Postmartin believed that the Edict of Grace had been promulgated at David Moore’s flat – written on the wall above his bed. David Moore had painted over it just as he’d covered the sigil scratched into his front door.
‘I suspect he panicked and tried to deny it ever happened,’ Postmartin had said when I asked why the cover-up. ‘The forensics boys could only recover part of the writing but it was definitely in Early Modern Castilian.’
Or at least the colleague at Queen’s College he’d sent it to thought it was, and what they could read was consistent with existing historical examples.
‘When exactly did he make the call?’ asked Guleed.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Spencer-Talbot. ‘We hadn’t opened up, so I suppose about around two.’
The same day as he’d visited his ex-wife and asked for his ring back. We should have picked up a call like that during the initial investigation. David Moore must have used a phone he wasn’t associated with.
‘And what was the call about?’ asked Guleed.
Frustratingly, the sequence of events still refused to make any sense to me. Francisca tortures and kills Preston Carmichael on the first of the month. She then visits David Moore’s flat on the third, then again on the fourth, and the next day David is calling a Ms Spencer-Talbot and then desperately turning up at his ex’s – asking for his ring back. It’s not until the next morning, when he turns up at the Silver Vaults with his pathetic imitation gun, that Francisca appears out of nowhere and explodes his chest.
‘He wasn’t making a great deal of sense when he called,’ said Spencer-Talbot. ‘He seemed to feel that God wouldn’t forgive him. Which is absurd, of course – God forgives everyone. Eventually, at any rate.’
‘Did he say what he’d done that was so unforgivable?’ asked Guleed.
David Moore had thought his ring would protect him, if only he could get it back, but Jocasta Hamilton had a ring and Francisca had still turned up at her office. If I hadn’t run her off, would Jocasta now be missing her heart? On the other hand, Alastair McKay had sat alone for weeks in his house in Moor Park’s not quite gated community, completely undefended, and nothing had happened.
Although I did get the impression that his marriage was disintegrating.
‘He said that he’d been living a lie,’ said Spencer-Talbot. ‘That, secretly, all he’d ever wanted was things for himself.’
David Moore had been a social entrepreneur, a man who’d spent his career being noisily philanthropic. After his death we’d taken his life apart piece by piece and if he was hoarding ‘things’, they’d been kept really well hidden.
‘He said that God had sent an angel to punish him,’ said Spencer-Talbot.
‘What did you say?’ asked Guleed.
‘I told him to pull himself together.’ Spencer-Talbot made a wide gesture, taking in her immaculate homeless shelter and the less immaculate deprivation beyond. ‘There’s people with real problems that need help – not spoilt fat children.’
‘Fat children?’
‘He was a greedy boy when we were at uni,’ said Spencer-Talbot. ‘Always stuffing his face.’
‘But someone did kill him,’ said Guleed. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘Desperate people do desperate things,’ said Spencer-Talbot. ‘Perhaps if we all did more to make things less desperate, then perhaps there would be less violence.’
It was clear that, unlike herself, she felt we, the police, were personally lacking in the ‘making life less desperate for people’ stakes.
‘We believe you may be the next target,’ said Guleed.
A disturbing thought was growing in my mind. What if Francisca was homing in on the rings? Perhaps Alastair McKay hadn’t been in any danger despite the sigil scratched into his door because Francisca needed, or maybe wanted, both a positive identification and the presence of a ring before she could act.
That would explain why she’d had to torture Preston Carmichael – to get the ringbearers’ names. Postmartin had briefed us that the Pope had authorised the jolly Dominican friars who formed the bulk of the Inquisition to use torture for information only – not punishment. I’m sure that had been a comfort to the poor sods who were set on fire in the public piazza.
Heather had said that Francisca had been granted a holy vision, complete with a named biblical angel – one with their own Wikipedia page, at that. I didn’t know where Camael, angel of strength, courage and war, had come from, but I was almost certain that the vision was linked to the ritual spell that the Manchester group had unwittingly taken part in.
The flaw in my presence-of-a-ring theory was that David Moore had never got hold of his lost ring. Francisca had speared him in the Silver Vaults while he was still searching for it.
One of the women cleaning the kitchen had obviously finished for the day and was taking off her apron. The other cleaner had moved on to the pots and was making equally heavy weather of scrubbing them. My mum would have been through that kitchen in less than half an hour, but people are just too cheap to bring in professionals.
The departing woman paused to give me and Guleed suspicious looks before exchanging farewells with Spencer-Talbot and heading out through the indoor garden. She was going to get a shock when she ran into the security perimeter, but that wasn’t my problem.
The interruption in the flow of the interview did give me a chance to check whether Spencer-Talbot still had her ring.
‘What ring is that?’ asked Spencer-Talbot.
‘The one Preston Carmichael gave you in 1989,’ I said. ‘In Manchester.’
‘Why on earth do you want to know about the ring?’ she asked.
‘We think there may be a link between the rings and Preston Carmichael’s and David Moore’s deaths,’ said Guleed.
For the first time doubt crossed Spencer-Talbot’s face.
‘Do you still have it?’ I asked again.
‘I don’t see what business it is of yours,’ she said.
But then she relented and, pulling on a leather thong that hung around her neck, she lifted the ring into view. I stood up and leant over the table as she held it towards me for a closer look. It had the same silver gleam and markings as the other rings.
‘May I?’ I asked.
But I didn’t wait for permission before reaching out and touching the ring. In the instance before Spencer-Talbot snatched it away, I got a flash of a distant voice raised in prayer, lemon-scented dust and blood cast like a crimson net.
What if there really had been a ring at the Silver Vaults? What if Lesley had been tracking David Moore in the hope that he’d find it for her? Would Lesley risk carrying the rings around with her? Why not? She didn’t know there was a risk, and they weren’t the sort of thing you’d want to leave lying around.
‘Why do you keep it?’ asked Guleed.
‘Keep what?’ asked Spencer-Talbot – her ring had already vanished back down her blouse.
‘That,’ said Guleed. ‘It’s an object of pagan belief – wouldn’t a crucifix be more appropriate?’
I looked over at the kitchen area and saw that the remaining cleaner was no longer visible. A nasty suspicion formed in my mind and I stood up.
‘That comment is somewhat inappropriate,’ said Spencer-Talbot. ‘How I choose to sanctify my God is my business, not the police’s.’
I reached the counter in three steps. I already had a spell ready, which was just as well as before I could look over the edge Lesley popped up. I had just enough time to note that she’d padded her clothes to make herself look plumper before she tried to smack me in the face with a frying pan.
I flinched back and felt a breeze as the frying pan fanned my face. I’d prepped an impello-palma, which I slammed down on Lesley’s foot. People always forget how vulnerable their feet are. Lesley gave a gratifying yelp.