After a much-obstructed journey lasting half an hour, the group was aboard the ancient passenger boat; steam driven and cruising gently down the calm waters of the awesome Amazon River. It had been commissioned for the group of holy people alone that day. So near to the port, the river traffic was bustling in a seemingly disorderly fashion. The fact that there were no collisions made it clear that some semblance of order existed.
Some twenty minutes later, the party was making headway, the traffic now much lighter and the current flowing more strongly. The pilot of the craft steered into the middle of the river as it widened, giving a mini-commentary on the various sights on shore and the abundant and varied wildlife that paraded on land and in the water.
The pilot was the owner of the boat and very proud of its smooth-running engine and its well- painted exterior. A native Brazilian, Palermo De Gatzca, he was a married man who boasted twelve children and eight grandchildren. At the age of sixty-two, he was an active man in every way. His skin was a deeply burnt brown, with a majestically lined face, giving character and reflecting the experiences of his lifetime. The nut-brown eyes shone alertly from folds of flesh that, with age, were threatening to completely obscure them.
Ignatious remembered the face well; he had studied it on many occasions during the journey, trying to fathom what kind of man lay behind. The face was like an impenetrable wall. He inadvertently groaned, rolling onto his side and instantly back again, as his mind shot past the early part of the adventure, moving to the second day along the river.
They had moored against a bank protected by thick, overhanging trees overnight, sleeping under fly nets to keep away the many buzzing insects and the quieter moths.
The clouds had been building up since the early hours, it was now eleven-thirty in the morning, and had accumulated as if gathering for war. The hitherto absent wind began to blow a little stronger, then gust, then settle into a strong breeze. The clouds covered the sun and the day became dark, with a kind of greenish hue.
The small boat meandered along, still taking a middle position, as the group looked nervously at the ever-threatening sky. Thunder began to rumble, sounding many miles away and the wind picked up. The gentle rippling of the river was now choppy with larger waves rolling along intermittently. The boat began to roll with the comparatively small swell.
To the questions put to him by the more forthright of the crew, Father Lassiter, the Australian, De Gatzca would only insist that there would be no problem — the clouds would break and disperse soon and the best position for the boat was out in the middle rather than hugging the bank, where danger lurked in the form of tree roots and obstacles thrown into the water by irresponsible people.
Again Ignatious stirred, asleep but restless as the memories traipsed across his mind.
Plop! Plop! Thud! Plop! Spots of rain descended onto the dry wooden flooring of the boat as it bucked more violently now, the river becoming alarmingly hostile Plop, plop, plop, plop, thud, thud, faster now, heavier.
At last, De Natzca realised the vulnerability of the craft; it was like a twig thrown by a child into a fast moving stream. He decided that now was the time to steer nearer to the bank, taking note of the frightened and anxious expressions on his passenger’s faces as he turned the wheel.
At that moment, an almighty clap of thunder rent the air, quickly followed by a flash of sheet lightning that lit up the boat and the cringing people hanging desperately onto the brass side rails. The screams of the females were immediately drowned by a roll of thunder, even louder than the last as the Gods screeched their venom at the audacity of the feeble humans who were daring to challenge their great power.
The bolt of lightning that spat at the boat crackled down in a vicious hiss. The head of Palermo De Natzca literally turned to stone as the charge speared through his body, striking at the tiny bald patch at the rear of his head; a patch that he took great lengths to hide with a skilful combing of the tightly-curled hair. The hair disappeared in a puff of smoke.
The shocked missionaries looked on, mouths agape, taking in the electric smell that pervaded the air around them. Palermo’s lifeless body was draped over the wheel, arms encircling it as if in protection, holding it in its turning position. The curve of the boat’s route took it broadside on to the freak weather, the wind gusting mightily in gale force with rain hurtling horizontally. In a visually stunning movement, the boat rocked violently, righted itself and then flew from the broiling water, flying six feet into the air before spinning like a barrel and crashing into a clump of trees on the river’s edge and smashing into many pieces, the stern, almost complete, skimming into the centre of the river to hurtle downstream.
In fleeting seconds, Ignatious saw the figure of Sister Evangelica, the English girl, hurtle back into the broiling river, hitting it with force and being carried quickly away. Almost at the same time, he saw Father Lassiter fly past his entangled position, trapped in sturdy branches, to become fatally impaled upon a broken limb just a few feet away, that jutted out like a spear. The point of the branch entered the open, screaming mouth of the priest exiting in the middle of his left foot, skewering him like a pig on a spit.
Shocked but aware, Ignatious saw the good Father Christian clinging to a gnarled tree root as the water beat about him, trying to drag him to his death. Then, in one quick movement, Christian rolled from the river and huddled into the widespread roots, curling into a ball.
Looking around, Ignatious made out the frail figure of Sister Vasquez trapped in branches some six yards from his own position; she appeared to be either unconscious, or dead. A further sweep of the area revealed Father Ottomier wriggling into the foliage, seeking refuge from the near-hurricane that was all about them. As he watched, the shattered body of a squirrel monkey, its white face covered in blood, crashed into the dense branches near to Ignatious’s head, where it stuck for a few moments before hurtling out into the raging river to be swept into oblivion.
With a start, Ignatious awoke, jerking upright in his terror. Bewildered for minutes, he gradually regained his senses, realising that he had awakened from the deep trauma that had bedevilled him since returning from that fateful expedition.
He rose from the bed and towelled away the sweat, a combination of the night’s heat and the terrible memories. Before returning to continue the sleep, hopefully without dreams, he removed the saturated sheets and replaced them with clean, dry ones. Fluffing up the pillow, he slipped beneath the fresh cotton sheet and went immediately to sleep. This time, it was untroubled.
Surprisingly, perhaps, most murders are solved quite quickly. There are some, however, that take years to solve and some, of course, that never reach a conclusion. The three cases being handled by Graham Sampler were moving in the direction of the ‘never solved’ as there was absolutely nothing to go on. If a person were to be apprehended at some stage, guilt or innocence could be easily established by comparing the DNA. However, it was always necessary to be able to produce further damning evidence in order to really have a case that would succeed.
Although the killings bore the same identity — poisons mysteriously administered to the victim, there was no other obvious connection. Even DNA would only be able to show that a person had been at the scene and even, possibly, that the person had had sex with the victim; none of these proved murder. Sampler had pored over the reports of each and looked endlessly at the photographs, but nothing had sprung out at him. The report on the death of Lawrence Maddigan was expected from Doctor Wray this morning, so maybe that would shed some light.
Expecting nothing, Graham moved to the far wall of his office, where blown-up photographs of the victims, taken at the scene, were arranged. Each time he had looked, he had felt that there was something similar; something he should spot.
He looked hard at the bizarre pictures of the naked Maddigan. This was the only male — so far — and it was the only body that showed marks of violence. Even the violence appeared to have been consensual. His eyes slowly roved down the body, from the hanging head to the feet. He studied the surrounding area, taking in the unremarkable ground, with its grass shoots, wild flowers, weeds and sprinklings of moss.
