Sanctus and The Key: 2 Bestselling Thrillers. Simon Toyne

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СКАЧАТЬ it was the day I became an individual. It was my father’s idea to name me in Mother’s memory. Liv Adamsen was her maiden name, the name of the girl he’d fallen in love with and married. That’s why he never wanted to talk about it.’

      Arkadian took in the new information. Held it up against what he already knew, searching for any questions it still hadn’t answered. ‘How come your grandmother’s name was different from your mother’s?’

      ‘Very old Norwegian tradition. Granny always preferred the old ways. All children used to adopt their father’s name. Granny’s father was Hans, so she was called Hansen, which weirdly means “son of Hans”. My mother’s father was Adam, so she was Adamsen. Tracing family trees is a bitch if you’re Scandinavian.’ She looked down at the newspaper. Samuel’s face stared back at her. ‘You said you wanted to show me something that might help explain my brother’s death,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

      She watched Arkadian’s hand tap uncertainly on the blue folder. He had softened towards her, but was still guarded.

      ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I’m just as keen to find out what happened to him as you are. So you can either trust me or not, it’s up to you. But if you’re still worried about what I do for a living, then I’ll sign any gagging order you care to throw at me.’

      Arkadian’s hand stopped drumming the file. He got up and left the room, leaving the folder behind.

      Liv stared at it, fighting the urge to grab it and look inside while the Inspector was out of the room. He returned moments later with a pen and the Homicide unit’s standard non-disclosure agreement. She signed it and he checked the signature against a faxed copy of her passport. Then he opened the folder and slid a six-by-four glossy across the table.

      The photo showed Samuel’s washed body lying on the examination table, the bright lights making the dark network of scars upon it stand out clear and grotesque on his pale skin.

      Liv stared at it, dumbfounded. ‘Who did this to him?’

      ‘We don’t know.’

      ‘But you must’ve spoken to the people who knew him. Didn’t they know anything? Didn’t they say if he’d been acting strangely – or seemed depressed about something?’

      Arkadian shook his head. ‘The only person we’ve managed to speak to is you. Your brother fell from the top of the Citadel. We assume he had been living inside it for some years, seeing as there’s no evidence of him living elsewhere in the city. How long did you say he was missing?’

      ‘Eight years.’

      ‘And in all that time there was no contact from him?’

      ‘None.’

      ‘So if he was there the whole time, the last people to see him alive would’ve been others inside the Citadel, and I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to talk to any of them. I’ve sent a request, but that’s just procedure. No one will speak to me.’

      ‘Can’t you make them?’

      ‘The Citadel is, quite literally, a law unto itself. It’s a state within a state with its own rules and system of justice. I can’t make them do anything.’

      ‘So they can choose to say zilch, even though someone has died, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it?’

      ‘Pretty much,’ Arkadian said. ‘Though I’m sure they’ll say something eventually. They’re as aware of positive PR as anyone. In the meantime, there are other avenues of enquiry we can explore.’ He removed three more photographs from the folder and slid the first across the table towards her.

      Liv saw her phone number scratched on to a thin piece of leather.

      ‘We found that in your brother’s stomach. That’s how we managed to contact you so quickly.’ He slid the second photo towards her. ‘But that wasn’t all we found.’

      56

      The roads in the Lost Quarter had first been haphazardly scratched into the earth by handcarts and horses in the early part of the sixth century and were now utterly unequal to the volume, speed and width of modern traffic. As road-widening required demolition, which wasn’t an option here, the town planners had implemented a one-way system so complex it ensnared cars like flies in its unfathomable web.

      Driving his ambulance through these medieval streets was something Erdem had nightmares about. His paramedic’s operating manual required him to respond to any callout in the greater metropolitan area within fifteen minutes. It also required him to bring his vehicle back in the same state it went out. Which meant that a trip into this stony warren of paint-scraped walls at anything like the necessary speed to fulfil the first obligation inevitably resulted in a drastic failure to comply with the second.

      He watched the cross on the side of the ambulance emerge slowly from the shadow of a stone archway, revealing the rod of Asclepius at its centre entwined with a serpent. He eased up the power and switched his eyes back to the road, trying to make up a little time until the next obstacle forced him back to a timid crawl.

      ‘How we doing?’ he asked.

      ‘We’re at fourteen already,’ Kemil replied, checking the watch. ‘Don’t think we’re going to be breaking any records on this one.’

      The subject they were heading to was a white male who’d been found unconscious on one of the side streets at the edge of the Lost Quarter. Given the time of day and the man’s location, Erdem figured he was either an OD, or had suffered a gunshot or knife wound. Whoever had called it in hadn’t given much information, just enough to warrant an ambulance callout; all in all the perfect start to a perfect day.

      ‘Any news from the police?’ Erdem asked.

      Kemil checked the radio scanner’s readout for a squad-car number. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Probably still finishing off their coffee and breakfast rolls.’

      The squad car was obviously not treating it as an emergency. Unlike the paramedics, they were under no pressure to respond within fifteen minutes – especially at breakfast time.

      ‘Here we go.’ Erdem eased round a corner and spotted a crumpled pile of clothes on the far side of the shadowy street. There was no sign of a police car. There was no sign of anyone.

      ‘Seventeen minutes,’ Kemil said, punching a button on the radio that would register their arrival time back at base. ‘Not too bad.’

      ‘And not a scratch on her,’ Erdem said, bringing the ambulance to a standstill, taking the keys from the ignition and slipping from the driver’s seat in a single practised move.

      The man on the pavement was deathly pale and the moment Erdem rolled him into the recovery position he discovered why. His entire upper right leg was wet with blood. He lifted a flap of material in the torn trousers to see how bad the trauma was – and stopped. Instead of a gaping wound he was staring down at the blood-stained gauze of a tightly wrapped and fairly fresh dressing. He was about to turn and holler for Kemil when he felt the cold hard barrel of a gun against the back of his neck.

      Kemil hadn’t even managed to get out of his seat before the bearded man appeared by his open window and pointed the pistol СКАЧАТЬ