The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

‘Do we have back-channels to the Tasman government?’ Shiva asked.

‘A few. We’re wary. Not all the Shining Light people declare who they are when they take civil service jobs. But the Tasman government doesn’t know what they’re up to, though they think something is going on.’

‘I should say, sir, I’ve never done any political work.’

‘I don’t know if you’d call this political. We don’t really know what it is. A murder, to start with.’

‘Where is Karam now?’

‘Back home, I’m afraid. The monthly flight to Dunedin took off the night after the book was stolen and she was on it. By the time our internet systems identified her, she was back in Dunedin.’

‘Has the Tasman government been contacted?’

‘Yes. But meanwhile Hardacre at internet decided to run an ancestor search on Karam, just to see what came up. And the system flagged up a connection to you.’

‘But I’ve never done any ancestor research,’ Shiva said.

‘We have.’ The old man smiled. ‘On your behalf. We realized years ago that if we could find an ancestral connection between one of our undercover people and someone we were interested in, it would be a way of getting into their confidence. It’s happened a few times, and now it’s happened with you. Your great-great-great-great-grandfather and Parvati Karam’s were brothers in the same Indian village. Both families emigrated in the 1940s, during the troubles when the British left. They were Hindus in the Muslim area. We want you to go out there, get to know her.’

Shiva nodded. But he did not feel the frisson of excitement that a new case normally gave him.

‘We’ll fly you to Dunedin on the next monthly flight. A transworld flight – I envy you that. You’ll be a diplomat taking up a post at the EU embassy. Cultural attaché, tried and tested cover for spies. Contact her via her ancestor site e-mail, say you’ve been researching and found you were related, and ask to meet her.’ The clipped, peremptory tone was back.

‘When did she do her search?’

‘That’s interesting. Only a year ago, well after she joined the Shining Light. They discourage ancestor research. May indicate a vulnerability on her part.’

Shiva looked down at the photograph. ‘She doesn’t look vulnerable.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve never gone undercover to trap a woman before.’

‘Will that be a problem?’

‘No. It’s just a question of… thinking around it.’

‘Do that.’ The commisioner nodded. ‘When Karam was in Birmingham she stayed at a guesthouse in the suburbs. Witton. See what you can find out from the landlady. She’s the only one we know who actually met her. I’ll give you her file, and over the next couple of weeks you’ll get some training about the Black Book and the Shining Light. I’ll see you again.’ He paused. ‘You were brought up a Hindu, weren’t you?’

‘I was brought up in the old traditions. But my parents weren’t really religious.’

‘You’ll have quite a bit to learn.’ He studied Shiva. ‘Yes, it’s hard to pretend serious faith. We think when you meet Karam you should be sceptical but not hostile.’

‘If she wants to meet me.’

‘It will be very helpful if you can make sure she does.’

‘And the Black Book? If I find it?’

Commissioner Williams’s face darkened. ‘Destroy it.’

Shiva had been given a guest apartment at the Commission. Tomorrow, books and papers would arrive, about Parvati Karam, the Black Book, the Shining Light Movement. His room was small, high up in the building. He had set the statue of Shiva on his dressing table. In the old days not many Indian boys had been called Shiva, but his parents had liked the statue. Shiva looked at his face in the dressing table mirror. It looked tired. It was a thin face, bony, clever – delicately pointed, Alice had once said. He looked at the statue. Sometimes he felt all the weight of India on him. Destroyed, massive inundations drowning half the Ganges valley in two years, while in the rest of the subcontinent the summer heat had risen to forty-five, forty-six degrees, more than humans could bear. There was no way out for the people; to the north lay only the bare Himalayas. What Indians were left now were scattered around the world, accepted or discriminated against in various degrees, depending on the country. Shiva thought of meeting this woman, another Indian. An enemy. He stared at the statue, trying to lose himself in its symmetry. The god’s face was enigmatic as he danced, protecting the world, his foot on a demon from the underworld.

A week later Shiva walked out to the inner-city suburb of Witton. He left early, dressed formally in a cotton suit and wing-collared shirt. Shopkeepers were opening their shutters, the arterial roads filling up with bicycles and horses and carts and the electric cars of the rich. With a quarter of a million souls, Birmingham, high above sea level, was one of the few populous cities left in the world. It had been chosen as the new European Union capital over Berlin, now a coastal city still threatened by the rising seas.

For all that it had shrunk to a cluster of islands half its original size, Great Britain had fared better than most countries. It had an abundance of fertile land, only the Scottish and Welsh mountains requiring serious soil enhancement. No need in Britain for intrepid parties to brave burning deserts to raid the old cities’ landfill sites for organic refuse to make artificial soils. Britain’s island status, too, had protected it from the worst of the migrant wars.

Shiva stopped at a roadside stall to buy a coconut from a vendor. The tanned young man expertly sliced off the top with his machete. Shiva drank the cool milk gratefully, for after an hour walking on the dusty road his throat was dry. He walked on to Witton, an area of old back-to-back terraces, with south-facing windows now converted to solar panels. There was a small lake in the centre to take the monsoon overflow of the river Lea. The water was low at this time of year and lines of chimneypots from submerged houses broke the surface. Children were swimming in the brown water, calling out to each other in Brummie accents.

Around the lake new earthhouses had been built, and Shiva headed for one of the larger ones, two storeys high, the thick walls and the frames of the solar panels painted bright blue. A sign was nailed to the wall by the door. GUESTHOUSE. VACANCIES. He knocked on the door and a small terrier began a frantic barking. A large, grey-haired lady opened the door. She wore a shapeless yellow dress, sweat-stained under the arms.

‘Good morning.’ The woman looked tense, worried. A Jack Russell ran up behind her, barking angrily. ‘Sit,’ the women snapped. The dog obeyed. Shiva stared at it; pets were an unusual luxury.

‘Mrs Ackerley?’ He gave her his most winning smile. ‘My name is Inspector Moorthy. Wonder if I could ask a few questions?’

Her broad shoulders slumped. ‘Come in. Sam, away !’ The dog walked obediently off. ‘It’s about that woman, I suppose,’ Mrs Ackerley said heavily.

‘Afraid so. Expect you’re tired of being questioned about her.’

‘I had three officers on different days, asking me the same questions. They won’t tell me what she’s done.’

‘Last time, I promise.’ He smiled at her again.

She sighed and led him into a lounge, where canvas chairs surrounded an old wooden coffee table. The shutters were open, large windows giving a good view of the lake. The computer was on, a documentary about Antarctica. Five-mile-wide rivers crashed through a landscape of stone worn as smooth as glass by vanished glaciers. Mrs Ackerley bent stiffly and turned down the sound. ‘You’d better sit down,’ she said.