The Messiah Secret

hotel he rang told him that the guest he was looking for had been out of his room all day.

It was as easy as that.

Killian packed his bags and paid his bill, then set off towards the hotel where he now knew Bronson and Angela were staying. He drove past the building, then pulled in to the side of the road a hundred yards or so beyond it and looked back.

The hotel was situated on a reasonably straight section that offered good visibility both ways, and Bronson, of course, could approach it from either direction. But the main road ran along one end of the street and that, logically, would be where Bronson would be most likely to appear, so that was where Killian decided to wait. It was essential he spotted his quarry before they arrived at the hotel – once they got inside the building they’d be out of his reach.

Killian pulled out into the traffic and picked a vacant lot close to the main road where he would see any cars turning into the road. He locked the car, walked down the street to a small store where he bought bottled water and several sealed packets of biscuits and cakes, then returned to his vehicle. He opened all the car’s windows, and placed his food and drink on the passenger seat beside him. He opened the bonnet and skilfully disabled the Renault’s air bag safety system. Then he took a pair of binoculars from his pocket and placed them on the dashboard, where he could reach them easily. Finally, he fastened his seat belt and left the key in the ignition, so that he could start the car and drive away at a moment’s notice.

Then he settled down to wait.

39

Bronson paused and glanced at Angela, who was giving him her full attention, and then some.

‘Go on, then,’ Angela said, obviously irritated. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Where is it?’

At that moment her mobile rang, and she rummaged in her handbag to retrieve it. Before she answered the call, she looked at the screen.

‘Damn,’ she muttered, ‘it’s Roger Halliwell, probably ringing to find out where I am.’

‘I thought you’d left him a message at the museum, saying you were taking a few days’ leave?’

‘I did. Maybe that’s the problem. Strictly speaking, I should have got his approval first.’

‘That is the usual routine,’ Bronson said mildly.

‘Anyway,’ Angela said, ‘he can wait. I’m up to date with everything, and I’ve never known anything to happen in the museum that could possibly qualify as urgent. I’ll call him tomorrow.’

But as she replaced the mobile in her handbag, they heard the familiar beep indicating that a text message had been received.

Angela again looked at the screen. ‘It’s from Roger,’ she said, ‘and he sounds really pissed: “Call me now, vital.” Maybe I’d better give him a bell. Can you pull over somewhere – it’s not that good a signal.’

As Bronson eased the Peugeot off the road again, Angela selected Halliwell’s number from her contacts list.

‘Roger, it’s Angela. I got your—’ She broke off and listened intently for a few seconds.

‘What? Good God. Is that a joke? Because if—’

Bronson tried to make sense of the half of the conversation he was hearing, then gave up.

‘No, Roger. I wasn’t even there on the last day. I was at the museum, remember? You saw me at least twice.’ Another pause. ‘No. I’m in Egypt. Just a short holiday. I’ll let you know when I’m back.’

She listened again for a few seconds, then ended the call.

‘What is it?’ Bronson asked.

Angela stared at her phone for a moment, then turned troubled eyes towards him. ‘It’s poor Richard Mayhew,’ she said. ‘He’s dead. Somebody told the local coppers that a car had been left parked at Carfax Hall when we had all left, and they went out there to investigate. They found him in the kitchen.’

‘Christ,’ Bronson said. ‘Did he have a heart attack?’

Angela shook her head. ‘No. He’d been tied to that big old chair in the kitchen and whipped with something like a cat-o’-nine-tails, and then shot. It happened on Friday afternoon, according to the police. They want a statement from me when we get back.’

Bronson was shocked. For perhaps half a minute he just sat there, making connections and exploring the ramifications of what Angela had told him.

‘I think that explains how that bogus priest was able to call you by name,’ he said at last, ‘and how he knew about the things you’d taken from Carfax Hall. He tortured Richard Mayhew and forced him to reveal your name and address, and killed him when he’d got what he wanted. Then he burgled your flat and attacked you in the street outside. And he must have killed Oliver as well, or at least whipped him until the old man’s heart gave out. He’s been one step behind us all the way.’

Angela shook her head. ‘I think he’s one step ahead of us now, because after the attack on Suleiman al-Sahid in Cairo, he’s got the paintings and we haven’t.’

Bronson turned to her. ‘This worries me. This guy is clearly utterly ruthless. He’s killed two people that we know about, and it would have been four if you hadn’t got away from him in London and if we hadn’t pulled Suleiman out of his house. We need to decide if this search is worth the risk.’

‘But we’re not taking part in any search at the moment,’ Angela said. ‘Face facts, Chris – he’s got the paintings and we haven’t, and without them, we might as well pack up and go home right now.’

But Bronson shook his head. ‘Here’s the question. If I could produce the entire text of the parchment for you, would you still want to carry on? Knowing that the priest is still at large, and that we would have to face him again some time?’

‘I wouldn’t want to meet him again,’ Angela said, ‘but it would be different if you were with me. But it’s academic, isn’t it? We don’t have the paintings, so we can’t find the text of the parchment.’

‘So you’d carry on with the search?’

‘Definitely; the prize is too big to ignore.’

Bronson smiled. ‘I knew you’d say that,’ he said. ‘I’ve got another question for you. What does Persian script look like? I mean, is it a plain and simple font – or something more elaborate?’

‘It’s quite elaborate. You could call it flowery, I suppose. It’s got lots of curves and twists. Why?’

‘That’s what I hoped you’d say,’ Bronson replied. ‘If I’m right, Oliver Wendell-Carfax was wasting his time tearing panels off the walls looking for the hiding place where Bartholomew had hidden the papyrus text. I think the papyrus itself probably fell to pieces quite soon after he pulled it out of the sealed pottery vessel – it is quite fragile, isn’t it?’

‘If it’s not stored under the right conditions, yes. And Bartholomew wouldn’t have had the knowledge or the experience to know that. Or the equipment, obviously. If he didn’t keep it in a sealed envelope, and especially if he handled it a lot, it wouldn’t last very long.’

‘Right. So my guess is that he carefully copied out the Persian inscription as soon as he saw that the papyrus was starting to deteriorate. Then, later on in his life, he decided to create a more permanent record, and that was why he had the two pictures painted.’

‘We know that. Presumably there’s a secret compartment in the frame of one or other of them. Bartholomew seemed to like things like that, if that drawer under the stuffed fox is anything to go by.’

Bronson shook his head. ‘I don’t think he did anything so complicated. I think he decided to hide it in plain sight. Look at the picture. You’ll see a young man wearing a highly embroidered Indian-style tunic. But look closely at the collar and the lapels. It might look like a random pattern, but I don’t think it is, because it’s not symmetrical. I think that’s a form of writing, a form that most people simply wouldn’t recognize as being writing.’