Sanctus and The Key: 2 Bestselling Thrillers. Simon Toyne

was breathing heavily by the time the gilded door closed behind him. The Abbot snatched the envelope and ripped it apart, hungry for the knowledge it contained. He stalked over to a writing desk set against the wall by the stained-glass window and folded down the front to reveal a sleek modern laptop.

      A few mouse clicks later, the Abbot opened the case file Inspector Arkadian had closed less than an hour before. The face of Brother Samuel returned to haunt him, pale and ghastly under the stark lighting of the autopsy room. ‘I’m afraid the body appears remarkably undamaged by the fall,’ he said, scrolling rapidly through the first few images.

      Athanasius winced as he caught sight of ribs poking through the shattered body of his former friend. The Abbot opened a text document, mercifully obscuring the ghastly images, and started to read. When he got to the final comments his teeth clenched.

       Whoever this man was, he chose to fall. He waited until he had witnesses then ensured that he would land in city jurisdiction. Was his pre-death vigil some kind of signal? If so, who was he signalling to – and what message was he trying to communicate?

      The Abbot followed the Inspector’s train of thought as it brought him dangerously close to forbidden territory.

      ‘I want the source who gave us this file to keep us regularly updated.’ The Abbot closed the case notes and opened another folder labelled Ancillary Evidence. ‘Any new discovery, any new development, I want to know about it immediately.’

      He clicked on an image file and watched the screen fill with a slide show of close-ups of other evidence relating to the case: the coiled rope, the blood-soaked cassock, rock fragments retrieved from the torn flesh of the monk’s hands and feet, a strip of leather lying on an evidence tray …

      ‘And send word to the Prelate,’ the Abbot said gravely. ‘Tell him I need a private audience as soon as his holiness is blessed with sufficient strength to grant one.’

      Athanasius could not see what had so unsettled the Abbot, but it was clear from his tone that he had been dismissed.

      ‘As you wish,’ he said, bowing his head and backing silently out of the room.

      The Abbot continued to stare at the image until he heard the door shutting behind him. He checked he was alone then reached into the front of his cassock and pulled a leather thong from around his neck. Two keys dangled from it – one large, one small. He bent down to the lowest drawer of the desk, fitting the smaller key into the lock. Inside it was a mobile phone. The Abbot turned it on as he stared once more at the image frozen on his computer screen.

      He punched the numbers into the phone, checked they were correct then pressed the call button.

      35

      Liv was driving slowly back along the I-95 with about ten thousand other people when her cell began to vibrate.

      She glanced at the display. The caller’s ID was withheld. She dropped it back on the seat and returned her gaze to the slow-moving traffic. It buzzed a few more times then fell silent. Having been awake for what felt like a week, her only priority now was to get home and into bed.

      The buzzing started up again almost immediately – too quick to be the answering service calling back. Whoever it was must have hit redial as soon as they’d heard the voicemail message. Liv looked at the river of red brake lights snaking into the distance ahead of her. She clearly wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry, so she swung her car over to the verge, slammed it in park, cut the engine and switched on her hazard lights.

      She grabbed the cell and hit the answer button.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hello.’ The voice on the other end of the line was male, unfamiliar and roughened round the edges by the hint of an accent. ‘Who is it I’m speaking with please?’

      Liv’s antennae bristled. ‘Who are you trying to reach?’

      There was a brief pause.

      ‘I’m not exactly sure,’ he said. ‘My name is Arkadian. I’m a police inspector trying to identify a man who was found with this phone number on him.’

      Liv ran his response through her journalist’s mind, weighing every word. ‘What department are you with?’

      ‘Homicide.’

      ‘So I guess you’ve either got a perp who won’t talk or a victim who can’t.’

      ‘That’s correct.’

      ‘So which is it?’

      He paused. ‘I have an unidentified body. An apparent suicide.’

      Liv’s heart lurched. She ran through the list of men who had this number.

      There was Michael, her ex-boyfriend, though she didn’t really peg him as the suicidal type. Her old college professor, but he was on holiday with a new girlfriend who was about twenty years his junior – he definitely wasn’t suicidal.

      ‘How old is … was this man?’

      ‘Late twenties, possibly early thirties.’

      Definitely not her professor.

      ‘The body does have some distinguishing marks.’

      ‘What sort of marks?’

      ‘Well …’ The voice faltered, as if weighing up whether or not it should divulge anything further.

      Liv knew from experience how reluctant cops were to give out information.

      ‘You said this was a suicide, right?’

      ‘Correct.’

      ‘Well then, it’s not like a murder where you need to hold back information to weed out false confessions, is it?’

      Another pause. ‘No.’

      ‘So why don’t you just tell me what sort of distinguishing marks you found and I’ll tell you if I know who it is?’

      ‘You seem very well informed about how these things work, Miss …?’

      It was Liv’s turn to falter. So far she’d managed to give nothing away while the caller had revealed his name, his profession and the purpose of his call. The crackle of the long-distance line punctuated the silence. ‘Where are you calling from, Inspector?’

      ‘I’m calling from the city of Ruin, in southern Turkey.’ That explained the crackly line and the accent. ‘You’re in the United States, aren’t you? New Jersey. At least, that’s where your number is registered.’

      ‘They clearly didn’t make you an inspector for nothing.’

      ‘New Jersey’s the Garden State, isn’t it?’

      ‘That’s the one.’

      The crackle returned to the line. Arkadian’s attempt to loosen her up with small talk clearly wasn’t working. ‘OK,’ he said, trying a fresh tack. ‘I’ll do you a deal. You tell me who you are, then I’ll tell you what distinguishing marks we found on the body.’

      Liv chewed on her bottom lip, weighing her options. She didn’t really want to give up her name, but she was intrigued and she really wanted to know who had been walking around with her very private phone number and was now lying on a mortuary slab. A beep sounded in her ear. She glanced at the grey display screen. A triangle with an exclamation mark flashed above the words LOW BATTERY. She normally had about a minute between this and total shut down, sometimes even less.

      ‘My name’s Liv Adamsen,’ she blurted. ‘Tell me about the body.’

      She heard a faint and infuriatingly slow tapping as her name was fed into a computer.

      ‘Scars –’ the voice said finally.

      She was about to ask another question