The Turin Shroud Secret Read online

  ‘I understand, Your Holiness.’

  ‘The Church has done much to unite the factions, the modernists and the orthodox, but we cannot be the friends of extremists.’

  ‘Holy Father—’

  The Pontiff stops him with a raised palm. ‘They mean well but are overzealous. History has taught us this much.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Eminence.’

  ‘And the other matter. Is the book now closed on that?’

  Pathykos flinches. ‘I think not. I am afraid to speculate that it is just the opposite. This unfortunate death is most likely to keep the pages fixed open – for some time.’

  36

  WALNUT PARK, LOS ANGELES

  At 5 a.m. Mitzi begins her new life.

  She puts away the whisky, brews fresh coffee and sorts through bills that can’t be put off any longer. The soul-destroying sift reminds her that the girls are going skiing with the school at the weekend and the final payment for the trip is long overdue. She can’t afford it but she’ll find it somehow. It feels important that they’re away from home right now. A break down at Mount Baldy could be just what’s needed.

  She opens up the household laptop and starts a trawl for a locksmith and a lawyer. All the barrels on the doors and windows have got to be changed. It won’t be cheap, but she can’t think about that. And she needs to make an appointment with someone who can take care of all the nasty official things – the divorce – and the inevitable battle to hang on to what little she’s got.

  Alfie has taken her self-respect, she’s damned sure he’s not taking her home as well.

  She goes upstairs and checks on the girls. They’re still sleeping. Good. Maybe the deep rest will erase some of the horror of the night. She pads barefooted to her bedroom and pulls down a dusty trunk from the top of the wardrobe.

  Twenty minutes later she’s sat on it, squashing in as many of her husband’s clothes, shoes and personal belongings as she can. She’ll bag the rest and dump it in the garage for him to collect when she’s not there. One thing for certain, he’s never coming in the house again.

  In the bathroom she sweeps his razor, foam, deodorant and clutter into a wicker bin and steps into the shower to wash off the dirt of her experience. A clean start. Never has there been a truer phrase. She towels dry and examines each of the fiery whip marks on her body. They’ll fade. Given time they’ll all go and so will the memories, the nagging doubts and the fear that right now are eating her.

  She dresses for work. Bright colours today, nothing but bold statements and certain steps. A buttercup-yellow blouse, saturated blue trousers and matching jacket. Too strong, she knows. Too summery, too gaudy. No matter. She needs the power of the colours around her, a halo of energy to see her through the day. There are still a couple of hours before she needs to take the girls to school so she settles at the kitchen table and surfs the internet. First the headlines. Then the gossip. Bored with the same old same old, she finds herself entering ‘Turin Shroud’ into the search engine.

  Half a million entries pop up in a ninth of a second. Impressive. If only they made men as efficient. Give a man a whole day and he can’t even find where he put his wallet, let alone four hundred and ninety-nine thousand other things. Search engines must be female.

  There are numerous quasi-religious pages and the artefact has its own website, plus offerings from the usual suspects – Wikipedia, BBC and CNN. She opens Wiki and looks for the first time at the haunting image that so obsessed Tamara Jacobs.

  From the accompanying text she learns the photographs were taken in 1898 by an Italian called Secondo Pia. She’s blown away by how much clearer the negative is than the sepia print. It’s hard to believe they’re the same image.

  Mitzi goes to a kitchen drawer and finds a pen and spiral notepad. On a fresh page she makes bullet point jottings, jumping from site to site.

  Shroud is a large linen cloth seemingly bearing marks of a crucified man.

  Kept in special chapel at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin.

  1978 a detailed examination was carried out by a team of American scientists called STURP (Shroud of Turin Research Project). They found no reliable evidence of forgery and said it was a mystery how the image had been formed.

  1988 radiocarbon dating was performed by universities of Oxford and Arizona and the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology. All independently said the Shroud originated in the Middle Ages, between 1260 and 1390 – all concluded it couldn’t have been Christ’s burial cloth.

  Mitzi sits back from the screen more certain than ever that the answers to her murder lie in Turin. She looks at her watch and realises she’s been so engrossed in the mystery of the Shroud that she’s lost track of time. It’s eight in the morning. Face the girls time. Time to tell them that last night wasn’t a dream. That she really has kicked their father out and is not having him back.

  Not ever.

  37

  VATICAN CITY

  Andreas Pathykos leaves the Papal Palace and walks the five minutes to a café in the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio, off the southern curve of Piazza San Pietro. He’s been coming here for years. So has the man he’s about to meet.

  He orders a large plate of pastries, espresso and water then watches the door for his guest. He doesn’t have to wait long. Father Nabih Hayek jangles the overhead bell of the front door as he walks in. His thin face lights up as he spots his old friend at a table.

  Hayek is in his late fifties and Lebanese. He can trace his family back to the early days of the Maronite Syriac Church of Antioch, a unique Catholic order that retains its own liturgy, discipline and hierarchy. Antioch has a special place in Catholic hearts. It is here that followers of Jesus were first called Christians and after the destruction of Jerusalem in AD 70 it became a centre of the faith.

  ‘It is still cold,’ grumbles Hayek as a greeting. He embraces the papal adviser. ‘I long for spring.’

  ‘Have this coffee, I’ll order us some more.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  The visitor warms his arthritic hands around the small cup as Pathykos signals to the barman to bring refills. He lifts a Pasticiotti from the mound of pastries and places it on Hayek’s plate. ‘This one I got just for you.’

  ‘What’s in it?’ Hayek pulls the plate towards him.

  ‘Vanilla and chocolate,’ he declares, almost sinfully. ‘Enjoy.’

  Hayek bites into the tender pasta frolla pastry cup and relishes the rare indulgence.

  The following ten minutes are spent talking food, drink and the frivolities of life. Then Pathykos cuts to the chase. ‘I have informed His Holiness of the difficulties that are unfolding in Los Angeles.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He expressed his concern.’

  ‘Explicitly?’

  The Greek takes a moment before answering. ‘He demands that if I have knowledge then I should share it with the authorities.’

  ‘How would His Holiness define “knowledge”?’

  ‘Justified true belief.’

  ‘Ah, the Plato definition.’ He licks cream from a finger. ‘The great man said, for someone to have knowledge of something, it must be true. It must be believed to be true and that belief must be justified.’

  ‘It is what most epistemologists accept, and according to such a definition then I have knowledge.’

  Hayek is not so sure. ‘You have supposition, dear friend. You have supposition not unequivocal confirmation, and therefore, as a consequence of having only supposition, you do not have truth.’

  ‘I suppose you are correct.’

  ‘I know I am correct.’ Hayek looks pleased with himself.

  ‘Now Andreas, in accepting you do not have truth – in admitting that you do not irrefutably know what has happened, you must also accept that you do not have justified true belief and therefore you do not have knowledge.’

  The papal adviser sips his espresso and absorbs the argument. He puts the tiny white cup down. ‘If asked, I will tell the H
oly Father I have no knowledge in the truest sense of the word. If he instructs me to share more than knowledge, then I will tell you.’

  Hayek nods in agreement. It is the most he could hope for. He returns to his pastry and considers how much more to tell the Greek. Until today it has been easy to be open about these somewhat delicate matters. Given the discussion of the last few minutes, that may no longer be the case. ‘You have a contact in Los Angeles. Perhaps it would be better if from now onwards I dealt directly with him?’

  Pathykos understands the implication behind the offer. This way he can avoid any question of future knowledge. He can take action now to distance himself from things. But there is a price to pay for such a convenience. Loss of control. The Greek knows that once he hands the reins to Hayek, he will never be able to get them back again.

  The two men sit in coffee-fuelled contemplation for several minutes, both weighing up the possible consequences of Hayek’s request, not just for their churches but for themselves.

  Pathykos finally calls for the check. He settles in cash and writes a name and phone number on a napkin, then passes it hesitantly across the table. ‘You realise we must not meet again. Not for years. Perhaps not ever.’

  Hayek takes the napkin. ‘I do.’

  Both men stand. They embrace and kiss each other on the cheeks before leaving and going their separate ways. The Greek walks back to the Papal Palace knowing one day he will need to seek forgiveness for what he has just done.

  38

  WALNUT PARK, LOS ANGELES

  Mitzi is red-eyed and so exhausted that she almost calls in sick.

  Amber and Jade cry their hearts out over breakfast, then shout and blame her. Then they cry some more. Eventually everyone holds each other and says how sorry they are before falling silent with dark thoughts about life as a broken family.

  Mitzi gets her shit together. ‘Life goes on,’ she tells them. ‘No one has cancer. No one is dead. And you’re still going skiing.’

  The bribe works. But only for now. She drops her key with a neighbour so the locks can get changed, drives the girls to school and heads into work.

  She’s trying to act like nothing has happened. Like it is a normal, boring everyday kind of day. Only it isn’t. It’s a terrifyingly different kind of day. It’s her first day as a single parent. Her first day as a woman who’s about to start divorce proceedings. She calls the number of the lawyer she found online and makes an appointment for next week. She’d prefer one sooner but he’s all booked up. For some reason her hand touches her gun, the Smith and Wesson she aimed at her husband last night.

  Would she have shot him?

  Damned right she would.

  Tried to kill him or wound him?

  A more difficult question.

  Just struggling to answer it makes her realise that under all the layers of hate, all the scars, bruises and contusions of abuse, there’s still the gossamer of true love, a thin link back to the good times. She swigs from a large mug of black coffee, and starts up the computer. Some day she’ll cut down on the beans, maybe do a complete detox and drink the daily bucket of water that apparently all good girls do. Not today, though. Today Mitzi is already doing ninety in the outside lane on caffeine superhighway and that’s where she’s planning on staying.

  Now she wishes she’d called Nic in rather than have him chase down Tamara’s family and friends. She could do with his energy around her, some positive momentum to keep her going. Then again, in a way, it’s a good job he’s not here. If she told him about Alfie, he’d probably go crazy and do something regrettable.

  Her desk is a mess. Piled with paperwork and files. Surely not as she left it. She’s usually much tidier than this. She must be cracking up. Or else someone’s been rooting for something, and gave up part way through. The surface is covered with forensic reports, interview statements, bank accounts, bills and records pulled from Tamara Jacobs and her estranged husband Dylan. Plus all the goodies she finally shook out of Sarah Kenny – Tamara’s memos, notes and some USB sticks. From the storage devices she’s managed to print a paper tower of early scripts – numerous different versions, marked numerically and chronologically – ‘The Shroud Draft (1) Jan 10’, ‘The Shroud Draft (10) July 26’, etc.

  She forgets the nagging worry that someone’s been prying and starts reading from the beginning. The first copy may be the roughest but may also be the most valuable. Later drafts might have things taken out, refined away, covered up. She swings her legs around and puts her heels up on the desk, then slides down a little in her chair with the manuscript until she’s comfortable. It’s a long time since she read anything other than a paper or magazine – that’s something else she’s going to put right in her new life. She leafs through the pages and tries to follow the layout and stylised flow of screen directions and plot development.

  THE SHROUD

  By Tamara Jacobs

  OPENING TITLES

  BLACKNESS.

  FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE NOTHINGNESS THERE IS THE SOUND OF A DESERT WIND BLOWING AND HOWLING.

  THUNDER.

  THE THUNDER TURNS INTO THE SOUND OF NAILS BEING HAMMERED INTO WOOD. MORE HOWLING WIND. THE WIND FADES INTO THE SOUND OF WOMEN WEEPING AND SCREAMING.

  STILL THE BLACKNESS.

  A TENSE MUSIC UNDERSCORE BUILDS.

  SUDDENLY A MONTAGE OF BLACK AND WHITE IMAGES SPLATTER THE SCREEN. POSITIVE AND NEGATIVE SHOTS OF THE FACE ON THE TURIN SHROUD.

  BIG CLOSE-UP OF THE SHROUD’S DARK EYES.

  MUSIC POUNDS.

  QUICK CUTS OF IMAGES THAT LOOK LIKE THE CROWN OF THORNS. SHARP, JABBING MUSIC ON EACH PICTURE CUT.

  IMAGES APPEAR – RIPPED, SHREDDED, SCRATCHED LIKE OLD BLACK-AND-WHITE FILM BEING SHUTTERED THROUGH AN ANCIENT PROJECTOR.

  BLOOD SPATTERS THE SCREEN. DISSOLVES INTO THE FABRIC OF THE SHROUD, THE CLOTH SOAKING IT UP AND IMAGES FADING AWAY AS CENTURIES PASS.

  CLOSE-UP OF LOWER PART OF THE SHROUD. CAMERA TRACKS ALONG THE CLOTH WHERE THE PALMS OF THE HANDS AND THE FEET WERE COVERED – WHERE RED BLOOD NOW SEEPS THROUGH. CAMERA DRIFTS FROM THE BURIAL CLOTH INTO BLACKNESS.

  SOUNDS OF DISTANT CRYING. THIS BECOMES MIXED IN A FADING ECHO WITH THE NOISE OF A VICIOUS WIND RISING THEN DYING.

  LIFE AND TIME HAVE PASSED.

  THE SCREEN TURNS BLACK AGAIN.

  CUT TO

  OPENING SCENE

  FROM PREVIOUS BLACK FRAME WE SEE A STARRY SKY. CAMERA PULLS OUT TO REVEAL WIDE SHOT OF NIGHT SKY, THEN SLOWLY TILTS DOWN TO SHOW MODERN DAY TURIN, ILLUMINATED BY CITY LIGHTS.

  CUT TO

  WIDE EXT GV OF THE CATHEDRAL OF ST JOHN THE BAPTIST

  (SOUND OF CHURCH BELLS)

  CUT TO

  CRANE SHOT OF CATHEDRAL ENTRANCE

  OLD ENTRANCE DOORS SUDDENLY BURST OPEN. A NOISY CONGREGATION FLOODS OUT. PEOPLE ARE FASTENING COATS, PULLING ON HATS, HOLDING HANDS OF CHILDREN. THEY SOUND HAPPY. RENEWED.

  INTERCUT WITH

  OLD PRIEST WANDERS INTO SACRISTY AND CHANGES OUT OF HIS VESTMENTS. ALTAR BOYS COLLECT HYMN BOOKS, BLOW OUT CANDLES, STRAIGHTEN KNEELERS.

  THE CHURCH EMPTIES. THERE IS BLACKNESS.

  SOUND OF A KEY TURNING IN THE LOCK OF THE BIG HEAVY FRONT DOORS. FOOTSTEPS HEARD DISAPPEARING DOWN THE STONE STEPS OUTSIDE.

  THE FACE OF A MAN APPEARS IN A SMALL POOL OF FLASHLIGHT. THE BEAM FLICKS DOWN ONTO THE TILES OF THE CHURCH FLOOR. WE HEAR HIS FOOTSTEPS AS HE WALKS AND WE FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BEAM. IT STOPS AND RISES OVER THE PLACE WHERE THE TURIN SHROUD IS LOCKED AWAY. THE LIGHT FOCUSES ON THE LOCK TO THE CASE HOLDING THE SHROUD. A LATEX-GLOVED HAND INSERTS A KEY AND TURNS IT.

  WE HEAR A DOOR CREAK OPEN. LIGHT FALLS ON THE SHROUD.

  NOTHING HAPPENS FOR A SECOND OR TWO.

  NOW WE SEE A GLINT OF A KNIFE IN THE LIGHT.

  IT LOOKS LIKE THE SHROUD IS ABOUT TO BE RIPPED. DAMAGED. DESTROYED. THE LIGHT CARESSES THE SHROUD – SMUDGES AND STAINS APPEAR (IMAGES REMINISCENT OF THOSE WE’VE JUST SEEN IN THE TITLE SEQUENCE).

  THERE IS A LOUD BANG. THE TORCHLIGHT IS
QUICKLY EXTINGUISHED.

  CUT TO

  EXT GV

  TWO YOUNG BOYS OUTSIDE HAVE KICKED A FOOTBALL AGAINST THE CHURCH WINDOWS. THEY GRAB THE BALL AND RUN AWAY SCARED.

  INTERIOR

  IN THE SHADOWS WE SEE THE FACE OF THE MAN WITH THE KNIFE, WAITING PATIENTLY.

  WHEN NO MORE SOUNDS DISTURB HIM, HE RESUMES HIS TASK.

  CLOSE-UP

  THE LENGTH OF THE KNIFE’S BLADE SCRAPES SLOWLY BACK AND FORTH ACROSS THE SURFACE OF THE OLD CLOTH, LIKE IT’S BEING METHODICALLY SHARPENED ON A WHETSTONE.

  THE KNIFE DISAPPEARS FROM VIEW. THERE IS A SHORT PAUSE.

  Mitzi studies the crossed-out lines and sees a handwritten notation a little lower: *too sensitive/rw

  She guesses rw means rewrite. She pulls apart the tower of drafts and after some rooting finds the next version of the script. It reads:

  THE KNIFE DISAPPEARS FROM VIEW. THERE IS A SHORT PAUSE. A CREAM ENVELOPE COMES INTO SHOT FROM LEFT OF FRAME. THE SHROUD IS LIFTED BY A HAND BENEATH IT AND GENTLY FINGER-TAPPED. TINY PARTICLES OF SCRAPED CLOTH AND BROWNISH DUST ARE SEEN TO FALL INTO THE ENVELOPE. IT IS NOW SEALED.