The Fool Read online

  Maryam finished her studies and switched her phone back on whilst she ate a good meal. It was a bit early for a full dinner, but the food wasn’t as good on the Eurostar, it had no internet signal at all, and phone calls were almost impossible. Whilst transferring at Lille, her phone beeped confirmation of the appointment she’d sought for her arrival. She settled onto the London train and switched everything off, using the time to reflect and refresh her mind, clearing out the images of blood and violence upon the altar, preparing herself to receive more information with an open mind. She itched to lay out a tarot reading and study what it may give her in the form of access to her own sub-conscious thoughts. Public attention closed that avenue down, however, and she put earphones on, pretending to listen to music. She sat with her eyes closed, grounding herself fully despite the speed at which she wasn’t touching the ground at all.

  St Pancras, London was bitterly cold and it was raining: winter cold and dark. Customs had been dealt with in Lille, and the more relaxed attitude to train travel as opposed to flight had ensured her work case had been passed through with the minimum of problems. She alighted onto the platform and was met immediately by a young priest named Father Scott. He appeared disconcerted by her appearance; what, or whom, had he been expecting? He was too well-trained to say anything however, and he escorted her to the car whilst dutifully asking if her journey had been bearable. She was quite surprised to find Bishop Atkins of the Diocese of Westminster and Bishop to the Curia in England & Wales sitting in the back seat of the car, awaiting her. Father Scott packed her bags into the boot as she settled into the seat beside the Bishop.

  ‘Marie.’ Atkins nodded hello.

  ‘Frederick, how nice to see you.’ He did not extend his hand and she did not kiss his ring.

  ‘What arrangements have been made?’

  ‘I thought we’d drive you to Westminster, where an apartment has been prepared for you. Then we can discuss the matter before speaking to the priests at the parish concerned. The police will want to speak to you in the morning, no doubt.’

  Father Scott started up the car and they began to weave their way to the exit queue to negotiate the ticket barrier.

  ‘I did not have time to alert you, but I have an appointment in a few minutes. Father Scott, could you take us to New Scotland Yard? Thank you. Also, Fred, I’d prefer to stay at the parish house in Peckham. After you drop me off, perhaps you and Father Scott can take my cases there and I’ll join you later?’ She gave Fred her best smile-of-good-intent: the social lubricant that women must often use when working with men used to being in charge. ‘Do you have a folder for me?’

  Atkins leaned down and opened his briefcase, taking out a thin folder stamped with the mark of the Diocese of Westminster. His jaw was compressed as he handed the file over without speaking. He had always hated taking orders from anyone outside the Church: he must have hated that Rome had sent her.

  The drive took a little over twenty minutes, which she spent examining the photos with a magnifying glass. Atkins had spoken over her deliberations several times, to offer more information and impressions, but nothing he said was important. Of more import was the way Father Scott looked away from the rear view mirror as Atkins had spoken.

  Atkins was furious that he’d been dismissed. As she exited the car, he had tried both to accompany her and to suggest that Father Scott stay as a driver to assist her when she left. Maryam assured them that she’d see them later, at Peckham, or perhaps tomorrow if she was very late. She knew Atkins would remain at Peckham until she arrived, no matter how long it took her.

  She went in and was invited to sit. She waited out being left to moulder into nervousness by the desk sergeant. His job was to make sure everyone was left to stew until they were admitted into the presence of those too overworked to care that much and who would often hide their tiredness in cynicism and anger. The ones who wished they were still desk sergeants and regretted their thirst for promotion. She doubted that dynamic would be presented to her today and settled into people watching and enjoying her wait.

  It had been a few years since Maryam had been in the offices, and she noted the changes with some sense of the sadness that was beaten into the walls here. Security was now an awesome enterprise and she noticed that all the officers in view wore Kevlar vests, some even had firearms. She found the sight of a British Bobby with a semi-automatic gun in his hands unnerving; jarring, as if she’d taken a step and turned a corner into another world. Which is what had happened to them all, wasn’t it? She reminded herself of the world that most people grew up in, where they knew what guns looked like better than they knew a full plate of food. She shook the nostalgia of the Cosy Old London out of her thoughts and attended to the one in front of her.

  Inspector Jennifer Barham was more than happy to meet and talk privately with Maryam after the observation that Maryam had texted her. Maryam could see that the woman was not at all certain about the involvement of the Congregation, but had agreed to it on some personal level. Otherwise the meeting would not be taking place as it was, late at night with no records being taken. When they settled down at an interview desk, with cups of tea between them, Maryam opened up straight away.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for letting me speak to you and for allowing the Office of the Arcane access to this.’ She indicated the folder that Atkins had given her.

  Barham said nothing.

  ‘As you know, I wanted to talk about the papers under the body. Most importantly, I want to talk about why the reports allowed to be seen by the Congregation did not mention them.’

  ‘We accepted your involvement in this case as you have been helpful before. My supervisors advised me of how good you were, how relations with the Church could be maintained by allowing you in.’

  ‘But you felt you had to test me?’

  Barham stared at her, then took the same route to honesty that Maryam had; Maryam’s respect for her increased.

  ‘No, not a test.’ She sighed. ‘It was just so... contentious, I didn’t want it in the record you had, yet... at least not until I’d met you. I was impressed you spotted the papers, never mind worked out what they were.’

  Maryam picked up one of the new photos that Barham had brought in with her. The naked body of the boy after it had been processed and washed. The writing cut into his body was much clearer. She took a few moments to compare it to her earlier translation.

  ‘I am very much afraid, Inspector, that there is some fundamental religious aspect to this and you have good reason to be worried. What is written on his body could be read in many ways, but I’m afraid that the sheets of the Qur’an under his body, cut and slashed with the knife that killed him, further defiled by his blood, cannot be ignored. Someone wishes conflict between this Church, and the Muslim communities. They want it very badly. It is not good.’

  Barham paled under her make-up. ‘Not what I wanted to hear, not at all.’

  ‘No, I expect not. And that’s before we get to the accusation that it’s a demon that killed him.’

  ‘I thought it was that the boy was a demon, I mean, had held a Jinn?’

  ‘No, it’s very clear that the writing states he has been sacrificed by a Jinn, not to one, or because he was one.’ She pointed to the autopsy photos. ‘All Arabic has three root letters and the letters aside them can change the meaning significantly. The confusion is easy to see, but so is the meaning. I’ll write up a thorough translation for you when I have the time. Tell me, I’m presuming there were no cuts on his back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The blood on the sheets of the Qur’an, it’s solely from the wounds?’

  ‘We think so. Analysis is still ongoing.’ Barham opened up the folder she’d taken the autopsy photos from and handed over several photos of the body on the altar, it being removed, the revealing of the leaves of paper underneath. Then the photos of each sheet being lifted and sealed in an evidence bag. The sequence showed that the body had lain on a cross constructe
d of torn and slashed leaves of the Holy Book of Islam. The young man’s body had been positioned as if crucified upon it. It was sacrilege to destroy the word of Allah. What had occurred was blasphemy; a deliberate desecration of both the Church and the Qur’an.’

  ‘And you have yet to inform any of the local Imams about this? Have not made any attempt to involve them?’

  ‘We wanted to be sure.’

  ‘You were hoping, no doubt, that this has nothing to do with religion at all?’

  Barham nodded. ‘The deceased, Jason Briggs, is a gang leader, a violent and aggressive person who has been involved in criminal activity since he was nine years old. There is no evidence of either sexual assault, or robbery. He was neither Muslim nor Catholic, nothing to link him in any way to anything other than his gang activity. Peckham gangs don’t split neatly into religious or racial groups. They run according to the ethnic breakdown of the individual housing estates. Most are black British, such as Jason, but it’s not exclusive. This Church is in his area, but he’s not a member of the congregation, although he had been thrown out of the youth group a few months ago, along with other gang members who were trying to recruit from there.’

  ‘You believe that is what was behind the graffiti and the other desecrations?’

  ‘Yes. The gang members we prosecuted were from Brigg’s gang, the RRs, the Rye Runners. They targeted the local church group to recruit youngsters and were booted out. So they vandalised the cemetery and the building. None of that had any religious significance at all.’

  Barham looked to Maryam to confirm this. Maryam nodded her head whilst filing away what Barham’s choice of words had revealed about her background. Barham continued.

  ‘It is only the pages of the book that suggests this has anything to do with Islam and actual religious faith. That’s not a very strong connection, given whoever did this is certainly not rational. Anyone could think of pulling the pages out of a book to muddy the waters. There is no strong evidence to treat this as anything other than a... secular... manner.’

  The word was awkward in her mouth, the concept new to her brain.

  ‘I can tell you that the words written on this young man are neither random nor without meaning. They are intense and scholarly. No one was copying out of a book. The formations of the marks are sure and precise. Intellect has been used here, intellect, discipline, and knowledge; unlike the graveyard desecrations.’

  ‘Completely different?’

  ‘Utterly.’

  Barham wasn’t happy with the news: so much easier to work this as a gang crime.

  ‘I take it he was drugged?’

  Barham nodded. ‘We believe so, what leads you to ask that?’

  ‘He lay there and bled to death. There is no significant arterial spray pattern evident in the surrounding area. The wounds are shallow and the blood flowed out slowly and evenly, from what I can tell. He would not have lain there and bled to death, I imagine, unless he wasn’t able to rise. I can see no evidence of restraints or serious injury that incapacitated him.’

  Barham paid Maryam the best compliment; she carried on talking about the details of the case without missing a beat. ‘We don’t know what, the toxicology results aren’t back. There was some spray on his chest; it could only be discerned by using light filters. It suggests the first cut was on his throat from someone standing behind him.’

  ‘So there wouldn’t be much spurt on the murderer?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Curious.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If the first cut was at the throat, it was symbolic. It was a shallow slash, one presumes...’ She picked up the autopsy photos and looked in more detail. ‘Yes, otherwise he’d have bled out much more quickly.’

  ‘Agreed. All the cuts were shallow. He only bled out as there were so many of them.’

  ‘Body couldn’t clot the blood fast enough.’ Maryam took a magnifier out of her shoulder bag and studied the cuts.

  ‘Is there any suggestion the writing was done by a different blade, from the slices that ensured the bleed out occurred?’

  ‘None. However, as I said, the autopsy and reports are not yet completed.’

  ‘And Father Jones remains relatively safe until then?’

  Barham tensed. Maryam listened.

  ‘We have no reason to suspect it’s anything but a deliberate ploy to make us look at Father Jones. We have... I have... no expectation that he’ll be implicated.’

  Again, gentle words spoken with care. Maryam had a sense of the huge wheels moving around them, grinding slow, grinding small, as the competing politics of the various authorities sought to ensure the dance did not end on their patch; that the axe would not fall upon their head.

  ‘Have you informed the multi-faith agencies working with the Met and used Bishop Atkins’ contacts in the various London communities? You have informed the hierarchies, if not the local mosques?’

  Barham shook her head.

  ‘I see. That’s what bought my ticket, was it? Everyone agreed to keep all this quiet until after I arrived? An outsider to help keep balance; to blame, if all else failed...’ Maryam hoped Barham would understand the trust she’d accorded her by ending that last sentence out loud.

  Barham took it on the chin and kept going. ‘Yes, I suppose that would be one way of looking at it. Your knowledge could have told us firmly this was not religious in nature, just freakish, like the desecration in the graveyard.’

  Maryam nodded. ‘But what do you have hope of here, in this case...? What outcome are you looking for from the Congregation? Any religious analyst could have confirmed that context. Why allow us in, in particular? The Congregation is rather... unique in its brief.’

  Jenny Barham went quiet, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. Maryam studied her. She was young to be an operational Detective Inspector, barely in her mid-forties. She was aging well in the job. She wore a wedding ring and her dress and figure suggested there was another person somewhere, whom she loved, who wore the match of it. Maryam doubted this woman believed in any God, in any religion, and she was a little lost as to how to respond.

  ‘We are hoping that we have something ... concrete, to go on, before we approach the leaders in the various Islamic communities in the area. That we could rule out certain things before informing them of the... sacrilege.’

  ‘Rule out real occult influence? Present it as vandalism or madness but all of human agency?’

  Barham laughed. ‘No! Not quite that. I mean, not really.’

  ‘You don’t believe in the occult, Inspector, in the supernatural?’

  Barham looked confused by Maryam’s poise in asking the question.

  ‘Of course I don’t. I thought that was the point of your Congregation, to prove that such things do not exist and to explain occult events by revealing the human component?’

  That she thought such revealed much to Maryam about how Atkins had presented their involvement. He did love to polish his words to reflect his own image.

  ‘We do investigate all reported occult activity that affects the Church, Inspector, to seek out the human agency in it. We do reveal the tricksters and the fakes, the psychotic and obsessed. That is true, but we do so in order to ascertain when actual occult activity has occurred, as opposed to human.’

  ‘You can’t tell me you believe in such things! Ghosts and ghoulies, demons and magic?’ Barham’s voice had risen several registers. Her tone had moved from surprise, almost to mockery.

  ‘What I believe is not of note, Inspector. The Church of Rome, whom I represent in this matter, does believe in spiritual forces beyond human knowledge or understanding.’

  The warning was clear. Barham backed down. This was another example of how the world had changed and it was a good change. Government officials were no longer free to mock faith. Sometimes.

  ‘The issue, Inspector, is not what you or I believe or do not believe. The issue is the beliefs of those whom this case will affect. The issue is h
ow communities will respond and how they may interact. The issue is how we mediate that response through our work.’

  Barham blushed this time, but again took the blow on the chin.

  ‘Can you rule out that this crime has anything to do with the Islamic community?’

  ‘No. Not at this time. Neither can I confirm it has. Although it is likely the work of an individual, not any organised group. My advice would be that the Islamic authorities that work with the Metropolitan police are informed as a matter of urgency.’

  Barham nodded. ‘Can you rule out... spiritual forces?’

  Maryam smiled. ‘I appreciate your choice of words, and candour, Inspector. Spiritual forces move people to act in a way that cannot be defined. However, if you mean, can I rule out supernatural forces in this affair and assign it wholly to human action... I cannot do so until I have examined the Church and spoken to those concerned. But I can tell you it is extremely unlikely and highly improbable.’

  ‘Impossible?’

  ‘It’s impossible that this man was killed by anything other than a human being. The odds on it being only human agency involved on all levels are extremely high. The odds that supernatural forces are involved, miniscule. But I cannot rule such out until I have examined the Church and then spoken to all concerned.’

  ‘I appreciate you putting it like that. Yes, I have set up a car to take you over there, although I’ll presume you’ll want to examine the church in the morning, after you’ve had some sleep?’

  ‘Not at all, I want to look at it tonight, preferably in the middle of the night. It is the witching hour.’

  Maryam smile was just enough of a tease for Inspector Barham to bark back a short laugh. The tension dissipated.

  ‘I’ll have a squad car take you down and send an officer with you. I doubt there is a crime lab person free just now, so for tonight you can only look, not touch.’ She stood up.