPH
glances to
NICODEMUS
for support.

JOSEPH

I wish to
break
with custom. I wish to take the body now and hold it in my own tomb.

PILATE
(shocked, responds in ironic tone)

Of course you do. How could I have the audacity to imagine
that this man might stop troubling me just because he is dead?

JOSEPH
(ignoring the outburst)

I have money, power and influence. All of which you know you will need in abundance in the nearest of future. I beg you to
reconsider.

NICODEMUS
(touching Pilate’s sleeve)

You would do well to listen to him. It is nothing to you to give up the corpse of this man.

PILATE
(pacing away)

It is plenty – and you know it, Nicodemus.

JOSEPH
(following
PILATE)

It is a favour I will never forget – one I will gladly repay.

PILATE
(hand to chin)

This is what is possible. You may have your crucified Jew, but he must remain in your tomb until a year has passed. Only then
may his family take his body.

‘Okay – cut. Cut there!’

The instruction comes from an unseen male with a Scandinavian lilt in his voice. ‘Tack själv – thank you. Stand down, please.’

Sarah Kenny looks like she’s just witnessed a real-life
miracle. ‘I’ll get Mr Svenson now.’ She bounces away, chasing the Swedish echo.

‘Look at her, Little Miss Bright Eyes.’ Mitzi’s gaze tracks the assistant. ‘So loved-up it almost hurts.’

Nic fakes a frown. ‘I thought you were on a quest to get everyone
loved-up?’

She glares at him. ‘Not everyone – just dumb partners who are living too much in the past.’

DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES

Twenty-four-year-old Emma Varley stares in the mirror over the row of cracked and filthy sinks in the staff washroom. Like
a zillion women before her, she wishes things were different.

She peers in particular at a thumb-sized strawberry birthmark in the middle of her left cheek. Her mom always told her it
looked like a cute dimple. If she ever earns any decent money, she’ll have surgery. Until then she does her best with cheap
concealers and powder.

Now that she’s been tricked into looking at herself, she finds other things to hate. Thick brown hair that won’t grow a decent
length without frizzing and eyes that are so damned short-sighted they need itchy contacts or bottle-lens glasses.
She wishes her nose were smaller, her chin longer, her cheeks less fat.

Even retreating from the mirror has its dangers. As she stands back she’s reminded that her breasts are too small, her waist
too big and legs too short. Her mom says looks aren’t everything – but in LA it sure as hell feels as though they are.

The girls at work bully her, make her life unbearable. They’re such douchebags they even make the manager’s life hard. They
flirt with him and mock him, tease him with flashes of breasts and legs then ask him about the girlfriend they know he doesn’t
have, possibly never has had. They call him Fish Face.

Emma leaves the washroom the way she always does – angry and depressed. Head down and hand self-consciously over her birthmark,
she veers towards the exit and the prospect of some fresh air.

‘Hey, watch what you’re doing!’

She’s barged into Fish Face and made his day as bad as hers. She’s knocked a cup of piping-hot black coffee over his pants
and shoes. Now he’s dancing like a scalded cat.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry!’ She takes the cup from his left hand and a soggy clipboard and papers from the other. ‘I’ve got some
tissues.
Sorry.’
She puts his things down and pulls a wrap pack of Kleenex from her purse. ‘What a mess. I’m so—’

He turns and walks away. Leaves her hanging. Strides angrily towards the men’s room.

‘God almighty!’ Emma stamps her feet. She’d scream the f-word and pull her ugly hair out if it was in her character
to do that. But it isn’t. That’s not how she’s been brought up. She takes deep breaths and tries to calm down. If she gets
fired, she gets fired. It’s a crappy job anyway.

ANTERONUS FILMS, CULVER CITY

When Matthias Svenson appears, Mitzi immediately understands why Sarah Kenny and probably every other female on the film lot
has fallen for him. Late thirties, he has a thick mane of sandy hair, stands a good six-three and was undoubtedly a Norse
warrior in a previous life. His glacial blue eyes and amazing white teeth have clearly evolved from a stealthy predator, a
wolf-like beast with primeval sexual needs that she’s sure he indulges regularly.

‘I’m Matthias,’ he extends a warrior hand and well-learned Hollywood smile. ‘I’m the director.’

Mitzi loses her fingers in his cavernous palm. ‘Lieutenant Fallon – LAPD. This is my partner, Detective Karakandez.’

Nic just nods.

Mitzi looks at the director with heightened curiosity. ‘Are you European, Matthias? I couldn’t quite place your accent.’

He laughs. ‘Most people can’t. I am Swedish but my name is German – it means “Gift of the Lord”.’ He reads her thoughts. ‘It’s
not a name born out of vanity. It is because my
parents lost several children before birth and had me late in life.’

Mitzi could warm to this guy. Oh yes. Given a time machine to take her back to a pre-marriage epoch, a chalet in the snow-capped
Scandinavian mountains and a rug in front of a log fire, she could warm to him in a very special way. She glances towards
Sarah. A sisterly look of approval. Female consent for her to feel free to make a fool of herself in whatever manner she wishes.

‘I’m afraid we have some very bad news, Mr Svenson,’ Nic cuts in, anxious to get to the purpose of their visit. ‘Your writer,
Tamara Jacobs, is dead.’

‘Tammy?’ Svenson looks genuinely shocked. ‘Dead? How?’

Mitzi adds some detail. ‘Her body was found in the ocean, down on Manhattan Beach.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Do you know if she has any close friends, family?’

He pauses to think. ‘She and her husband split up some time ago. That’s confidential. Amicable break from what I know.’ He
struggles for the words. ‘I think he spends a lot of time out of the country – with his
new
partner.’

Nic notes the emphasis. ‘When did you last see her, Mr Svenson?’

‘Me?’ He looks puzzled. ‘Wednesday, I think. Yes, I’m fairly sure it was.’ He glances from one cop to the other. ‘I remember
now, it was early afternoon and we sat outside the set with a coffee and talked about the script.’

‘What time exactly?’

‘Of that, I’m not sure.’ He holds out his bare wrists to
indicate he doesn’t wear a watch. ‘I’m an artist, I don’t believe in being manacled like that. It was after lunch. Maybe three,
four o’clock.’

‘We broke for lunch at one,’ says Sarah, eager to assist.

‘Then it was nearer four,’ adds Svenson. ‘I was late getting off set. I had lunch with the studio publicist, then I looked
at some rushes with the assistant director. After that I met Tammy and we decided to grab coffee outside in the sun and talk
about the end.’

Mitzi needs him to be clearer. ‘The end of what – the movie?’

‘That’s right. She still hasn’t delivered the final scenes. We have a fallback of course, but there was an agreement that
she could keep the ending secret. All I know is that it is set in the Holy Land.’

‘That’s a lot of scenery to build.’

‘It is indeed. Thank God for green-screen technology.’

‘Were there any on-set problems, Mr Svenson? Arguments between Tamara and any of the characters?’

‘The actors, you mean? No – not at all.’ He seems almost amused. ‘Tammy wasn’t interested in actors, just words and screenplay.
The only time she came on set was to see me and offer rewrites.’

‘Who did she have most contact with?’ asks Nic.

Svenson nods to the assistant. ‘Me and Sarah. When I wasn’t around she’d pass notes through Sarah and she would help her with
much of her admin.’

‘There’s lots of it,’ says the assistant with a smile.

‘I really have to go now – is that all right?’ Svenson motions to the set behind him.

‘Sure.’ Mitzi pulls a contact card from the inside of her jacket. ‘But I need a full copy of the script – or at least the
fullest that you’ve got – and please don’t leave town without calling me first.’ She smiles at the delivery of the corny old
line.

Svenson takes the card and crinkles his cool blue eyes. ‘I won’t, Lieutenant. You can bank on it.’

DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES

The wall bell rings.

Clocking-off time. A cheer rolls like a wave across the factory floor. Raucous female voices replace the relentless rumble
of old machinery. Emma stays at her machine and keeps her head down as the coven file out.

‘Blotchy, hey douchebag.’ The shout comes from Jenny Harrison, the worst witch of all. ‘Bring my limo round the front, I’m
‘bout ready to split.’ She draws giggles from her cronies.

Varley tries to ignore her. Bullies bully more when they see the pain on your face – she learned the lesson a long time ago.

‘Useless bitch, I oughta sack your blotchy ass.’ Harrison clips Emma’s head as she struts past.

It takes several minutes for the room to empty, the mocking laughter and insults to disappear.

Silence. Peace. Dignity.

‘Emma.’

She looks up. Her boss is stood there. Fish Face. The man she spilt coffee on.

‘Time to go.’

‘I hate them.’ She doesn’t mean to speak, the words in her head just tumble out. Her face contorts. ‘I wish Jennifer Freakin’
Harrison would get caught in one of these machines and—’

‘She’s not worth it.’ Fish Face walks past her. ‘Forget about her and go home.’ He starts to check all the machinery has been
turned off.

Emma clears her things and heads to the door. A thought hits her. She turns around and walks back to him. ‘I just wanted to
say sorry again for this morning.’ Her eyes drift down to the dark stain on his trousers. ‘I’ll pay for cleaning – if they
need it.’

He looks away from her. ‘They don’t.’

‘Okay. Well, if they do – if you change your mind – then I’ll pay. You can dock it from my money.’

He turns off the banks of strip lights covering the factory floor. ‘They won’t.’

‘Right. Goodnight, then.’ She still feels bad as she visits the restroom. It’s a long way home, two buses and a
twenty-minute walk. She doesn’t want to get caught short. She hates the winter months. It’s dark at six when she leaves and
dark at six when she gets up. One day she’ll have enough money for a car – like her mom says, only the poor in LA have to
walk. She clocks out at the front door and fastens her coat against the chill.