But Timms was still there, still spouting the kind of platitudes Mark assumed policemen had been trained to say to bereaved relatives. Why didn’t he just shut up and go away?
“Do you understand that, sir?”
“What? Sorry. Could you say that again?”
“You have to go to Italy, sir. You have to identify the body and make the funeral arrangements. The Italian police will collect you from the nearest airport—I think that’s probably Rome—and drive you to the house. They’ll organize an interpreter and whatever other help you need. Is all that clear now?”
“Yes,” Mark said. “I’m sorry. It’s just—” A racking sob shook his whole body, and he sank his face into his hands. “I’m sorry. It’s the shock and . . .”
Timms rested his hand briefly on Mark’s shoulder. “It’s quite understandable, sir.
Now, is there anything you want to ask us? I’ve a note here of the contact details for the local police force in Scandriglia. Is there anyone you’d like us to inform on your behalf? You need somebody to stand by you at a time like this.”
Mark shook his head. “No. No, thank you,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain. “I have a friend I can call. Thank you.”
Timms shook his hand and handed him a single sheet of paper. “Sorry again, sir.
I’ve also included my contact details. If there’s anything else you need that I can help with, please let me know. We’ll see ourselves out.”
As the voices faded away, Mark finally let himself go, let the tears come. Tears for himself, for Jackie, tears for all the things he should have said to her, for all that they could and should have done together. In an instant, a few words from a well-meaning stranger had changed his life beyond all recognition.
His hands shaking, he flicked through his Filofax and checked a cell phone telephone number. Timms, or whatever his name was, had been right about one thing: he definitely needed a friend, and Mark knew exactly whom he was going to call.
3
I
“Mark? What the hell’s wrong? What is it?”
Chris Bronson pulled his Mini to the side of the road and held the cell phone more closely to his ear. His friend sounded totally devastated.
“It’s Jackie. She’s dead. She—”
As he heard the words, Bronson felt as if somebody had punched him in the stomach. There were few constants in his world, but Jackie Hampton was—or had been—one of them. For several seconds he just sat there, staring through the car’s windshield, listening to Mark’s tearful explanation but hearing almost none of it.
Finally, he tried to pull himself together.
“Oh, Christ, Mark. Where did . . . ? No, never mind. Where are you? Where is she?
I’ll come straight over.”
“Italy. She’s in Italy and I have to go there. I have to identify her, all that. Look, Chris, I don’t speak the language, and you do, and I don’t think I can do this by myself. I know it’s a hell of an imposition, but could you take some time off work and come with me?”
For a moment, Bronson hesitated, sudden intense grief meshing with his long-suppressed feelings for Jackie. He genuinely didn’t know if he could handle what Mark was asking him to do. But he also knew his friend wouldn’t be able to cope without him.
“I’m not sure I’ve got a job right now, so taking time off isn’t a problem. Have you booked flights, or what?”
“No,” Mark replied. “I’ve not done anything. You’re the first person I called.”
“Right. Leave it all to me,” Bronson said, his firm voice giving the lie to his emotions.
He glanced at his watch, calculating times and what he would need to accomplish.
“I’ll pick you up at the apartment in two hours. Is that long enough for you to sort things out at your end?”
“I think so, yes. Thanks, Chris. I really appreciate this.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Bronson slipped the phone into his pocket, but didn’t move for several seconds.
Then he flipped on the turn signal and pulled the car back out into the traffic, working out what he had to do, keeping his mind focused on the mundane to avoid dwelling on the awful reality of Jackie’s sudden death.
He was only a few hundred yards from his house. Packing would take him no longer than thirty minutes, but he’d need to find his passport, pick out whichever cards had the most credit left on them, and get to the bank and draw some euros.
He’d have to let the Crescent Road station know he was taking unpaid compassionate leave and confirm they had his cell phone number—he would still have to follow the rules despite his problems with Harrison.
And then he’d have to fight his way through the London traffic to get to Mark’s crash pad in Ilford. Two hours, he guessed, should be about right. He wouldn’t bother trying to book tickets, because he wasn’t certain when they would reach Stansted, but he guessed EasyJet or Ryanair would have a flight to Rome sometime that afternoon.
II
The direct-line telephone in Joseph Cardinal Vertutti’s sumptuous office in the Vatican rang three times before he walked across to the desk and picked it up.
“Joseph Vertutti.”
The voice at the other end of the line was unfamiliar, but conveyed an unmistakable air of authority. “I need to see you.”
“Who are you?”
“That is not important. The matter concerns the Codex.”
For a moment, Vertutti didn’t grasp what his unidentified caller was talking about.
Then realization dawned, and he involuntarily gripped the edge of his desk for support.
“The what?” he asked.
“We probably don’t have a great deal of time, so please don’t mess me about. I’m talking about the Vitalian Codex, the book you keep locked away in the Apostolic Penitentiary.”
“The Vitalian Codex? Are you sure?” Even as he said the words, Vertutti realized the stupidity of the question: the very existence of the Codex was known to a mere handful of people within the Vatican and, as far as he knew, to no one outside the Holy See. But the fact that the caller was using his external direct line meant he was calling from outside the Vatican walls, and the man’s next words confirmed Vertutti’s suspicions.
“I’m very sure. You’ll need to arrange a Vatican Pass for me to—”
“No,” Vertutti interrupted. “Not here. I’ll meet you outside.” He felt uncomfortable about allowing his mystery caller access to the Holy See. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a map of Rome. Quickly his fingers traced a path south, from the Vatican Station. “In the Piazza di Santa Maria alle Fornaci, a few streets south of the Basilica di San Pietro. There’s a café on the east side, opposite the church.”
“I know it. What time?”
Vertutti automatically glanced down at his appointments book, though he knew he was not going to meet the man that morning: he wanted time to think about this meeting. “This afternoon at four thirty?” he suggested. “How will I recognize you?”
The voice in his ear chuckled. “Don’t worry, Cardinal. I’ll find you.”
III
Chris Bronson drove his Mini into the long-term parking at Stansted Airport, locked the car and led Mark toward the terminal building. Each man carried a carry-on and Bronson also held a small computer case.
Bronson had reached the Ilford apartment just more than an hour after leaving Tunbridge Wells, and Mark had been standing outside waiting when he pulled up.
The journey up to Stansted—a quick blast up the M11—had taken them well less than an hour.
“I really appreciate this, Chris,” Mark said for at least the fifth time since he’d climbed into the car.