The Dead Sea Deception (31 page)

In terms of physical condition, it was completely unlike the weapon that had sliced through her shoulder, had ended Harper’s life. Age had eaten it. The discoloured surface had become pitted with verdigris to the point where you couldn’t even tell what the original metal had been, the handle worn away to a slender spike. But the blade had the exact shape that
stood out so clearly in her memory: very short, almost as wide as it was long, and with an asymmetric extension at the tip, rounded on top and hooked underneath.

Now that she saw it in cold blood, it looked a bit ridiculous. What was the point of such a piddling little knife? And what was the point of the rounded extrusion at its tip, where you’d expect it to narrow to a point? But something constricted in her chest as she stared at it, squeezed out her breath in a short huff. It wasn’t fear: she had been afraid when the Park Square assassin had pointed the gun at her. This knife, though it had killed Harper and taken a tithe out of her, she only hated.

‘What is it?’ she asked Partridge. She was relieved to find that her voice was level, the emotion locked down inside her for later disposal ‘It’s a razor,’ Partridge said. ‘A man would use it to shave and sculpt his beard. That one is bronze, and as you can see from the accompanying notes it was found in a tomb at Semna. But the design is most commonly associated with a later era and a different part of the Middle East.’

He turned to face her, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘During the Roman occupation of Israel-Palestine,’ he said, ‘the conquered Jews were forbidden to carry weapons. But you couldn’t be arrested for carrying your shaving gear. Not at first, anyway. So freedom fighters took to walking abroad with razors like this in the sleeves of their robes. When they passed a Roman soldier or civil official, the razor could be put to immediate use and hidden again in the space of a few seconds. An assassin’s tool, and a very effective one. The Roman term for a short-bladed knife was a
sica
, and so the insurrectionists who used these weapons came to be called
Sicarii
: knife-men.’

‘But that was two thousand years ago,’ Kennedy said.

‘More or less,’ Partridge agreed. ‘And if you want to know anything further about your blade’s historical context, I’m afraid
I won’t be able to help. We’ve already exhausted my knowledge of that subject. But not – not quite – my knowledge of the object itself. Shall I tell you how I was able to recognise your blade, in the end? I mean, why it has something of a profile in contemporary weapons theory, despite its great antiquity?’

‘Please,’ Kennedy said.

‘Because of its aerodynamic properties. It belongs to a class of bladed objects that can be thrown at a target and hit it without spinning end over end. The modern flying knife is the most famous example. That was designed by a Spanish engineer, Paco Tovar, who wanted to avoid the annoying habit most knives have of occasionally hitting the target handle-first. His knife uses longitudinal spin to impart stability and is thrown in very much the same way as a cricket ball. The
sica
doesn’t spin longitudinally, and was never designed to be thrown, so it’s a little mysterious why it should be so steady in flight. It turns out to depend on the blade’s unorthodox shape. I attended a symposium on the subject when the flying knife was first displayed, in Müncheberg in 2002. I was standing in for a colleague, and had a dreadful time, since my knowledge of knives is minuscule, and my interest in them substantially less.’

‘Well, I’m grateful that it stayed in your mind, despite that,’ Kennedy said, sincerely. ‘Mr Partridge, are you saying that this property – the flying straight – is fairly rare?’

‘In bladed and edged weapons, yes,’ said Partridge. ‘There’s usually a requirement in such things for the grip to be thick enough to fit the hand comfortably and to allow easy carrying and use, while the blade typically needs to be thinner and lighter. The imbalance normally imparts spin.’

‘So would that be reason enough for people still to use knives like this?’

Partridge pursed his lips as he considered the suggestion.
‘Possibly,’ he allowed. ‘But I’d assume that the flying knife does the same job a lot better – as do the half-dozen or so variants that have appeared since.’

‘But they’re all fairly recent?’

The old man nodded. ‘Within the last ten years.’

‘Thank you, Mr Partridge. That’s really useful.’

‘It’s been my inestimable pleasure,’ he told her, inclining his head in a slight bow.

Kennedy left him still looking at the knives, his brow furrowed in concentration.

She met up with Tillman at the City of London cemetery, where she found him sitting with his back to a tomb and with a gun – the same weird-looking thing he’d used at Park Square – in his lap. He was watching a funeral in progress way over at the cemetery’s further end, closest to the gates. From where he was sitting, on a slight rise, he had a panoramic view.

‘Do you mind putting that thing away?’ Kennedy asked.

Tillman favoured her with a brief, slightly unnerving grin. ‘As the actress said to the bishop.’

He made no move to holster the gun, which she now realised he was cleaning. She leaned against the tomb and watched him work. ‘You’re in a good mood,’ she commented, dourly.

‘I am.’ He was jabbing a bore brush into the barrel of the gun with fastidious care. A small tub of Hoppe’s No. 9 solvent was open beside him on the grass, and the pungent smell of amyl acetate hung heavy in the air. ‘I feel pretty good about all this, Sergeant.’

‘About the deaths, specifically, or just the general mayhem?’

Tillman laughed – a rich, throaty chuckle that had a slightly ragged edge to it, as if he were forcing it beyond its natural limits. ‘About where we’ve got to. You have to understand: I’ve
been looking for Michael Brand for a long time now. Longer than you’ve been a detective, maybe. And in all that time I’ve never felt as close to finding him as I do now. We met at the perfect time. What you know and what I know – it dovetails, pretty near perfectly. We’re in a good place.’

He slid a wadded rag into each of the gun’s six chambers in turn, with minute attention. ‘A good place,’ he murmured again, more to himself than to her.

‘I’m glad you think so,’ Kennedy said. In spite of herself, the peculiar revolver – like a lopsided six-gun – had caught her interest. She’d finally figured out what it was about it that looked so strange, and she was trying hard not to ask. She didn’t want to show any interest in the damn thing. But he caught the glance and offered the gun to her to look at.

‘I’m good, thanks,’ she said. And then, in spite of herself, ‘The barrel’s lined up with the bottom of the cylinder. What the hell is that about?’

‘Mateba Unica Number 6,’ Tillman said. He opened up the cylinder to show her, sliding it up and to the left. ‘Yeah, the cylinder is mounted above the barrel. Means there’s very little recoil and most of what there is pushes straight back at you, rather than up and back. There’s no muzzle flip to speak of.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘It’s the only automatic revolver in production. Webley-Fosbery hung in there for a time, but its hour passed. Mateba still makes the Unica because enough people out there want that combination: fantastic accuracy with a real heavy round.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘You should. I know whereof I speak. I’m only a medium good shot, but with this thing in my hand, I tend to hit what I aim at.’

She remembered the knife at Park Square that he had shot out of the killer’s hand. Hard to argue with that.

She sat down beside him. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you got the lecture about the knife?’

‘Partridge filled me in. It’s kind of interesting, isn’t it? Your murder victims were looking at a really old gospel and these killers use a really old knife. Same point of origin: Judea-Samaria, first century AD.’

‘It’s interesting, yes. I don’t know where it gets us, exactly.’

‘Neither do I. I’m relying on your keen detective skills to piece it all together so it makes sense.’

‘This isn’t funny, Tillman.’

‘I’m not laughing. This would be the wrong place to make a joke. But I mean it when I say we’re close to something.’ He sat silent for a moment, working the action of the gun to make sure the cleaning fluid got into every small crevice. ‘The truth is …’ he said, thoughtfully. Another pause made her look around, stare at his face. It was blank, meditative. ‘This – all of it, your case – came at the right time for me,’ he went on. ‘I was about ready to give up. I hadn’t told myself that but I was losing momentum. Then I got a lead on this, from a guy way over on the far side of Europe, and I came here, I met you …’

‘There’s no such thing as destiny, Tillman,’ Kennedy told him, alarmed by his tone.

He looked up at her, shook his head. ‘No. I know that. No plan. No providence. “No fate but what we make.” Still. I’m glad we’re on this. I’m glad we’re on it together.’

Kennedy looked away. She didn’t like to be reminded of how thin a line her de facto partner was walking. It made her own situation look that bit more desperate.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’ve got a possible lead on Barlow’s project.’ She told Tillman about the suggestive absence of any
Rotgut files on Sarah Opie’s computer, and about Dovecote Farm. But she stopped short of actually naming the place.

‘Sounds worth a look anyway,’ he said. ‘You want to do it tonight?’

‘No. Barlow’s sister is sending a key tomorrow morning. And I want you to stay clear until we’ve worked it as a possible crime scene. If you go in first, any evidence will be contaminated – and you might leave behind some evidence of your own. I don’t want the rest of the case team to get you in their sights by accident.’

Tillman didn’t seem convinced. ‘What evidence?’ he asked her. ‘What crime scene? You’re going in on the assumption that the thin white dukes don’t even know about this place, right?’

‘I’m hoping they don’t.’

‘So there’s nothing to contaminate.’

‘If I’m right, that’s true. But we don’t really have any idea what we might be walking into. And since that’s the case, I want to walk into it first. Alone.’

He stood and faced her, his expression serious. ‘The deal is that we share all the information we get,’ he reminded her. ‘It only works if we keep to that.’

‘I swear to God,’ Kennedy said, ‘whatever we find, I’ll pass it right along to you. I just want to do a book pass.’

‘A what?’

‘A pass. By the book. Means go in really carefully and disturb nothing. It may be that nothing’s all I’ll find. In which case, I come out again and I was never there. Because the other factor in all this is Ros Barlow. If these … whoever they are get the impression that she knows anything, they might close her down the same way they did Sarah Opie.’

‘Put her in protective custody, then. The way you did with that other guy – Emil what’s-his-name.’

‘Gassan. Emil Gassan. I’d do that if I could. But I’m not the captain of this ship. I’m more like Roger the cabin boy. I’ve been told to stay in Division and count case-relevant paper clips.’

Tillman looked at her shrewdly. ‘So you need me as much as I need you,’ he said.

‘If that makes you feel good, Tillman, then yes. I need you. And I’m going to need you a lot more if we get a solid lead out of this. Which is why I want you to stay out of it and keep your powder dry until I’ve given the place a once-over.’

He nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I trust you.’

‘You do?’ Kennedy was puzzled. ‘Why?’

‘I’m a good judge of character. I’m an especially good judge of the characters of sergeants. I was one myself for a dog’s age – and I knew dozens more. The bastards were easy to tell from the saints.’

‘What about the ones in-between?’

‘There weren’t that many. Other ranks have their grey areas. Sergeants are polarised.’ He’d been watching her closely throughout this conversation, but now he looked off towards the cemetery gates, where the last of the mourners had finally trickled away and the sextons had finished their work.

‘If you want to pay your respects,’ he said, ‘now would be the time.’

‘My respects?’ She followed his gaze. ‘Why? Whose funeral was that?’

‘Sarah Opie. Would have been sooner, I guess, but your people couldn’t release the body until they’d done the autopsy.’

She had a momentary feeling of disorientation – of being pulled out of normal time, like Scrooge; visiting the way-stations of her life so far, with Tillman as the spirit of screw-ups past. ‘What were you doing at Sarah Opie’s funeral?’ she demanded.

‘I wasn’t at the funeral. I was watching it from way over here. Just in case.’

‘In case what?’

‘In case our untanned friends decided to do a stake-out here. For me, or for you, or for anyone else they might have missed. I did a pretty extensive recon before, and another one during. Nobody showed.’

Kennedy had no answer to that. And she could think of nothing she wanted to say to Sarah Opie’s grave. In this thing, at least, she belonged to the school that views actions as speaking louder than words.

The next morning seemed long. Kennedy spent most of it in the bear pit, reviewing the case notes and finding little that was new or significant in them.