Secrets of the Dead (7 page)

‘You didn’t see anyone at the library wearing this?’

Porfyrius shakes his head. Symmachus just scowls.

‘There were no women at the library,’ Porfyrius says.

‘But plenty of Christians.’ Symmachus is standing on the line where sun gives way to shadow. Half his face is bright as gold, the other half sunk in darkness. ‘Eusebius of Nicomedia. Asterius the Sophist. Any number of priests and hangers-on.’

‘Could a Christian have killed one of their own?’

It’s the first time I’ve heard Symmachus laugh. It’s not a pretty sound – like a quarry-saw cutting marble. When he’s finished, and hacked the phlegm from his throat, he says, ‘Can an owl catch mice? Porphyry the philosopher said it best: “The Christians are a confused and vicious sect.” Thirty years ago we were about to exterminate them. If I’d wanted to murder Alexander I could have done it then and been hailed a hero. Now the wheel has turned. They murdered their own god – what wouldn’t they do to keep their privileges?’

Another serrated burst of laughter. ‘They’re only Roman.’

York – Present Day

THE CITY STOOD
on a hill at the junction of two rivers, with the square towers of the Minster looming from its highest point. High walls hemmed it in – walls which had repelled Picts, Vikings, Norsemen and Scots in their time, but which couldn’t resist the columns of traffic that now queued through the gates. On the facing bank, executive flats and smart chain restaurants occupied what had once been thriving wharves and warehouses.

The moment she got off the train from King’s Cross, Abby could feel the difference. London had been close and warm, the friction of ten million people rubbing together. Here, the cold made her blush. A fine mist left dew on her cheek, while clouds overhead promised heavier rain to come.

She left the station and entered the city where a roundabout breached the wall. A few gravestones from a long-lost churchyard waited outside, marooned by time and the ring road. A bridge and a hill brought her up to the great medieval cathedral, the Minster. It had been built to be bigger than the mind
of
man and was now, if anything, stranger, looming over the city like a visitor from an alien civilisation.

It was late in the season, but a few sightseers still clustered in front of it. A busker played ragtime on an open-faced piano; a man dressed as a Roman legionary tried to get tourists to photograph themselves with him. Behind them, mostly unnoticed, a green-bronze emperor lazed on a throne and contemplated the pommel of his broken sword.

The rain was getting harder. She wiped a drop from her forehead, and was surprised to feel how wet her hair was. Her body seemed to be drinking up the damp in the air.

Behind the Minster, the open spaces gave way to a warren of cobbled lanes, blind passages and narrow houses bunched together. The buildings were brown brick and squat, probably built in the last forty years, but somehow the ancient pattern of the streets still asserted itself on them. Some of the houses had pointed door frames, with strange leaded hoods hanging over them. She squeezed under the porch of Number 36 and rang the bell.

The door opened a few inches – as far as the chain would allow. A petite woman in a pink sweatshirt and jeans peered out at her. Her face was lined, her dark hair streaked with grey and pulled into a loose bun.

‘Are you Jenny Roche?’ A deep breath. ‘Are you Michael Lascaris’s sister?’

She didn’t need an answer. She could see it in the eyes: the same bright, inquisitive eyes as Michael, though dulled by age and pain.

‘My name’s Abby Cormac. I was Michael’s …’
What?
‘I knew him in Kosovo. I was with him, when … I’m sorry I came without calling, but I didn’t …’

The woman wasn’t listening – wasn’t even looking at Abby.
She
peered over Abby’s shoulder at the empty street and the rain.

‘Did you come alone?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘You’d better come in.’

It was hard to imagine Jenny as Michael’s sister. Everything about Michael had been bold, extrovert, light-hearted; by contrast, Jenny seemed frail and deadly serious. Where Michael had been incurably chaotic, Jenny kept her house immaculate. Abby perched on a rose-patterned sofa covered in plastic and sipped tea from a fine-bone cup. Framed photographs covered every surface, a silent congregation watching them. Faded children on summer holidays in short shorts and floral dresses; teenagers with big hair and awkward smiles; proud adults cuddling babies. Abby wondered who they all were. There was no evidence of children in this pristine house, and Michael had never talked much about his family. He’d always given the impression they might be rather grand, though it was hard to square with this small, compressed house.

Several of the frames were empty, blank windows where photographs had recently been removed. History unwritten.

‘The police told me you were there,’ Jenny said. ‘I wanted to get in touch, but I didn’t know how. They wouldn’t let me in to the hospital.’ She saw Abby’s confusion. ‘In Montenegro. I was there for the body.’

‘Of course. They said.’

‘They made me identify him.’ Jenny shuddered. Tea slopped in her cup, but didn’t escape over the rim. ‘Don’t ever let them make you do that. He’d been in the water three days when they pulled him out. Horrible. I felt like if I didn’t look
properly
, they wouldn’t think I’d done it right. I almost sicked up my lunch on him.’

‘Did they say anything? Any clue who might have done it?’

Jenny put a hand to her throat. Slim fingers fiddled with a golden heart on a chain. ‘Nothing. I thought you might know.’

‘Not really.’ Abby bit into her biscuit and tried not to spill crumbs. ‘I’ve heard a rumour – not even that, just an idea – that organised crime might have been involved. I don’t know how much you know about Kosovo – the Balkans generally – but it’s like the Wild West. Weak governments that are no match for the organised criminals they’re up against, if they’re not completely owned by them. Michael worked in the customs service. It’s possible he made some enemies, maybe without even realising it.’

‘He didn’t say anything to you? Before …’

‘You know what Michael was like. Nothing was ever a problem.’

That drew a rueful smile that threatened to spill into tears. ‘Always up to something. I was the big sister getting talked into his adventures – and then Mum blaming me for not stopping him when it went wrong.’ A grimace. ‘It usually went wrong.’

Jenny poured a fresh cup of tea from the pot. The spout rattled against the cup.

‘I wasn’t surprised he ended up out there. He was never one of those save-the-world people, but he loved adventure.’

‘It’s not that adventurous,’ said Abby. ‘And we’re not saving the world. Michael used to say we were just trying to make Kosovo as dull as everywhere else. He said we were leading by example.’

‘He couldn’t have been dull if he tried.’

‘No.’

A silence. A look passed between them: two strangers finding common ground in their grief. To Abby, it felt like nothing more than shared helplessness, but it seemed to decide something in Jenny. She stood abruptly and crossed to a mahogany cabinet in the corner.

‘He did know something might happen.’

She unlocked a drawer. From inside, she pulled out a thick yellow envelope and passed it to Abby. Abby’s heart quickened. It was postmarked Germany and addressed in Michael’s handwriting. A neat scissor-cut had already opened it.

‘Go on,’ said Jenny.

Abby fished inside. Out came a postcard folded within a sheet of official-looking paper. There was a crest with a cross and a lion, and the heading
Rheinisches Landesmuseum Trier – Institut für Papyrologie
. Below it, a brief letter written in German, signed at the bottom by a Dr Theodor Gruber.

‘Do you know what it says?’ Abby asked.

Jenny shook her head. ‘There’s a man at church who speaks German, but I didn’t like to take it to him. It’s too personal, isn’t it? Like a sort of message from beyond the grave.’

Abby looked at the front of the postcard, divided into three pictures. One showed a huge ancient gateway in the middle of a roundabout, blackened by fire; the second, a formal red-brick building on a tree-lined avenue; the third, a bearded man in a frock coat and a scowl.
Karl Marx
, said the legend at the bottom.

On the back, Michael had written two simple words.

My Love –

Nothing else.
Was that meant for me?
Abby wondered. She slid it back into the envelope with the paper and passed it to Jenny.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘What can I?’

‘There’s a phone number on the letterhead. You could call it.’

‘I couldn’t.’ Jenny seemed to shrink into her sofa. She pushed the envelope back in Abby’s hand. ‘You have it. If there’s any good can come of it, you’ll do better than me.’

Jenny’s strength seemed to be fading. Her face looked drawn. Abby sensed she didn’t have much time.

‘Where’s Michael now?’

It was unfortunate phrasing. Jenny’s anguished look made Abby wish she could melt onto the plastic-covered sofa. ‘I meant … I just … I’d like to visit his grave, while I’m here.’

Jenny took Abby’s teacup and stacked it on a brass tray. Her shaky hands threatened to smash the china.

‘He was cremated. We scattered his ashes on the sea at Robin Hood’s Bay. He didn’t want a memorial. He always said: when you’re gone, you’re gone.’

And that seemed to be the signal for Abby to go. Jenny murmured something about having to collect her niece from Brownies; Abby said she ought to catch her train. The intimacy that had briefly united them had passed, but on the threshold, Jenny surprised her by sticking out her arms and giving Abby a hug. It was an awkward gesture, as if she wasn’t used to such things.
As if she’s as desperate for contact as I am
, thought Abby.
Clinging on
.

‘Tell me if you find anything.’

Out on the street, the rain was unrelenting. Abby found a snicket between two houses, sheltered from the rain, and pulled out Michael’s letter. She checked her watch. It was just past five o’clock – six in Germany – they’d probably have gone home. But she couldn’t wait. She took out her phone and dialled the number, hoping she had enough credit.

A voice answered in German.

‘Doctor Gruber, please?’

‘A moment. I put you on hold.’

The voice gave way to a soft digital pulse that reminded her of the hospital in Montenegro. She shivered. At the far end of the street, a shadow detached itself from one of the houses and started to come towards her. A man in a long black raincoat and an old-fashioned trilby hat. The day was dark and the rain blurred her vision: the shapeless coat made him seem little more than a pocket of darkness.

‘Hello?’ A man’s voice down the phone, thin and accented.

‘Doctor Gruber?’

‘
Ja
.’

The shadow moved down the street. He could have been going anywhere, but there was something about his movement that seemed aimed straight at her. She looked around for reassurance, but the rest of the street was empty. Even the houses had turned their backs. White curtains blanked out the windows, like the sightless eyes of Jenny’s empty photo frames.

Did you come alone?
Why did Jenny ask that?

‘
Hello
?’ The phone – impatient – perhaps a little irritated. Abby turned and began to walk briskly, stumbling out her words.

‘Doctor Gruber? Do you speak English? My name’s Abby Cormac – I’m a friend of Michael Lascaris. Did you know him?’

A cautious pause. ‘I know Mr Lascaris.’

‘He’s –’ She glanced over her shoulder. The man in the raincoat was still following. ‘He died. I was going through some papers he left and I found a letter you wrote to him. I wondered …’

If you know why he never mentioned you to me? If you know why he was in Trier? If you could tell me who killed him?

‘… if you remembered him,’ she finished lamely.

She came round a corner on to a street lined with shops. A car drove past, splashing through the puddles. She quickened her pace.

‘I remember him,’ said Doctor Gruber. ‘I am sorry he is dead. He came to visit me not so long ago.’

‘What did he want?’

The sound of the rain made it hard to hear, but she thought she caught a new edge in his voice. ‘I am the Director of the Institute for Papyrologie. You know this word,
papyrologie
? The study of papyrus. Ancient documents.’

‘OK.’ Another pause. ‘I didn’t know he was interested in ancient documents.’

‘No?’

Another glance. The shadow was still there. He must have closed the gap – she could see a dim slice of his face between the brim of the hat and the coat collar, though it was too rushed and wet to make out any detail.

‘Are you there? Is this a good time that you are able to talk?’

‘Yes. It’s fine. I –’

She swung around another corner and came face to face, unexpectedly, with the Minster. Rain had driven away the busker and the tourists; she thought she glimpsed the Roman legionary sheltering in a doorway, but he was so faint he might have been a ghost. Behind her, quick footsteps slapped on the cobbles.

‘Where are you, Frau Cormac?’

‘England.’

‘Is it possible you come to visit us?’

‘In Germany?’

‘The Landesmuseum in Trier. I think face to face it will be easier to explain some things.’

She was running now, praying the church was still open. Weren’t they supposed to be places of refuge? Under the bandages, her chest throbbed as if it would tear open. ‘Please can’t you tell me –?’

‘In person is better.’

‘Anything at all –’

‘Herr Lascaris left instructions. Total confidentiality. I cannot –’

The shadow had melted back into the rain, but she knew he had to be there. She ran up the steps and pushed through the heavy door into the Minster. ‘I’ll come. Thank you. Goodbye.’

And here at last there were people. Ushers in red cloaks and tourists in wet anoraks, heads tipped back to stare at the ceiling bosses. In the distance she could hear the pure high line of choristers singing a psalm. She shut off her phone and stood still, letting the immensity of the building embrace her.