The Sixth Soul (10 page)

Harrison held up a hand.

‘Yes, Robert?’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t have time to catch you before the meeting. I’ve had a call back from
L’Osservatore Romano
.’ Harrison paused, savouring the
silence. ‘It’s the Vatican’s official newspaper. I spoke with the editor, Gianni Giuntti. Father Sebastian was based at the Vatican between February and September 1996. He was a
special adviser to the pope.’

‘Thanks for that, Robert.’

‘
Di niente, ma era un spreco di tempo
. My father’s English, my mother’s Italian, which is just as well, as Giuntti’s English was primitive, to say the
least,’ explained Harrison.

‘Good job, well done!’ Baxter chipped in across the floor.

Rosen seized control again ‘The good news on the hair from the loft in 22 Brantwood Road is that it’s fresh; it belongs to whoever was in that loft, whoever took Julia Caton.
It’s gone to the DNA database, so keep your fingers crossed. It’s the one piece of good luck we’ve had. John Mason of Mason Forensic Images has also come on board. He’s
worked hard and fast. You have something to show us, John?’

Mason, a shy man, stepped forward with a small plastic stacker box.

‘For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting John, he’s worked for constabularies across the country for years, putting together reconstructions of victims and
perpetrators. John, would you like to tell everyone what you’ve done?’

John Mason looked around and spoke quietly.

‘Based on the ear print on the loft door of 22 Brantwood Road, I made a cast of Herod’s ear. Based on the measurements of the ear, I constructed this model of his head.’

He placed the box on the floor and sank both hands inside, pulling out a raw clay model of a little head, with two shrimp-like ears on either side of a narrow face. On top, a wig of greasy black
hair. The face was blank, a smooth, sinister sweep of clay. It was a labour of love.

‘John, thank you so much for that. How did you go about creating this?’ asked Rosen.

‘The hair length of the wig is based on the single hair found in the loft space, assuming it came from the temple. I reckon he wears his hair cropped, but, based on the jagged edge, I
guess he cuts it himself. Maybe he’s funny about being touched, can’t stand the barber’s hands.’

‘Or the hairdresser, a female with a sharp instrument close to his head,’ speculated Rosen.

The hard edge in the room softened with a ripple of approval and positive comments for the forensic artist.

‘Thank you,’ said Rosen and, turning to the assembly, ‘When we’ve got so little, this means so much.’ He turned back to Mason. ‘I owe you one.’

‘OK!’ Baxter’s voice cut through the air. ‘This is all well and good but . . .’ – when he was sure he had the quantity and quality of attention that he felt
his point of view deserved, he carried on – ‘we can’t release images of this, it’s too vague and would only serve to confuse the public. It could even lead to innocent
people being attacked by vigilante individuals and groups. So, let’s keep it in context. It’s OK for the office as a useful focus.’ Baxter looked directly at the forensic artist.
‘Leave your invoice with Rosen and—’

‘Oh, no!’ said Mason, the shyness leaving him. ‘I don’t charge law enforcement agencies for this work. If you look on my website, it’ll tell you.’ And he
quoted with pride, ‘
Mason Forensic Images seeks to support police forces everywhere in the pursuit of finding missing persons and solving outstanding murder investigations.
You see,
I value what you people do.’

The full room was quiet.

Mason placed the clay model back inside the stacker box. Rosen looked at Baxter.

‘John, can I have the box, please?’

Mason handed it to Rosen who took out the model and showed the back of the head to the room.

‘Potentially, we have a rear view of our target that we didn’t have before.’

He carried the model to his desk and put it down there.

‘This is staying on my desk, this is a focus, until we nail Herod.’

Baxter had gone – the door of his room closed with a bad-tempered slam.

‘I guess that’s it for now,’ said Rosen. ‘Does anyone know where Carol Bellwood went?’

——

T
HERE WAS A
note on Rosen’s desk from Bellwood.

At a quarter to six, in the relative quiet of the office, he dialled the number for Archbishop’s House.

‘Hello.’ A friendly but androgynous voice.

‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector David Rosen, I’m with the Metropolitan Police. I was wondering if I could talk to somebody about a priest who lives in your diocese.’

‘OK . . . Who would that priest be?’

‘Father Sebastian.’

There was a dense silence. Rosen waited.

‘Can you hold the line, please?’

Rosen waited, staring at the blank mask on the clay model that was Herod’s face and wishing Mason could have given him a nose, eyes, a mouth.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Rosen?’

‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘Father Luke Frazer. I’m personal secretary to the archbishop. I gather you want to talk about Father Sebastian?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘No.’

‘Then how can we help you?’

‘I need some background information.’

‘He’s not in trouble, is he?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Why do you require background information on him?’

‘Father Frazer, I’d like to meet personally with you, rather than go into detail on the phone. When are you, or the archbishop, available?’

‘The archbishop’s out of the country. One moment.’

While he waited, Rosen turned the model of Herod’s head to gain a rear view.

‘Detective Rosen?’ It was Father Frazer again.

‘Yes.’

‘I can see you at Archbishop’s House in an hour.’

‘I look forward to seeing you then, Father Frazer.’

He replaced the receiver, wondering why Father Frazer had been nervous when he had mentioned Father Sebastian’s name.

A
t six o’clock, Sarah Rosen entered Boots the Chemist to buy paracetamol for the headache that was building at the back of her skull. As she
waited in the queue, she wished she was at home and thought to herself,
David’s right, this teacher-governor job’s too much
.

She shifted up a place in the queue and looked past the smiling woman serving the customer in front of her, taking in the range of products available behind the counter. She picked out the
painkillers she wanted among medication for colds and coughs, seeing a section of stock that made her pause.

Pregnancy testing kits.

Her stomach turned over. The shop and the people around her seemed to dissolve. As if she had tunnel vision, all she could see were the boxes of testing kits.

A strange idea crept into her head. The idea repeated itself, almost a voice in her ear now. She focussed on the ClearView Digital Pregnancy Testing Kit.

She could feel her heart rate rising, her nerves jangling in excitement and fear.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ she whispered, as the voice repeated itself over and over. She felt the smallest smile form on her lips, but suppressed it because with happiness came the
fear of tempting fate.

What if you’re not sick? What if you’re pregnant?
The voice was inside her head, loud and clear. The coins she had ready to pay for the paracetamol were back in her pocket
and her credit card was out of her purse.

It’s not beyond the realms of possibility
, she thought, recalling the rain-drenched weekend away in the Cotswolds some two and a half months earlier. But, then again, after her
troubled pregnancy with Hannah all those years ago, she’d been told it was highly unlikely she could conceive.

ClearView Digital Pregnancy Testing Kit. She could even see the box she wanted, the one that the smiling woman behind the counter would reach up for, take from the shelf and hand over to
her.

Her mouth was dry and she was trembling. She clasped the credit card in both hands, knitting them together to stop her shaking.

She would do the test in secret, of course, not wanting to raise David’s long-dead hopes only to see them dashed by a negative result. And if the result was negative, the secret would
remain hers and only hers. If she dared to dream a reckless dream, then she’d better bear the disappointment alone.

‘Madam! Excuse me, madam!’

In an instant, the smiling woman’s voice brought everything back into place.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Sarah. ‘Can I have Boots own paracetamol, a box of sixteen, please.’ As the woman fetched them, Sarah’s eyes darted back to the
ClearView Digital Pregnancy Testing Kit.

The woman scanned the painkillers through the till. A long pause.

‘Will that be everything?’ The woman smiled, patiently.

‘Yes, that’s everything,’ replied Sarah. ‘Sorry, daydreaming.’

‘That’ll be just thirty-nine pence, please.’

Sarah again took a coin from her pocket, but just as she was about to hand it to the woman, she added, ‘And a ClearView pregnancy testing kit.’

‘Sure.’

The sales assistant took down the kit, scanned it and placed it in a carrier bag. ‘That’ll be eleven pounds and thirty-eight pence altogether.’

Sarah paid with her card. The woman handed over the bag, glancing around, and said softly, kindly, ‘Good luck!’

‘I’ll need it,’ responded Sarah.

Outside the shop, she transferred the items to her shoulder bag and headed back to the school for the governors’ meeting at seven.

Hope lay heavy and, even heavier still, the dashed hopes of a lifetime. She remembered her daughter Hannah as a weight in her arms and her death as an emptiness that had consumed her.
Hannah’s face, her eyes as she breastfed her, that unerasable image of love stamped on her memory and marbled through her bones. How many times had they tried to have another child? How many
times had they been told her cervix wasn’t ‘fit for purpose’?

As she walked through the rain, tears rolled down her face.

H
alfway between Westminster Bridge and the Elephant and Castle, the façade of Archbishop’s House looked strangely out of place, like a
castle with turrets and arched windows on a busy urban street with modern grey paving stones. The crest of the diocese of Southwark above the imposing double door told DCI Rosen that he was in the
right place. He rang the bell and waited.

A young priest opened the door and asked, ‘DCI Rosen?’

He showed the priest his warrant card and the young man moved aside to allow Rosen in.

‘Father Frazer is waiting for you. Follow me, please.’

The priest stopped at a door on the ground floor with a brass nameplate – F
R
L. F
RAZER
– and knocked.

In his office, Frazer sat at a broad wooden desk, on the telephone, and smiled as the priest introduced Rosen. In the moment it took Frazer to put down the receiver, Rosen heard the engaged
tone.

You’ve been trying to get through to St Mark’s
, he thought, shaking Frazer’s outstretched hand across the desk.

As the young priest closed the door behind him, Father Frazer indicated the chair across the desk from where he sat.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice,’ said Rosen.

‘Father Sebastian?’ replied Father Frazer, his expression deadpan.

‘I’d just like some background information on him.’

‘Yes, sure. What do you want to know?’

‘A brief biography would be helpful.’

Father Frazer typed something into his laptop.

‘We used to have cabinets full of files on the priests living and working in the diocese, now it’s all held on computer.’ After the program loaded, he said, ‘Father
Sebastian,’ as he typed in the name.

Frazer looked at Rosen, waiting for the details to materialize onscreen.

‘I looked on the internet,’ said Rosen, deciding to jump in feet first. ‘According to the net, he died in a road traffic accident in Kenya.’

‘Which shows you how unreliable the internet can be. He’s alive and living in this diocese,’ confirmed Frazer. ‘Here we go. Born in Bolton, academic high flyer,
Cambridge, top of his class in the seminary, chose to do missionary work. Around the mid-nineties, in his mid- to late twenties, he was posted to Kenya.’

Frazer stopped talking and read the rest of the information in silence. Rosen watched his face but it was an impassive mask. After a minute, Frazer logged off and closed the laptop.

‘He did much good work out there but the amount of work affected him and he was returned to this country after suffering a severe nervous breakdown. He was sent to St Mark’s after
his discharge from hospital and he’s been there ever since. He performs mass there each day and lives a quiet reflective life. It’s hoped that, one day, he’ll be able to return to
full active life in a parish, perhaps, or even serving as assistant to one of the archbishops in England or Wales, thus fulfilling his vast potential. But until he is well enough to do so, at St
Mark’s he stays, following his vocation through administering the Holy Sacrament to that community and praying for the life and works of the Church.’

‘He’s still not well?’ asked Rosen. Flint had looked a model of good health.

‘Apparently not.’

‘And there’s no more information in his file?’

Frazer shook his head and leaned back, stretching a little as he did so.

Well done
, mused Rosen.
All those words and not a single mention of the Vatican, the pope or the occult.

‘Now, Detective Rosen, I’ve divulged information to you about Father Sebastian. Don’t you think you should tell me why you’re asking about him?’ Frazer had skirted
around the truth effortlessly. Rosen picked out one detail and joined in the game, keeping it vague but loaded.