Desecration Read online

  “Remember you will die,” whispered Jamie. Underneath was a short typed message. Forget the Lyceum.

  “What’s the Lyceum?” Jamie asked, aware that she had seen the very word in Jenna’s diary for this coming weekend.

  Bowen shook his head. “I don’t know. The word means school in Latin but I’ve never heard of it used in this way before, more like the description of a place or a group of people.” He paced across the office with agitation. “Look, Jenna was doing this whole thing on the side as a research project. She said it would bring us amazing press and some lucrative work if it paid off. She was well connected through her family, she was brilliant and I trusted her. She also continued to deliver all her other work to the highest standard, so I didn’t meddle. But when this arrived yesterday, I was going to ask her about the Lyceum.”

  Jamie shook her head. “Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen now. Could I see her desk?”

  “Of course. This way.”

  Bowen led Jamie through a warren of offices that stretched surprisingly far back from the street. There was a focused atmosphere of tension and pressure, but perhaps Jenna had thrived on it. It certainly felt like the lifeblood of Michael Bowen’s world.

  “This was where she worked,” Bowen said, indicating a slim desk by a window that looked out to a small interior courtyard. “I’ll need to ask the tech team to get access to her computer but you’re welcome to look at anything she has here in the meantime.” He looked at his watch. “I need to get back to my own work, Detective, but please, dial 113 on the phone there if you need anything else from me.”

  Jamie nodded and he walked briskly away, his expensive shoes echoing on the parquet floor breaking the hush of the legal team working around them. She turned to the desk, which was tidy and neatly organized. She texted Missinghall to send over a tech to work with the legal firm’s IT team to pull Jenna’s data, but somehow Jamie thought that they wouldn’t find much on her official drives. If the investigation was something that Jenna was threatened over, then it was likely she would have kept her research material somewhere safe. The question was where?

  Jamie searched the desk drawers. She pulled one open to find a stack of printed material, photocopies of newspaper reports and articles. Sitting back in the ergonomically designed office chair to sort through them, she flicked the pages to check the headlines. The assortment related to multiple cases but Jamie couldn’t see any common thread and nothing she could tie to Jenna’s death. Then towards the end of the pack she found a sheaf of articles about grave robbery, how there was evidence of recent practice with bodies stolen from funeral homes before cremation as well as dug up from graves. Jamie pulled the piece out to read in more detail, fascinated to learn that body snatching wasn’t only relegated to the past.

  One article attributed the rise in grave robbery to the demand for metals that could be extracted from the bodies and sold. In an increasingly tough financial environment, people were finding easy pickings from robbing the dead. Another headline screamed cult hysteria as bones were removed for rituals and rites in communities honoring such practices. There were marks on two more articles about newly buried bodies stolen the night before their burial. Both individuals had suffered from genetic diseases that resulted in physical deformity. A yellow letter L ending in a question mark was written in highlighter at the top of these pages.

  Turning the papers further, Jamie came to an article on necrophilia, only made illegal in the UK in 2003 and still legal in some states of America. Her eyes widened as she read of the erotic use of corpses and found herself shaking her head with resignation at the depths of depravity to which humanity sometimes sank. She knew that Jenna was undertaking a specific study on the legal rights relating to corpses and body parts. Were these practices also related to the mysterious Lyceum?

  She took some pictures of the articles and continued searching the desk, but there was nothing personal and no more evidence of Jenna’s investigation. She’d have to wait for the results of the tech team. Jamie rang through to Bowen and told him to expect them later that day. He thanked her, his voice courteous but she sensed that he had already moved on from the tragedy of Jenna’s death, his mind elsewhere.

  Leaving the building, Jamie stood by the park looking across Lincoln’s Inn Fields back towards the Hunterian Museum, hunching her back against the freezing wind. Her mind was trying to capture the tendrils of suspicion that encircled this case, but in these pockets of calm, she could only think about Polly and what time she might make it back to see her. She lit a cigarette and inhaled the first, perfect drag.

  “You really should give it up, Jamie.”

  Jamie turned to see Max Nester, one of the few men from work who could wring a smile from her serious demeanor. He ignored the fact that she was a woman and treated her like a blokey mate, albeit a prickly one, and she appreciated that. Max worked on the art theft and cultural crime that happened in the capital, a huge workload, since stealing specific artworks for collectors was a regular occurrence.

  “Hey Max, are you on something local?”

  “I was nearby and heard you’d been assigned to this murder case.” He paused. “How’s Polly?”

  Jamie had told Max about Polly’s illness a while back and he was one of the few who knew how sick she really was. She knew his concern was that of a real friend, but she needed to keep the separation between her worlds intact. Otherwise she would just break down and bawl her eyes out here on the street.

  “Not good,” she said, her voice constricted. “Best distract me, rather than talk about it.”

  “Sure thing. I did hear something about an ivory figurine being found and thought I’d drop by to see if I could help with identification.”

  Jamie smiled, taking another drag, the smoke curling up into the dying day. “I get it, you want in on the interesting artifact but not the dirty work of the murder.”

  Max nodded. “You know me so well, but I’ve heard it may have been stolen from an as yet unknown collection so I think there’s some legitimate overlap.”

  “I’d appreciate any help on it, actually. I’m not sure how it fits into the murder, but I want to understand whether Jenna was carrying it that night and why, or whether it was left at the scene by the murderer. It could be important, but I don’t know how we’re going to pursue that angle.”

  Max took the cigarette from her hand and took a drag himself, an intimate gesture that Jamie wouldn’t have allowed from anyone else. But Max was only interested in slim, younger men, so she knew his attentions were only ever out of friendship. He passed it back again in smoker’s camaraderie, his face twisting into a grimace at the minty aftertaste.

  “Can’t you smoke something decent?” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “If you’ve got nothing else, this guy might be able to help. Blake Daniel, at the British Museum. Here’s his number, but I know he’s there today if you want to drop by. He’s a specialist in religious relics and figurines so I think this would be right down his alley.” He paused, then grinned. “Bit of a looker, too.”

  Jamie smiled and took the paper. “Thanks, that’s a great help.” She noticed Max bite his lip. “So what aren’t you telling me?”

  Max sighed. “To be honest, Jamie, you’ll probably think this is crazy. But he has certain - abilities - that make him unusual.”

  Jamie raised her eyebrows. “Sounds even more interesting. Do tell.”

  “He reads objects,” Max said, watching for her reaction. “Some call it psychometry, or psychic reading. Blake calls it his curse and he truly is a reluctant psychic, not someone who broadcasts his skills.”

  Jamie considered what Max had said and weighed it against her bullshit detector. She trusted Max, even though his techniques could sometimes be a little unorthodox, and although skeptical, she had seen enough of the supernatural to not reject what he was saying outright.

  “So how do you know him?” Jamie finished the cigarette and put the butt in her tin, slipping it
back into her bag.

  “I met him during a case at St Paul’s Cathedral over a missing relic,” Max said, thrusting his hands in his pockets as he jogged up and down on the spot in the freezing wind. “Blake was called in as an expert witness, but he knew things that I knew he shouldn’t. I took him for a drink afterwards and he became quite chatty after a few tequilas. Talking of drinks, you coming out tonight? Streeter’s leaving.”

  Jamie turned to go and mounted her bike.

  “You know I never drink with you guys, and besides Streeter’s going off to do something in business right? Which means in about three months, he’ll discover he’s not happy. He’ll miss the justice side, the making a difference …”

  “The crappy pay, the long nights, the lack of weekends.”

  Jamie smiled. “But we love it, Max, you know we do.” She pulled on her helmet. “I’ll check out Blake Daniel. Thanks for the tip.”

  As she pulled away, she saw him raise a hand in a wave. For a moment, she regretted not going out for drinks over the years he had been asking, but at least he continued to try and persuade her. Everyone else had stopped and Missinghall hadn’t even tried, knowing her reputation for staying aloof. But her nights belonged to Polly, and sometimes to tango. There was no room for anything else.

  Chapter 7

  Blake Daniel bought a venti double shot latte with vanilla syrup and added more sugar before sipping the hot liquid and crossing the road back into the grounds of the British Museum. It had already been a difficult day, and he was severely behind on his workload. A pulsing hangover had kept him on the edge of nausea most of the afternoon, finally easing to a dull ache. The sugar was helping though, and when his stomach calmed, he would go to the greasy spoon down the road for a late bacon sandwich.

  He rubbed his gloved hand over the rough stubble on his jaw and chin. It was thicker than he usually let it grow, almost at the point of softness now. Perhaps it was time to let it grow into a proper beard. He knew it made him look more like a serious academic and less like the lead singer of a boy band. His hair needed a cut too. He kept it at a number one buzz-cut: any longer and it tended towards the tight curls of the Nigerian heritage on his mother’s side, incongruous with the piercing blue eyes that he had inherited from his Swedish father.

  Last night was a blank, yet again, but the girl he woke up with hadn’t seemed to mind much when he had politely asked her to leave. No regrets, he thought, holding onto a mantra that sounded more hollow each week. The London casual scene would continue to provide escape for as long as he needed it. He took a sip of the coffee and acknowledged that he did still need it. His nights were another life, far removed from his days shut in the bowels of the Museum, examining ancient objects and creating a past for them from painstaking research, augmented with his own special brand of insight. Right now, he was working on a series of ivory netsuke, miniature carved works of art that used to hang from the kimono sashes of traditional Japanese men. He found himself lost in each one, marveling at their intricacies and the echoes of past lives behind them. For Blake read the emotion in objects, and these were steeped in layers of its rich tapestry.

  Blake walked through the museum, past the crowds of tourists. Although generally immune to the classical facade of the grand entrance, the glass-ceilinged Great Hall always lifted his spirits, although today even the weak sun hurt his fragile eyes. Finally sitting back down at his desk, Blake pushed some papers around while he drank his coffee, waiting for the kick of sugar and caffeine to give him enough of a boost to at least write a paragraph on the netsuke. The grant he was working under would only last a few more months, so he needed to produce something of worth to get it renewed.

  He felt the sensation of being watched and looked up to see his boss Margaret leading someone towards his desk. Oh hell, Blake thought, what can she possibly want right now? Then he caught a glimpse of the woman behind. Her hair was jet-black, tied in a tight bun and she wore an unremarkable black trouser suit. But her face was alive with expression, her hazel eyes piercing with intelligence and she walked with an assurance he rarely saw in this academic environment. She was petite, her slim figure tightly compact, but Blake could see an inner strength and knew that this woman should not be underestimated.

  “Blake, sorry to disturb you.” Margaret ruffled with importance. “This is Detective Sergeant Jamie Brooke from the Metropolitan Police.”

  “Detective, good to meet you.” Blake held out his gloved hand.

  Jamie held his eyes, assessing him and Blake felt an inexplicable wave of guilt, perhaps something everyone feels in the presence of the police. What did I do last night, he thought.

  She shook his hand, glancing down at the gloves. “Perhaps we could go somewhere to talk confidentially?”

  Margaret looked at Blake with suspicion but accompanied them through to one of the private meeting rooms, shutting the door behind her as she left.

  “Call me Blake, please,” he said, sitting down at the wide desk, aware of the gossip that would now be exploding back in the main office about his possible misdemeanors.

  “Of course.” Jamie sat down opposite him. Blake was reminded of all those TV shows people watched, and wondered what was coming next. “I’ve been told you may be able to help with a special investigation.”

  Blake raised an eyebrow. “It depends what it is, of course, and who told you.”

  “Max Nester recommended you.” That old queen, Blake thought as Jamie pulled a package, wrapped in cloth and plastic from her messenger bag. “This is evidence, but it’s been processed and we can’t pull anything from it. We’re trying to determine how it relates to a particular crime scene.”

  “And how do you think I can help?” Blake asked.

  “Your specialization here at the museum is ivory carving?”

  Blake nodded. “I’ve been working on a series of netsuke, Japanese miniature sculptures used as fasteners for pouches and external pockets for carrying personal items. The man bag of seventeenth century Japan.”

  His witticism didn’t raise even a hint of a smile from Jamie.

  “Max told me that you’ve helped the police with investigations before and he mentioned your - special talents - I wondered if you might consider examining this piece.”

  Blake cursed Max and his own big mouth. Six months ago, he’d helped with a minor investigation into stolen property and then he’d gotten drunk. Tequila was an evil mistress, and he couldn’t seem to escape her addiction. Blake wanted to deny everything, wanted to shy away from helping, but something in Jamie’s eyes made him nod. “I can give it a go at least, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Jamie was suddenly hesitant. “So how does this work?”

  “If you could just unwrap the object and lay it on the table. Then I’ll see what I can feel.”

  Blake wondered if he would be able to feel anything through the last vestiges of the hangover. Part of the reason that he drank was to deaden the visions, but as Jamie unwrapped a tiny figurine, only four inches tall, he became intrigued. It was a naked woman carved of ivory, but instead of the smooth skin of her beautiful body, the flesh was open to reveal the internal organs. The woman’s eyes were open, her face impassive despite the mutilation of her body. Blake had studied Anatomical Venus figures before but this was a gorgeous specimen.

  “Do I need to tell you anything about the situation?” Jamie said.

  Blake shook his head. “Best not to. Just put it on the table.”

  Jamie placed the figurine down on the white tabletop as Blake pulled the glove from his right hand, revealing criss-crossed white scars on his cinnamon skin. He felt her eyes examining them, her questions unspoken. The thin canvas gloves he habitually wore prevented the casual visions that could intrude, but now he laid his bare fingertips upon the figurine.

  Sometimes the visions were hazy and he expected to ease slowly into this one but immediately he saw the body of a young woman. Her lower abdomen was cut open, her organs on display like the fig
urine and her body was pooled in scarlet. He snatched his hand away and the vision faded as he stood, slamming the chair back and stepping away fast. He had been unprepared for such violence, expecting something like the art theft he’d worked on with the police before. He felt a wave of nausea return and cursed his hangover.

  “This is from a murder victim,” he said, his voice shaky. “Her body was cut open like this one.”

  He saw the surprise in Jamie’s eyes, and understood that she had doubted his abilities. The look she gave him was one of respect tinged perhaps with a little fear, and her reaction was exactly why he didn’t broadcast his peculiar sensitivities. In fact, he did everything he could to hide them.

  She nodded slowly, the barest acknowledgment that he had seen the truth.

  “Can you read anything else?”

  Blake felt truly sick now but he braced for a longer look. His ability to see was always tied to an object, and it was more a collection of sensations than a strictly physical viewing. It wasn’t as if he could psychically spin round in a room and see everything in detail, but he could pick up feelings and particularly heightened emotions that seemed to imprint a person’s experience onto the object. He felt a little uncomfortable reading in front of Jamie, but he sat down and laid his hand on the object again, breathing deeply as he closed his eyes. He felt the rush of the images and the sensations that accompanied them.

  “There’s anger and hatred surrounding the figure, from both the girl and another. This wasn’t premeditated murder, but there was logic in the death, and emotional connection between the people involved.” He paused. “The dissection was deliberate.”