Secrets of the Dead (3 page)

Without warning, he tosses me something. My body’s grown
slow
and cumbersome, but I still have my reflexes. I catch it one-handed, then open my fist.

‘They found this near the body.’

It’s a necklace, about the size of my palm. An intricate web surrounding Constantine’s X-P monogram, the bright new gold studded with red glass beads. A broken chain shows where it was ripped off someone’s neck.

‘Did it belong to the Bishop?’

‘His servant says not.’

‘The man who killed him, then?’

‘Or it was left there deliberately.’ He breathes an impatient sigh. ‘These are the questions I need you to answer, Gaius.’

The necklace is cold in my hand, an unwanted token of the dead man I’m being forced to carry. But I still resist. ‘I don’t know anything about the Christians.’

‘Not true.’ Constantine reaches out and touches my shoulder. Once, it would have been a natural and intimate gesture. Now his arm is rigid, holding me back. ‘You know enough to know that they feud like cats in a sack. If I send in one of their own, half his colleagues will immediately come to me condemning him as a schismatic and a heretic. Then the second half will arrive and denounce the first half for the same crimes.’

He shakes his head. God though he is, even he can’t fathom the mysteries of the church.

‘Do you think a Christian killed him?’

His shock is so natural I almost believe it’s real. ‘God forbid. They spit and scratch, but they don’t bite.’

I don’t disagree. I don’t know anything about the Christians.

‘But people will speculate. Others will say the murder of Alexander was an attack on all Christians by those who hate them. These wounds are raw, Gaius. We fought fifteen years
of
civil war to unite the empire and restore peace. It can’t fall apart now.’

He’s right to worry. He built his city in a hurry. The cement is hardly dry, and already cracks are appearing.

‘In two weeks, I’ll leave on campaign. In two months, I’ll be a thousand miles away in Persia. I can’t leave this problem behind. I need someone I can trust to do it quickly. Please, Gaius. For our friendship.’

Does he really think that’s something to sway me? There are things I’ve done for our friendship that even the god Christ, notoriously lenient, wouldn’t forgive me.

‘I was going to go home to Moesia next week. Everything’s arranged.’

Something like nostalgia enters his expression. His eyes take on a far-off look.

‘Do you remember those days, Gaius? Playing in the fields outside Ni
š
? Climbing into the hen coops to steal eggs? They never caught us, did they?’

They never caught us because your father was the Tribune
. I don’t say it. You meddle with an old man’s memories at your peril.

‘I should go back there – feel native soil under my feet again. When I come back from Persia.’

‘You’ll always be welcome at my house.’

‘I’ll be there. And you’ll be there sooner. As soon as you’ve solved this problem for me.’

And there it is. A god doesn’t have time for protracted wrangling. We could have debated it for hours, days, but he’s condensed all his arguments into a single sentence. And all my resistance and evasions, my determination not to get involved, collapse to an instant decision.

‘Do you want a culprit? Or do you want me to find out who actually did it?’

It’s a crucial question. In this city, not all murders are crimes. And not all criminals are guilty. Constantine, more than anyone, understands that.

‘I need you to find out who did it. Discreetly.’

He wants the truth. Then he’ll decide what to do with it.

‘If I go knocking on the Christians’ doors, will they open for me?’

‘They’ll know you’re there for me.’

I’m there for you. All my life, I’ve been there for you. Your counsellor and friend; your right arm, when action was required and you had to sit still. Your audience. You perform, I applaud. And obey
.

He claps his hands and a slave appears out of air and shadow. I’d forgotten: in this city, there’s always another audience. The slave carries an ivory diptych, two panels hinged together with leather bands. The front is carved with a cameo of the Emperor, his eyes turned skyward and a solar crown on his head. Next to it, the familiar X-P monogram, the same as on the necklace. A few lines of text inside derogate Constantine’s authority on me.

‘Thank you for doing this, Gaius.’ He embraces me, and this time something like warmth passes between our two old bodies. He whispers in my ear: ‘I need someone I trust. Someone who knows where the bodies are buried.’

I laugh; it’s the only thing to do. Of course I know where the bodies are buried. I dug most of the graves myself.

Present Day

THE WALL WAS
grey and pocked. The roof was white. The door was wood, with a smudged glass window and a crucifix above it. A static hum filled the air, and also an irregular beeping sound, like the random firings of an antique video game. She hurt like hell.

She lay on her back, concentrating on the details to fight off the pain. The wall wasn’t pocked: that was an illusion caused by paint peeling off the concrete. Grey paint. She wondered who on earth bothered to paint concrete grey. The beeping wasn’t irregular: it came from two sources, subtly out of rhythm with each other. One started behind the other, closed in on it until – for a few merciful seconds – they ran almost in synchrony, then overtook it and pulled away.

The roof wasn’t all white. Dark patches stained the tiles like spilled wine.

The smudge on the window moved. It wasn’t on the window: it was outside, someone standing with his back to the door. She waited for him to go away, but he didn’t.

Where am I?
she thought. And then, a second later and infinitely more terrifying,
Who am I?

Panic seized her. She tried to get up and found she couldn’t move. The panic redoubled; she couldn’t breathe. Her heart raced out of control so fast she thought it would explode. The room began to go dark. She writhed and fought; she screamed.

The door flew open. A man in a tight-fitting suit burst through, shouting words she couldn’t understand. His jacket flapped open. A gun bulged from a brown leather holster under his arm.

She passed out.

‘Abigail? Can you hear me?’

The panic was still there, but now it was dormant, a slow fuse burning a hole in her gut. Her breaths came shallow and unfulfilling. She tried to move her arm and couldn’t. The breaths came faster.
Keep calm
.

She located the beeping noise and listened, forcing herself to fix on one rhythm among the syncopation. She tried to breathe in time with it. She felt herself relax a fraction – enough that she dared to open her eyes.

A face stared down at her. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown beard. Was he real? Or had her imagination formed him from the brown stains on the roof?

The face moved. The roof didn’t.

‘Abigail Cormac?’ he said again.

‘I don’t know …’

‘Don’t you remember …?’

The panic quickened.
Should I remember? What should I remember? Is it important?
Her mind felt as helpless as her body, pushing against bonds it couldn’t see.

‘I don’t.’

‘
Nothing?
’ Incredulous. That only made the desperation worse.

The face drew away. She heard the scrape of a chair. When the face reappeared, it was lower and further back, a sun on the horizon of her flat world.

‘Your name is Abigail Cormac. You work for the Foreign Office on secondment to the EULEX mission in Kosovo. You were on holiday here and things went wrong.’

That sounded mostly right. Like seeing the film of a book you’d read. Some things skipped or not quite right, others changed for no apparent reason. She peered at him.

‘Who are you?’

‘Norris, from the embassy here. Podgorica. It’s …’

‘… the capital of Montenegro.’ It came out of nowhere, surprising her as much as him.
How did I know that?

The brown eyes narrowed. ‘So you do remember.’

‘Yes. No. I don’t …’ She struggled, trying to articulate it. ‘I
know
some things. When you say words like “British Embassy” or “Kosovo” or “holiday”, it makes sense. I understand you. But if you ask me a question, there’s nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

She struggled to think. The effort exhausted her.

‘There was a man with a gun,’ she said carefully. Trying on the words like a dress she didn’t think would fit.

‘Do you remember him?’

She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze the image back into them. ‘A blue suit. He came through the door.’

‘At the villa?’

‘Here. In this room.’

Norris sat back with a sigh. ‘That was this morning. They’ve put a police guard on your door. He heard you screaming and came to make sure you were OK.’

A police guard?
‘Am I in trouble?’

‘You really don’t remember?’

She wished he’d stop saying that. She let her head slump back on the stiff pillow. ‘Just tell me.’

He glanced towards the door, as if looking for confirmation of something. Abby felt a new stab of panic.
Is there someone else here?
She tried to lift her head, but couldn’t see.

‘You were shot. All we know is that when the police turned up, you were lying there half-dead. Blood everywhere, a bullet inside you. They found your passport and called us. As for your husband …’

Something tightened inside her. ‘What about him?’

‘Do you remember?’

She shook her head. Norris shot another sidling glance into the corner.

‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’m sorry to inform you that your husband is dead.’

‘Hector?’

Now it was Norris’s turn to look baffled. ‘Who’s Hector?’

I don’t know
, she wanted to scream. The name had come to her like a ghost, unbidden and unexpected. ‘Isn’t he my husband?’

But even as she said it, she knew that wasn’t right.
I’m not married
, she thought. And then, with the ghost of a smile,
I’m pretty sure I’d remember that
.

Norris was looking at a piece of paper. ‘According to his passport, his name was Michael Lascaris.’

And that did mean something. The smile left her; she slumped back in the bed. The monitor raced away at a million miles an hour.
Beep
. A red sports car gunning through mountains.
Beep
. A dark bay and a bright pool and dead faces watching from their plinths.
Beep beep
. Waking up in the
middle
of the night. A man with a gun. A struggle. The scream as Michael fell over the cliff – her scream.
Beep beep beep beep beep
…

Someone banged through the door – not a man with a gun, but a woman in green overalls with a syringe in her hand. ‘Wait,’ she heard Norris say. ‘Give her a chance.’

But they wouldn’t give her a chance. Strong hands clamped around her arm and a sharp point slid into her flesh. The monitor slowed its runaway pace.

Then there was silence.

‘So you remember Michael Lascaris?’

The metronome beat of the monitor was stable now, a gentle andante. They’d sat Abby up in her bed, though she couldn’t move much more. A plaster cast covered her right arm and shoulder, entombing her chest and most of her stomach. Somewhere underneath, she’d been told, was the bullet wound.

You were shot
. It still didn’t seem like her. Being shot happened to other people – victims. Abby had seen enough wounds in her old job to know they weren’t just things that happened on TV or in the cinema, but there’d still been the distance.
You suffer, I pity
.

‘Do you remember Michael?’

‘He drove a Porsche.’

Norris’s piece of paper had grown into a folder. He flicked through the pages.

‘A 1968 Porsche Targa, red, UK registration?’

Abby shrugged her one good shoulder. ‘It was red.’

She wasn’t trying to be flippant – not much – but Norris took it badly. He stood, flapping his folder at her.

‘I know you’re in a bad way – Christ, you’re lucky to be
alive
– but you have to understand how serious this is. Someone bursts into a house and attacks two European diplomats. It doesn’t look good.’

He didn’t burst in
, Abby thought.
He was already there, out by the pool with Michael
.

‘The Montenegrins are running around like it’s the end of the world. They’re terrified it’s going to cause a storm in Brussels, derail their EU application, put them on a terrorist blacklist or whatever. Frankly, they’re overreacting.’ A stern glare, as if it was her fault. ‘You’re not that important.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But we’re still trying to keep it quiet. It doesn’t look too good for us either. Pretty embarrassing, to be honest.’

The monitor accelerated a fraction. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’

‘We’ll cope.’ The sarcasm missed him completely. ‘But we need to know what happened.’

‘I wish I knew.’

But she was stalling. There were pieces there, waiting to be turned over and examined. She didn’t quite know what they’d show, but she knew they frightened her.

‘Let’s start with Michael Lascaris.’

A fragment of their earlier conversation came back to her. ‘He’s not my husband.’

‘We know that now. Your file in London said you were married; you and Michael were found together; we made an assumption. Turns out we were wrong.’

‘Am I divorced?’ Again, she knew she’d got it even before Norris confirmed it. The word tasted sour and true.

‘Michael Lascaris fell off a cliff,’ Norris continued. ‘The police fished his body out of Kotor Bay three days later.’

Abby forced herself to sit up straighter. Pain shot through
her
ribs, making her wince, but she held herself steady. ‘He didn’t fall off the cliff. He was thrown off it.’

‘So you
do
remember.’

‘It’s starting to come back.’

Norris took out a pen. ‘Let’s take it from the beginning. Was going there your idea?’

‘I don’t think so.’