The Temple Scroll Read online

  ‘Intrigued?’ said Erling, puzzled.

  ‘Oh sorry, I mean interested, I need to know more.’ Helen switched her phone to speaker mode and grabbed a pencil and pad so she could make notes.

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, you already know I’m Erling, that’s Erling Karlsen. I saw the pictures in the newspapers last month and then I knew you would want to speak with me.’

  Helen’s thoughts flashed back to events earlier in the summer and the danger she and Sam had faced. She shivered as images of the brutal murders that had centred on St Bernard’s, her parish in Edinburgh, scrolled through her mind. Memories resurfaced of the heartless slaying of Sarah MacPherson and her husband - Sam’s boss at the university. The poor couple had died awful deaths simply because MacPherson had custody of the Templar dagger that Sam had discovered in the dunes. The dagger was one of a set, which somebody else wanted, wanted very badly.

  She and Sam had identified four daggers from the set. First the dunes dagger and then a dagger in the National Museum of Scotland - both of which the killers had ultimately taken, using the cruellest of methods. Then she had inherited the St Bernard’s parish dagger, the key dagger, from her mentor John Dearly. Another shiver ran through her body at the thought of his suffering, but he had not given up the parish dagger, had been strong to the end. She’d inherited more than just a dagger, responsibilities and wealth too - she had spirited the dagger back here to the States for safekeeping. And fourthly, there was John Dearly’s friend and ally Xavier, the old Catholic priest - his dagger was kept hidden in Sardinia.

  There were more daggers to find; each blade with its own unique, engraved pattern, and how they would be combined remained unclear. Xavier had been on the periphery, responsible for just his own dagger he only knew part of the story, but he insisted the daggers were a code, perhaps to the lost Templar treasure. John Dearly, the keeper of the key dagger, was the one man who had known all the answers - now he was dead. So many deaths, and for what? She forced the vivid images from her mind; they all died for no reason - their friends and so many others, all dead. Thank God, with the killers caught they could now solve the puzzle without threat.

  The reassuring image of DCI Wallace flitted through her mind. He had proven to be a good policeman; she still felt guilty about not having given him all the facts at the time, but circumstances had made that impossible. So she had been delighted when he finally got his man.

  She recalled the conversation she had with Sam the day before leaving for her holiday break. They had decided to give DCI Wallace a photograph of the dunes dagger. It was the blade that seemed to have sparked the killing spree. Sam had handed it in.

  Wallace had been delighted that the Scottish police had something to put out to the media. He just wanted to be sure whoever now had the dagger would not be able to sell it on. If nothing else, releasing pictures of the dagger might reduce the original’s commercial value to zero - no sane person would touch it with a bargepole. She and Sam had not thought it likely the original dunes dagger would ever go on the market, but if it helped DCI Wallace, it was worthwhile. And now, here she was speaking to an earnest young Norwegian, Erling Karlsen.

  ‘Go on,’ said Helen, hesitantly.

  ‘Well, this will be hard for you to believe. I promise you it’s not a trick. A hoax, you would say. Yes?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Like I said in my email, I have the same dagger as in the police photograph.’ Erling stopped talking, waited for a response, an indication of Helen’s thoughts.

  ‘You said that in your email. But why are you telling me? Surely you would want to inform the police?’

  ‘I know. I know I should. But the police won’t give me money.’ The young man sounded almost embarrassed in revealing his motivation.

  ‘I see. And why do you think I might give you money?’

  ‘Because you are with the church and your dagger was originally found on the skeleton of a Christian knight, a Templar. I know, I’ve read all the coverage. In the papers, online, everything. And my dagger has a church link too.’

  Helen tensed; this was suddenly on the money. Perhaps there was something in what Erling had to say. ‘Erling, what do you mean, your dagger has a church link?’ She made her voice sound calm, almost disinterested.

  ‘My uncle was a pastor, in Oslo. He was killed in a coach crash, maybe three years ago. He and many of his congregation were on a trip. The driver lost control; they went over a cliff edge into a fiord. Nobody survived. You might have seen it in the papers?’

  Helen made a sympathetic sound, sucking a breath in between her teeth; she said nothing. Something about the event did trigger a distant memory, another sad story, a fleeting news item almost buried somewhere in her subconscious. She wasn’t sure, but didn’t want to explore the accident now - it would divert Erling from his main story.

  ‘The investigation was inconclusive, maybe the driver just lost concentration, we’ll never know for sure. Anyway, that was that. Afterwards, we were all a bit surprised at how much money our uncle had in the bank. He had no children so it was all split between his nephews and nieces. As well as the money, his nieces all got to choose bits and pieces from his home. His nephews too, but my brother Jan and I were the only male inheritors so we got the man things. He got an old gold signet ring and I got a silver dagger. That’s the dagger I’m calling you about.’

  Letting the pencil go, Helen snatched up the phone and switched from speaker mode back to handset. Forcing herself to talk in a calm tone, she asked him to repeat what he had said. The story sounded plausible, contained elements that the teller had released quite innocently, clearly not appreciating how each successive snippet of information supported the whole. Could one of the daggers have travelled as far as Norway? And more importantly, since DCI Wallace had not released information about the signet ring, Erling couldn’t have begun to guess about that.

  A short conversation established that Erling needed money quickly - quite a lot of money. His share of his uncle’s inheritance had been frittered away on fun and holidays, and too much gambling. His pregnant girlfriend wanted him to settle down with her, get a job, and make a life together. She was right; it was time. But first, he had to put his financial affairs straight. His father had died the previous year, but had not been a wealthy man. The brothers had inherited his house in Sandefjord and little else. The only way to get on a level footing was to sell the family house or sell the dagger. No choice really, if he sold the house their plans for a family life together would vanish.

  So he was selling the dagger, and he hoped Helen’s connection might be able to help him find a good buyer, maybe even the Church - he’d pay her a commission. Helen smiled to herself, thinking of John Dearly’s bequest, her trust fund. Never mind a commission, if anyone was going to buy it, she was. She decided to act at once, to secure this dagger now, while the opportunity presented itself.

  Helen was wealthy, very wealthy. It had come as a shock to her when John Dearly, her mentor and the previous minister of St Bernard’s, had nominated her as his beneficiary, but with his wealth came responsibilities and she had to live up to them. Instinctively she pressed her hand to her breast, felt the heavy gold chain and the hardness of John’s signet ring - the symbol of her inheritance and responsibility.

  By the time she hung up, plans were in place. She dialled the airline, switched her tickets. The change wouldn’t even add a day to her journey back to Edinburgh. And what was that if this lead proved to be right? She sent an email to Erling, confirming her travel plans and then settled down to write a message to Sam. He’d understand the urgency of her response to Erling’s offer.

  Tonight there was a leaving party in the community hall. Family and friends; it seemed half the town was coming. Tomorrow morning she would be gone.

  • • •

  At the jetty, Sam shook Pete’s hand and then stepped aboard the ferry. He entered the passenger lounge, sat at a window seat and looked on as the crewmen cast off and th
e ferry started to pull away. He waved farewell to Pete then watched, startled, as his friend was almost knocked into the water by a late arriving tourist who rushed past to leap the widening span between boat and shore. The tourist was grabbed and steadied by the crewmen, their expletive laden greetings made clear what they thought of the man’s timekeeping. The tourist gave a shrug that could mean anything the viewer wanted it to, from sorry to get lost.

  From across the passenger lounge, Sam watched as the tourist stepped inside and selected a seat. The man sat and let his heavy rucksack slide down between his feet as he leant back and relaxed. Sam turned to look back at the island. Pete was still visible, now standing at the top of the slope above the jetty. A hand rose in final salute and then he turned and walked away, back into his private world.

  Sam knew exactly what Pete would do now, what he did every day after the tourists had gone. He’d take a careful walk around the island, do a visual inspection of the ancient ruins and then finish up at the residents’ cottage in time for his tea, prepared by one of the seasonal staff. After that, he’d read the papers delivered earlier in the day by the ferry. Finally, he’d return to his office to squeeze in a couple of hours’ work before turning in.

  Sam suddenly felt as though he was being watched and turned towards the lately arrived tourist. The man averted his gaze. Had the man been watching or was it just his imagination? Sam put it from his mind; he had a new mystery to consider now. What did the Templar inscription mean?

  • • •

  Pete Summers settled behind his desk. The quiet of the island’s evening always carried him close to nature. It was almost perfect; the gentle lapping sounds of the sea were carried up through his open window and punctuated by an occasional seabird’s shriek or the distant snorting and puffing of grey seals, beached and heavy with a summer of feasting.

  Pete leant down to switch on his computer. Nothing happened. Surprised, he tried again, dead. He checked the power supply, active, tried the power switch again, nothing. Bending under the table he looked at the box and suddenly felt a twinge of puzzlement, the casing’s access panel was ajar. Had he or Sam kicked it by accident earlier in the afternoon?

  Getting down under the desk he pulled open the access panel and found the problem - he didn’t need to be an IT expert to recognise it. The hard drive was gone and the insides of his computer had been butchered in the process of extraction. He leapt up, rushed out of the office and headed for the cottage to confront the seasonal staff. Neither knew anything. Pete was not good with people but even he could tell they were genuine.

  All three went back to his office to inspect the damage, and the speculation began. There were so few plausible explanations, none in fact, and they quickly ran dry. Pete traced the day’s events. At first, nothing came to mind. Then he finally focused his thoughts on Sam’s departure from the jetty. That late coming tourist was a possibility. The man had jostled and pushed him aside in his rush to leap on to the ferry. His rucksack had been heavy, clearly too heavy for just refreshments. It may have held camera kit; it may have held his hard drive. But why?

  If it had been the tourist, he would be long gone. There was nothing of any real value on the computer, just admin files, his research and, of course, his scans. Nothing secret or confidential. Anyway, he had it all backed up. That comforting thought suddenly prompted him to action and a fit of nervousness; he tensed and pulled open the desk draw. He relaxed. The little external hard drive was where it should be, all his information was safely backed up. Why his computer had been damaged was beyond him; he’d need to start keeping doors locked while tourists were on the island. Now he would phone the police station at South Queensferry.

  • • •

  The day had come and gone in a rush. Now, in the still of the evening, Cassiter sat quietly looking out of his office window. Being held on remand had been an inconvenience. But it had provided the time he needed to think through exactly what had happened and how he should respond.

  Cassiter had been a little surprised that it had taken quite as long as it did for pulled strings to have the desired effect. But here he was, free. The procurator fiscal had finally decided there was not enough evidence to bring against him: the case was dropped.

  It had proven unfortunate for the procurator fiscal that both his desire to one day stand for the Scottish Parliament and his unwholesome interest in boys scarcely out of school had come to the attention of Cassiter’s research team. It had taken them a while to capture recordings of the necessary evidence, but a little patience ensured they did get what was required.

  Once the fiscal had been presented with the video evidence of his personal predilections he quickly became Cassiter’s man and had been equally quick to discover weakness in the prosecution case. In particular, he suddenly found little strength in the key DNA evidence. Yes, it was Cassiter’s DNA on the blood-splattered handkerchief found on the church path beside the murder scene. Happily, the procurator fiscal had now decided it could have been dropped anywhere, then carried to the scene of the crime by a gust of wind.

  When Cassiter’s team had insisted the fiscal say exactly where that physical evidence was being stored, it was only a matter of time before it disappeared. Humans were weak and Cassiter’s team were experts at finding the weak spots.

  Today, he was out, a free man, an innocent man. Collected in an anonymous black Land Rover, he had been whisked directly to his office. Tinted windows afforded him some privacy as a sour faced woman delivered a backseat briefing on the various projects he was working on.

  By lunchtime he was on top of things, happy his teams had been working correctly, he knew who was where, who was watching whom. The required monitoring and information gathering had continued in his absence. All but one of his projects had been running smoothly - the one that had forced him into the open and into contact with the police, it was the one he intended to drop, but it just wouldn’t lie down and die.

  He had just taken a call from Parsol, one of his bigger clients; it was Parsol who had originally commissioned Cassiter’s team to hunt down the Templar daggers. Today Parsol had virtually begged him not to drop the troublesome job, and had offered silly money for Cassiter to stay on it, a fortune. Finally, Parsol invited Cassiter to his chateau for a council of war, the invitation so rare it could not be declined.

  Anyway, Cassiter reflected, perhaps it might be in his interests to have a little patience, to ensure the job was put to bed properly without any loose ends. He’d accepted Parsol’s invitation, agreed to keep the contract live for a little while longer. After a month in gaol, a couple of days here or there would not make any difference, one way or the other.

  In the meantime, it would remain business as usual on Parsol’s contract, until a decision to the contrary was reached. The reports involving Norway were very interesting. The email intercepts his team had continued to harvest in his absence made clear there was something important there and now the Johnson woman had booked a flight to Oslo. That situation was going to need some special attention, fast.

  It would also be interesting to review whatever it was that had drawn Cameron out to Inchcolm Island. It may be of relevance, it may not - he’d know all about it soon enough.

  CHAPTER 2 - TUESDAY 6th AUGUST

  DCI Wallace kicked the wastepaper bin. It flew between the desks and nobody moved to pick it up.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ said Wallace. He looked around; half a dozen pairs of eyes desperately scanned the floor tiles, detectives wishing they could find a gap to slip into. He growled, turned and for a long moment looked out of the window. Then he turned back to face his team.

  ‘Well? Who’s going to tell me? I put things in order, go on holiday and have to come back to this disaster. Somebody tell me who caused this mess. And where’s DS Brogan? Why isn’t he here?’

  Three weeks holiday had done wonders for DCI Wallace, his health and his disposition - a happy wife, happy teenagers: happy family. Two minutes back
in the office and it was as if he’d never been away.

  ‘He hasn’t come back from his own holiday yet, boss. He’s sick. Got a virus or something when he was away. He’s been off as long as you have. May not be back for another week,’ DC Grant chose to answer the easy question, hoping somebody else would pick up the trickier parts.

  Hell, thought Wallace. This is such a cock up. He was annoyed, needed to understand. ‘Well, Grant, what happened?’

  Grant shifted uncomfortably. ‘Boss, there was nothing we could do. Pretty well as soon as you were away on holiday, headquarters started to push the idea that the whole business around St Bernard’s parish, the killings, everything, was all caused by those two we found dead in the car up at Silverknowes.’ The others nodded their heads in support but kept silent, forcing Grant to continue. ‘Word is the chief constable himself wanted this tided up quick and clean, wanted to give the media a positive news story.’

  ‘Yeah, apparently the top brass liked the idea that the pair rounded it all off with a murder suicide,’ said an unidentified voice from a little way behind Grant.

  Grant was emboldened. ‘Then out of the blue the procurator fiscal just dropped the case anyway. He said the DNA evidence wasn’t enough. Apparently, our suspect liked to do cemetery walks, could have dropped the evidence at any time. Or someone might have stolen it and dropped it there - as if anyone would want to steal a bloodstained handkerchief. Anyway, with headquarters pushing the murder suicide pact and the legal boys suddenly deciding our evidence didn’t stand up, we had to let him go. The file’s sitting there on your desk, ready for you.’ Grant reckoned he’d done his bit now. One of the other guys could finish off, he hoped. They stayed silent.

  ‘When did you let him go?’ Wallace fixed Grant with an accusing glare.

  ‘Yesterday morning. At least he won’t have had time to do much harm,’ said Grant, searching for something, anything that might ameliorate the appearance of their position.