‘Famished,’ she said.
‘Mom,’ he shouted, ‘India’s awake, could you bring us something to eat.’
‘Will do,’ came a distant response
‘Do it yourself you lazy git,’ hissed India.
‘It’s okay,’ he laughed, ‘She loves it really, come on, we’ll go through to the den.’ He stood up to lead India through a side door. To her surprise it opened immediately onto a staircase leading downward.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, ‘The bat cave?’
‘Something like that,’ he said and pushed open the door at the bottom.
India stared in shock, she was not quite sure what to expect but she hadn’t expected this. The room was how she had imagined the private offices in gentlemen’s clubs or the houses of parliament might look. The ceiling was oak panelled and the walls were completely covered with bookcases containing thousands of hard backed reference books. Subtle wall lights emitted a gentle glow and there was a log fire crackling in a hearth. The furniture consisted of two deep red leather winged armchairs and against a wall was the most comfortable looking battered leather settee she had ever seen. A glass coffee table supported by metal dragon lay in the centre and the only nod to technology was a laptop on a desk underneath a stained glass window. As the only source of natural light India realised it must have been just above ground level outside. The smell of polish hung in the air and the whole thing felt warm, comfortable and stank of money.
‘This is your den?’ she asked.
‘That’s what my mother calls it,’ he said, ‘I like to think of it as my office.’
‘Some office.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is really. After my father died I bought this cottage for mum and had the cellar done out. More to stay out of her way than anything else.’
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
‘Big C,’ he said, ‘Had a bad time of it. Anyway, make yourself comfortable, we have work to do.’
‘Sandwiches!’ called Agnes and she pushed the door open with her foot, her hands occupied with the tray containing the afternoon treats. After fussing for a while she left them alone and shut the door.
Brandon poured the tea while India took a bite of a ham and cucumber sandwich. Finally, she sat back and putting the crust on the table, put one teaspoon of sugar in her cup.
‘So Detective Inspector Walker,’ she said as she stirred her tea slowly, ‘Let’s start again, this time from the beginning. What is all this about?’
‘Do you watch the news, Miss Sommers?’ asked Brandon, sipping his tea.
‘Of course.’
‘Did you see the story about the dead girl found a couple of weeks ago in Victoria station London?’
‘I remember seeing something about it. Found in a toilet, as I recall.’
‘That’s right, fifteen years old, and do you remember what was the cause of death?’
‘Drugs?’
‘No, not drugs, but you wouldn’t know anyway. The details weren’t released to the media for the truth was too horrible for the sensitivities of the great British public. She wasn’t found in the toilet either, she was found deep in the underground complex, in a side tunnel.’
‘But the news said…’
‘Forget the news India.’ he said, ‘The news tells us what the government wants us to know. The truth is she was found by a maintenance team locked in a side room far down one of the disused tunnels and she was naked.’
‘Sexual assault?’ guessed India.
‘No. She had been beaten. whipped repeatedly by a nylon cane across her legs buttocks and back until the skin hung from her back in shreds.’
‘Oh my God,’ said India, ‘That poor girl. She must have died in agony.’
‘Not quite,’ he said, ‘There was evidence that she lived for a while after her beating. There were a few crisp packets and an empty bottle of water in there with her. It seems she had been left there in the dark and eventually died of starvation.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said India quietly, ‘Do you know who she was?’
‘Yes, her name was Diane Thomas, no one of great importance. Fifteen years old from Reading. Abducted from her home a few months ago and hasn’t been seen since until her body was found.’
‘And is that why you are here, to find her killer?’
‘Not exactly, we know the killer. He was a rail worker from Hammersmith called Bennett. He used to help feed the homeless part time around Victoria Station.’
‘So you know the victim, you’ve got the murderer, why are you involved?’
‘We need the motive.’
‘Can’t you ask him?’
‘He’s dead, killed himself with some sort of poison as the police broke down the door to his flat.’
‘Poison?’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s all a bit too Agatha Christie for me as well, but that’s what happened.’
‘So how am I involved?’
‘Well we interviewed all the other workers obviously but as far as they were concerned he was perfectly normal, but there was one thing about him that a few people noticed. He always wore a particular necklace. Seems like he was a bit paranoid about losing it as well, said it belonged to his mother but when we found him it was missing. We searched his flat top to bottom but there was no sign of it, apparently he had been the victim of a burglary the week before and we think it was stolen then.’
‘And you think it was the same necklace that Mr Jones brought in to the library.’
‘We do, though at the time we failed to realize its significance.’
‘How can you be sure it’s the same one?’
‘Your Mr Jones posted a picture of it on the net last week.’
‘That’s right, he did. I remember him telling me, but I still don’t understand the importance of one coin. What possible relevance could it have?’
Brandon took a deep breath.
‘What I am about to tell you stays in this room,’ he said. ‘Last Friday, a young girl was abducted from a local hotel. Okay, you may say that this sort of thing happens sometimes but this was different. First of all the girl was a daughter of a very important person and before you ask, I can’t tell you. Secondly, there is a blanket ban on any news being released about the abduction. Again, I don’t know why but the father must have some serious clout. He has instructed a total news blackout. Thirdly, and most importantly, we have a picture of the abductor.’
He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a picture, passing it over the table.
‘It just so happened, a secretary was monitoring the CCTV when the girl was taken and zoomed in with the camera. Take a look.’
She stared at the black and white image of a man wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses, holding his hand against a struggling young girl’s mouth.
‘Can’t tell much,’ she said, ‘Most of his features are covered.’
‘Forget his features,’ he said, ‘Look at his hand.’
She looked again at the hand over the mouth. On the middle finger he wore a ring made from a coin, and staring back at her was the face of Phillip the Second of Macedonia.
Chapter 5
Rome 64 AD
Sister Rubria, as she was now known, sat staring in to the flames with love and respect. This was one of her duties as a Priestess of the Goddess, to oversee the fire for half a day, every three days, sharing the work with the five other priestesses. Despite the long hours and the strange one legged stool designed especially to stop the watchers falling asleep during their vigil, it was a task that Rubria embraced with all her heart. The fire represented the very soul of the Goddess and was the central hearth of the empire of Rome. Though the inner Temple was sacrosanct and denied to any person not of the order, a second fire in an iron pot was taken each morning to the entrance of the Forum. Every morning, there was a line of children waiting outside the gates for the fire of Vesta to arrive so they could ignite the kindling in their own clay pots before taking take it back to their homes.
During the vigil, food and water were denied to any Priestess watching over the flames and a request to be relieved for any personal need would result in a severe admonishing by the Pontifex Maximus and a week of enforced solitude, praying to the Goddess Vesta for forgiveness for falling to the demands of the flesh.