Sanctus and The Key: 2 Bestselling Thrillers. Simon Toyne

a homicide or some kind of terrorist activity it was unlikely he was going to show up on any of those databases either. And Arkadian’s boss was starting to lean on him for some kind of progress report; he wanted to draw a line under this thing. So did Arkadian, but he wasn’t going to whitewash it. The monk belonged to someone. It was his job to find out whom.

      He glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was now a little after one in the afternoon. His wife would just be getting in from the school where she helped out three days a week. He dialled his own number and clicked on the lower left corner of his computer screen to open up a browser window while he listened to it connecting.

      His wife picked up on the third ring. She sounded breathless.

      ‘It’s me,’ Arkadian said, tapping ‘Religion’ and ‘Scars’ into the search box and hitting return.

      ‘Heeeey,’ she said, drawing out the middle of the word in a way that still got him twelve years after he’d first heard it. ‘You coming home?’

      Arkadian frowned as the results came back, all four hundred and thirty-one thousand of them.

      ‘Not yet,’ he said, scrolling through the first page.

      ‘Then what are you calling for, getting a girl’s hopes up?’

      ‘Just wanted to hear your voice. How was work?’

      ‘Tiring. You try teaching English to a roomful of nine-year-olds. I must’ve read The Hungry Caterpillar at least a couple of hundred times. Though by the end, there was one kid I swear could read it better than me.’

      He could tell from her voice she was smiling. She was always happiest when she’d spent the morning in a room full of kids. The realization also made him feel sad.

      ‘Sounds like a know-all,’ he said. ‘You should get him to read it to the class next time, see how he copes under pressure.’

      ‘It’s a girl, actually. Girls are cleverer than boys.’

      Arkadian smiled. ‘Yes, but you end up marrying us. So you can’t be all that bright.’

      ‘But then we divorce you and take all your money.’

      ‘I don’t have any money.’

      ‘Oh well … then I guess you’re pretty safe.’

      He clicked on a link and scrolled through pictures of tribesmen with raw wounds slashed red into ebony flesh. None of them matched the scars on the monk.

      ‘So what case are you working?’ she asked. ‘Anything gruesome?’

      ‘The monk.’

      ‘You find out who he is yet, or can’t you say?’

      ‘I can’t say because I don’t know.’ He clicked back to the results page and opened a link dealing with stigmata, the unexplained phenomenon of wounds similar to those Christ suffered during his crucifixion appearing on ordinary people.

      ‘So you going to be late?’

      ‘Too early to tell. They want to get this one squared away.’

      ‘Which means “yes”.’

      ‘Which means “probably”.’

      ‘Well … just be careful.’

      ‘I’m sitting at my desk doing Google searches.’

      ‘Then come home.’

      ‘I always do.’

      ‘Love you.’

      ‘You too,’ he whispered.

      He looked up at the office, humming with noise and attitude. Most of the people currently occupying it were either divorced or well on their way, but he knew that would never happen to him. He was married to his wife, not the job; and even though that choice had meant he’d never been given the sexy, high-profile cases from which careers and reputations were made, he didn’t mind. He wouldn’t swap his life with any of them. Besides, there was something about this suicide that made him feel he might just have caught a live one. He clicked randomly on one of the stigmata websites and started to read.

      The site was pretty academic and consisted of dense, dry text only occasionally punctuated by a juicy photo of a bleeding hand or foot, though none of them matched the scars he’d found on the monk.

      He removed his glasses and rubbed at the indentations they left on the side of his nose when he wore them too long, which was every day of his working life. He knew he should be getting on with his other cases while he waited for word to come down from the Citadel, or until the American woman answered her phone, but the case was already getting under his skin: the apparent public martyrdom, the ritualized scars, the fact that the monk didn’t appear to officially exist.

      He closed the search window and spent the next twenty minutes typing the few facts he had gathered and his initial thoughts and observations into the case file. When he had finished he reread his notes, then jogged back through the post-mortem photos until he found the one he was looking for.

      He looked again at the thin strip of leather laid out on the evidence tray, the harsh light of the camera flash picking out the twelve numbers scratched crudely on its surface. He copied them into his mobile phone then closed the file, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and headed for the door. He needed some air and something to eat. He always thought better when he was on the move.

      Two floors down, in an office stacked high with old file boxes, a pale hand dusted with freckles tapped a hacked security code into a computer belonging to an admin clerk working a switch shift who wasn’t due in for another couple of hours.

      After a brief pause the monitor flashed into life, bathing the dark office in its cold light. An arrow slid across the screen, found the server icon, and clicked it open. A finger stroked the wheel on the mouse, jogging down through the file directory until its possessor found what he was looking for. He reached under the desk and plugged a flash memory stick into the front of the processor tower. A new icon appeared on the desktop. He dragged the monk’s case file to the icon and watched the contents copy on to it – the post-mortem report, the photos, the audio commentary, Arkadian’s notes.

      Everything.

      32

      Liv Adamsen leaned against the rough trunk of the single cypress that sprang from the lawn by the hospital. She tilted her head back and blew long, relieved streams of cigarette smoke towards the overhanging branches. Through the canopy she could see a large illuminated cross fixed to the top of the building, like a twisted moon in the slowly brightening sky. As a defective tube blinked fitfully inside it, something glistened on the bark a few feet above her head. She reached up and touched it tentatively. Her hand came away sticky and smelling of the forest. Sap; quite a lot of it – far too much to be healthy.

      She stood on tiptoe to examine the source of the flow. She made out a series of indentations and cracks in the bark. It looked like seiridium canker, a common disease in this type of tree, no doubt brought on by the long, dry, icy winter. She’d noticed the same thing on the leylandii in Bonnie and Myron’s garden. The increasingly warm summers were drying out the ground and weakening root systems. Sharp, cold periods were allowing these cankers and other forms of rot to take lethal hold on even the strongest of trees. You could cut out canker if you got it early enough, but by the looks of it this tree was already too far gone.

      Liv laid her hand gently on the trunk and inhaled deeply on her cigarette. The smell of the sap on her fingers mingled with the smoke. In her mind she saw the cypress burning where it stood, branches twisting and blackening, hungry flames licking at the red sap as it boiled and hissed. She looked at the silent car park, checking she was still alone, spooked by what her imagination had just conjured up. She put it down to her own fragile emotional state, coupled with the exhaustion of witnessing a ‘natural’ labour that had ended with white-coated men whisking Bonnie to a waiting ventouse.