The Temple Legacy Read online

  It was one passing and slightly ambiguous reference, perhaps just an old man’s ramble, mentioning some old blade, a Christian dagger, a relic of sorts. It did not sound very holy, not for modern Christians anyway. The local journalist had not picked up or developed the line, just used the quote and left it unexplored, had probably only included it to boost his word count while privately dismissing it as the babbling of old age. It was almost certain that amongst the whole readership only Cassiter had given the comment a single thought. It was his job to give things thought.

  From his anonymous office, his team and their contacts stretched out around the world. Unseen, unknown: as anonymous as the office they reported to. The team worked hard, sliding around life’s edges, finding, fixing, finalising. Most of Cassiter’s people were based abroad and he had been a little reluctant to take on a job so close to home; never foul your own doorstep was a useful maxim. However, it had come in as a simple but confidential research job, highly paid and no hassle, and Eugene Parsol was one of his longest standing clients, so he had taken it on. For nearly three years, his people had been working on the job without success. But the contract and generous fees continued unabated.

  Now this, not much to go on, but warmer than anything that had been unearthed before. What did the old man mean or was it really just ranting senility? Cassiter’s deliberations were interrupted as the phone in his hand started to ring. He checked the caller. It was Eugene Parsol. Cassiter answered it quickly. ‘Hello, Cassiter speaking.’

  ‘Cassiter, this is interesting. We need to know more as soon as possible. Whatever else you have on now, please stop it and focus on this alone,’ said Parsol, his perfect English not quite masking a very slight hint of France.

  ‘Cassiter, I want to be sure that no one else can follow the same trail, it must run cold behind you.’ Only those few who really knew the man could fully appreciate the darker meaning in the things he often left unsaid.

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ Cassiter knew Parsol, appreciated the unspoken. He was already considering his approach. ‘I know where the old man is, this will be straightforward.’

  ‘Good, be sure to keep me fully informed of your progress, this may well be what we want. If so, I don’t want anything getting in our way, do you understand? If you need more resources just use what you need. Money is no object. No object at all. You must act at once. Grasp the initiative while you can.’

  ‘Yes, I…’

  The phone went dead. Cassiter looked at it and shrugged. Parsol had made clear what was required, now it was up to him to deliver. It should not be difficult; the article had been published in a local newspaper whose distribution area included Dunbar, a small coastal town in East Lothian. Helpfully, the article had identified the sheltered housing complex where the old man lived. Time for action and he would need no extra help with this little job.

  Cassiter’s small but trusted team spent the afternoon harvesting information from both publicly available sources and from the apparently secure. He prepared a plan of action.

  • • •

  It was just after seven in the evening when Cassiter set off along the A1, the main east coast route out of Edinburgh. Locally the road is a commuter corridor to and from the city, but it stretches much further; follow it far enough and it eventually links Edinburgh, the Scottish capital, with London, the English capital. He was going only about thirty miles. The dual carriageway was an easy drive as it arced through the rich greens of the East Lothian countryside. Occasional signposts flagged bypassed towns and villages while a scattering of distant farms and cottages punctuated the landscape. He reached the turning for Dunbar well before eight.

  An inconspicuous parking spot off the high street met his needs. He waited for just a moment then got out to pursue his business. Short brown hair, a medium build and a face that was quite unremarkable; he could have been any age between thirty and forty-five. His appearance was exactly what anyone would aspire to if aiming to blend in anonymously, and behind the bland façade, he was sharp, hard and physically strong.

  Midweek evenings in country towns are normally quiet affairs and Dunbar proved no exception. He would have preferred a Friday night, busier, some noise and more people to blend amongst. A Wednesday evening in May would not have been his chosen time for a job like this; it was still daylight, the northern evenings’ long stretch into summer now well underway, and a handful of locals dotted here and there, going about their business.

  He set an unhurried paced up to the High Street, a ribbon of confident two, three and four storey stone built buildings that had provided successive generations with shelter and prosperity. Cassiter’s team had general, albeit unauthorised, access to most CCTV feeds, enabling him to identify camera blind spots. Without hesitation, he used that knowledge to proceed unrecorded. Crossing over the High Street he walked on a little way and then turned into a quiet lane. Beyond the far end of the lane, he could just make out a splash of calm water, the Firth of Forth, but he was not interested in the view. He walked calmly down the lane. At the end, he turned the corner into a mainly residential street and walked a little further before ducking in behind the houses to reach a cluster of little homes; tranquil sheltered housing, a true haven for the old folk. But tonight evil was calling. It smiled contentedly and rang the first cottage’s doorbell.

  Archibald Buchan stirred at the sound of his doorbell. Confused for a moment, he struggled to think who would be at his door, wondered if he really wanted to bother answering it. A retired church minister, Archie to his friends, he had always taken care of himself, and now well into his eighties he was still doing pretty well, but time slows even the fittest of people down. Archie’s care worker had left half an hour earlier after helping him into his pyjamas and giving him some toast and tea. Archie was not expecting anybody else tonight. The doorbell rang again. He turned down the television volume and pulled himself up. With a quiet grumble, he shuffled his slippers over the carpet as he journeyed slowly towards the door.

  Cassiter smiled as the door opened. ‘Good evening, sir, I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr Buchan isn’t it? I wondered, might I have a minute of your time please?’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t think so laddie, it’s a bit late. Morning’s best for me. Can you come back then?’ Archie looked more closely at the man. He wasn’t a carer, didn’t wear a council ID card either. ‘What’s it about anyway?’

  Cassiter smiled again. ‘I’m only passing through this evening Mr Buchan, I’ve been visiting relatives up the road in Haddington and they showed me the local paper with the profile article on you. It’s fascinating and I really had to speak with you about it, just for a few minutes please?’ Cassiter smiled again and gave a slightly sheepish shrug. ‘I’m an academic and I’ve been working up a paper on how time has changed the nature of Christian ministry in our parishes. Your experience seems so relevant, a real window on the subject.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s far too late for that sort of thing now. Come back sometime during the day when I can think and we can make an arrangement.’ Archie started to close the door. He didn’t like being disturbed and something made him a little uneasy about this man, but in the daytime with care workers around he’d be more than happy to help him.

  Cassiter leant forward, resting his forearm against the closing door, stopping its motion abruptly and bringing himself face to face with the old man whose body was now partly tucked behind the door. ‘Please, it won’t take long,’ said Cassiter.

  Archie’s unease was growing into real concern. He could not close his door with this man leaning on it. The home next door was clearly empty for all to see, the resident having died recently, and he knew the next neighbour along the row was stone deaf; shouting for help would do no good. Worse still, the care alarm that could immediately summon a support worker was not hanging around his neck, as it should be. It was sitting on the table beside his TV chair. Archie was stuck. ‘Go away, I’ve nothing to say to you, leave or I’ll call the police,�
� he said. His once deep and powerful voice had faded in recent years and now it was thin, reedy, and suddenly it wavered slightly, betraying his concern.

  Sensing the weakness, Cassiter could almost smell the rising fear. He smiled benignly. ‘I’m so, so, sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. Look, I’ll go away now, but maybe I could write and make an appointment? We could speak on easier terms. Perhaps when your carer’s around?’ he said. His voice oozed concerned sincerity and his arm eased back a little, releasing the pressure on the front door.

  Feeling the door go slack a sense of relief washed over Archie. He nodded agreement. ‘Yes, we can do that, but only during the day.’ He flexed the door slightly, moving back half a pace and sidestepping from behind it, better to bid his unwelcome visitor goodnight.

  Cassiter smiled at him and nodded in seeming agreement. He was calm, but with the slightly detached sense of pleasure he always found when things worked out as planned and a victim succumbed. Archie Buchan had made a mistake, a big mistake. His half step back into the hallway of his little home was all that was required to guarantee Cassiter’s seamless entry. In a sudden movement Cassiter pressed forward again, he pushed the door hard and fast, it swung wide open, brushing Archie backwards and leaving him completely exposed.

  One step forward and Cassiter had the old man on the floor. He swung out a foot and kicked the front door closed as he passed. Now he could begin work properly. Standing just inside the door he paused and from his shoulder bag pulled out a disposable forensic suit, complete with cap and shoe covers. He put them on as Archie Buchan stared up in stunned amazement. Then Cassiter grabbed the old man by the collar of his pyjamas and pulling him to his feet, he propelled him backwards into the lounge.

  Cassiter spoke calmly as he pushed the old man down into his armchair, but his tone made clear who was in charge. ‘Now Mr Buchan, I’m interested in your newspaper article. I want you to tell me simply and clearly what I need to know and then things won’t be so unpleasant for you. Okay?’

  Archie sat in silence. He was frightened and did not know what to do. He nodded his understanding even though he didn’t actually have the slightest idea what this madman wanted.

  ‘Good, it’s so much easier when people co-operate,’ said Cassiter. He smiled warmly. Crouching down beside the armchair, he produced a copy of the newspaper article and scanned it for a moment, allowing Archie’s sense of confusion and tension to rise. Then he suddenly looked into the old man’s eyes and stretched out his left hand to grip the old man’s right hand, forcing their fingers to slide together, interlocking in what appeared a perverse gesture of affection. ‘Tell me about the blade, Mr Buchan, I need to know.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Archie. Fear coursed through his body, matched by despair. He knew no one would be coming to his aid.

  Cassiter’s voice remained calm. ‘Archibald, Archibald, you do know. You know you do. You must tell me at once…’ He paused and smiled. He held up the article with his free hand and read out the dagger quote, then fell silent and looked steadily into Archie’s eyes, waiting for an answer. After a moment of silence, he shook his head and tutted quietly.

  ‘You told the journalist you had taken care of an old Christian artefact, a medieval dagger. You told the newspaper, why won’t you tell me too?’ Then in a suddenly hard voice, he shouted into Archie’s face. ‘The dagger. Tell me now!’

  At last Archie understood exactly what Cassiter wanted. He had guarded the secret for so many years, how could he have been so stupid as to mention it to that journalist? In fact, he could hardly remember what had been said; perhaps he had just got too tired and let his guard down. His mind whirred, could he resist this man? Maybe in the past, but he wasn’t so strong anymore. He didn’t think he could hold out for long, but he would try. Hunching his shoulders a little, he shook his head in defiance, and averted his gaze. ‘No!’

  Cassiter felt a thrill inside at this blunt rejection, his victim presenting him with an invitation to apply some pressure. He would oblige. His fingers were still tightly interlocked with Archie’s. With a strong hand and steady pressure, he very slowly bent back the fingers of Archie Buchan’s right hand. The old man was helpless to resist as one by one his old finger joints began to snap. Cassiter watched the old man’s face, heard the moans grow into howling screams. He felt the old man’s squirming, sensed the intense pulses of suffering, so strong they almost seemed to transfer through to his own hand. He thrilled at the electric tension and savoured the cracking and grinding of each old finger until they were all reduced to useless jelly sticks. He rolled them gently between his own strong fingers for a little while longer, relishing the cries and gasps of pain as each movement ground shattered bone ends against each other; triggering fresh waves of agony that fired contorted ripples across Archie Buchan’s tear streaked face. Then, satisfied with his work, he let go and looked carefully at the old man.

  Archie’s screaming finally subsided, but his continuing distress was signalled by the heavy rhythmic groans that accompanied his every breath. Tears continued to flow down his cheeks as his left hand struggled to support the right. It was no use, wherever he touched caused more pain, eventually he just settled on supporting the wrist and avoiding any movement in the broken bones. It took many minutes for his distress to settle into a frightened and sullen silence, broken only by occasional little whimpers and rapid but shallow breathing.

  Cassiter had remained crouching in front of the old man, now he smiled. ‘Now then, I’m sure you understand I need to know about the dagger. Do you want to tell me now?’ The inflection in his voice mimicked concern. ‘Let’s put this pain behind you, hey? We can make it stop, just tell me what I need to know.’ Cassiter leant forward. He carefully wiped the tears from Archie Buchan’s face and stroked his hair back into place. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. You know that, don’t you? Help me, please, hmmm? Just tell me what I need to know.’ He cupped the old man’s chin and pulled his face up so their eyes could meet. He drank in the pain, the weakness and the fear in the old man’s eyes.

  Archie wanted to tell him, desperately wanted the pain to stop, he wanted this monster to leave him alone. In this moment of darkness and fear, he was all alone. He did not care about secrets and trust or anything else, just needed peace. He tried to speak, but with fear and pain tripping his tongue, he could not quite marshal the words quickly enough for his attacker.

  ‘You’re stalling me, Archibald, or can I call you Archie now? Hmmm?’ Cassiter took the old man’s left hand in his right hand and slowly began to massage the fingers. He began to rhythmically and gently stretch and twist them. ‘You’re stalling me, Archie, and you know it’s only going to make me angry. We both know you don’t want to do that again, don’t we? Am I right, hmm?’ Cassiter said, allowing his and the old man’s fingers to slip together, interlocking. Archie’s body shook, and he tried to draw his hand away but had no strength. He knew what was coming next. Gradually more and more backward pressure built up against the old stiff finger joints.

  Archie screamed, pleading, shaking his head, rocking backward and forward, now towards the source of his pain and then away, but nothing helped. ‘No, no…’ he so wanted to tell, to give this monster exactly what he was asking for, but he could not get the words to flow properly, his brain seemed to be repeatedly stalling, tripping the words off his tongue before he could say them.

  ‘It’s no use resisting, Archie, you know you’re going to tell me,’ said Cassiter. He liked to keep calm to appreciate properly such moments. He relished the sound of the old man’s cries, the wicked tearing and snapping of sinews and joints, and the change of resistance as one by one fingers crumbled into his favoured jelly sticks.

  Having completed the job he rocked back on his feet to get a better look at the old man and the broken swollen stumps, Archie was howling again, but that would not go on for too long. Then Cassiter would learn what he needed to know.

  Archie looked down at h
is broken, twisted hands. Even while he was consumed by the pain and fear of the moment, he was acutely aware of the monster watching him. He had to tell him what he wanted, to make him stop, make him go away. He just needed to be alone with his pain. Then, something strange started to happen. Suddenly he could not feel the pain in his hands, his body started tiny convulsions, almost imperceptible twitching, shaking, and then he slumped forward, sliding off the chair.

  His attacker made no attempt to break the fall, watching dispassionately as Archie slumped to the floor and slid onto his back. Archie Buchan mumbled and shook and could not speak for trying. His stroke was massive. Now he was still, lying prone on the floor, his head twisted to one side, cheek resting on the carpet. Only his eyes moved, they watched his tormentor. Frightened, bitter, silent eyes.

  Cassiter realised what had happened at once, was suddenly concerned, he had not yet gathered the necessary information. This man must not die until he had the required answers. Leaving his victim in silent suffering, he started a careful search. It took less than fifteen minutes to search the tiny home. Nothing. Now, considering the repercussions of failing to gather the information, Cassiter returned to his victim.

  Trapped, frozen tight in a broken body, Archie Buchan understood his own predicament, knew it was all over for him now. Yet behind a wall of frustration and fear, he felt a growing sense of triumph. Triumph that he had managed to keep the secret. This monster had got nothing from him, his friends would remain safe and he could face God with a clear conscience. His eyes rolled off to one side, seeing the television and beside it the photo of himself with his friend, John Dearly, his protégé. It had been taken outside the parish church just before Archie’s retirement. His eyes smiled, suddenly content. A happy vision to leave the world with, he was ready to meet his maker and this monster could do no more damage.

  In need of inspiration, Cassiter glared at his victim. There must be a way to get information from him, but how? How? He was about to kick the old man when he noticed his gaze and traced it to the photo. With a cry of triumph Cassiter crossed the room and picked up the picture, instantly recognising it for what it was; the lead he needed.