‘That’s creepy,’ Detective Russo declared with a look of distaste. ‘And he’s a priest, you say?’
‘Well, he was,’ Harker replied, taking a few steps further into the living room. ‘And it is creepy, yes.’
The small apartment was less of a living space and more of a tribute to all things avian, with its walls covered by framed pictures of birds of all species. This wasn’t particularly odd, though perhaps a bit eccentric, but the hordes of stuffed animals littering the surfaces of tables and chairs did give pause for thought. Every bird Harker was aware of appeared to be represented. These included an American eagle, wings spread wide, hanging by a wire from the ceiling, while to his left a bright pink flamingo watched him as he studied the lifeless menagerie before him. The unpleasant atmosphere was compounded further by the lack of outside light which was being defused by the apartment’s stained yellow windows, causing the shadows to shift from one moment to the next and giving the impression of movement from the otherwise motionless stuffed animals.
‘I imagine Father Davies had an interest in taxidermy,’ Harker suggested, reaching over to a motionless stuffed black raven perched on a wooden coffee table and tapping it on the head.
‘I would say obsession,’ Russo replied, electing to remain in the doorway. ‘An unpleasant one, too.’
After parting company with Stefani back at the Tower of London, Harker had headed straight back to his home in Cambridge, care of Detective Owens, for a quick change and there to pick up his passport. The officer had initially appeared happy to provide a taxi service but had seemed visibly upset at Harker’s request that he be allowed time to take a quick shower. Following possibly the quickest wash in his life, Harker had then been whisked away at high speed to Cambridge airport where, as promised by Stefani, a twin-engine Cessna Citation X jet was waiting for him on the tarmac. During the drive there, Harker had made a single call to Chloe, who at first had been furious for him ‘dumping her’ but, once his situation was explained, her mood had lightened… slightly. Sadly, this accommodating reaction was not shared by Doggie who, after grabbing the phone from Chloe, had literally screamed down the receiver and demanded to know where the hell his car keys were. After a quick apology, and a promise that Chloe would drive him to their house, where the keys were now waiting for him on the side table in the hall, the Dean had angrily hung up on him. This darkening mood was intensified further, by Harker himself this time, when he was informed by the pilot that Stefani would not be joining him and that he would be making this trip alone. He had called her straight away with the intention of throwing a few choice words at her, but had been unable to get through, which wound him up even more.
After sitting for most of the flight in a complete grump, he had come to the conclusion that Stefani had not wanted to draw any undue attention to herself by disappearing hurriedly from the Templar meeting at the Tower, which he had to admit seemed annoyingly reasonable. Whatever her rationale though, he felt like he’d been screwed over. But by the time he arrived at Rome international airport his blood had cooled, and being met by Detective Andrea Russo had helped immensely. The detective of the Rome’s Polizia di Stato immediately introduced himself as ‘a friend’, and had driven them both straight to Father Davies’s residence. The small apartment was within a stone’s throw of the city’s famous Spanish Steps linking the Bourbon Spanish embassy at the bottom to the Trinità dei Monti church at the top, and therefore the exterior of the place was impressive. The location was considered prime real estate – as pretty much everywhere in Rome was – and, with the Vatican just over a mile away across the river Tiber, it was a striking home for a mere Vatican priest.
The journey was made with little conversation and it became clear that Russo neither knew exactly why Harker was here in Italy or what he was looking for, and the man seemed happy to keep it that way – as was Harker. ‘I was asked to drive you to this address, and I will help in any way I can,’ the detective had merely offered, ‘but the less I know about it the better.’
The cloak and dagger approach was only to be expected when it came to the Templars and, besides which, until Harker knew what was going on, he had no wish to drag the questionable idea of demoniac possession into the conversation.
‘So, what is it you’re looking for, Professor?’ Russo finally asked, as he continued to hover in the doorway.
‘Honestly, I’m not sure.’ Harker replied, giving a mystified smile. ‘Maybe I should have a look around.’
Harker’s clueless response had the detective also smiling. ‘OK, how is it you say… “knock yourself out”?’
In spite of Russo’s offer of help, the man really didn’t seem like he wanted to be here, and to be fair neither did Harker. But this was a way to prove his position of Jarl was justified and to that end he would do whatever it took to separate the wheat from the chaff – or rather the ectoplasm from the demoniac presence. He congratulated himself on thinking up such a bad joke and began navigating his way past the miserable-looking multitude of stuffed birds, who appeared to glare at their uninvited guest accusingly, and then on towards the rear end of the apartment, which opened up into a hallway with three rooms leading off it. The corridor was a mess, with nasty lime-green wallpaper peeling off at all angles and stacks of browning newspapers lined the skirting boards, giving it the look of a storage shed rather than a homely dwelling.
Harker entered the first room to his left, where immediately an unpleasant odour had him wrinkling his nose. The small kitchen was basic, with an ancient white, rusting fridge and a four-ringed stove that looked even older, its appearance not helped by it being covered in congealed grease. The grey linoleum floor tiles were clouded with age and a stained ceramic sink filled with unwashed plates protruded from the opposite wall. Either Father Davies had questionable domestic-hygiene issues or the priest had not been back home in a while.
Harker made his way over to the sink to find the source of the stench, which immediately made him feel queasy. Wedged between a couple of dirty dishes was a half-eaten ham sandwich that, at first glance, appeared to be moving, but upon closer inspection this was due to the maggots wriggling about on top of it. The sight only convinced him that no further investigation of the kitchen was needed.
The second room on the left was thankfully less offensive, with a neatly made single bed and an Ikea set of plywood drawers containing a meagre collection of trousers and T-shirts. At one corner was an en-suite bathroom which was cleaner than the kitchen and, with little else to check, Harker made his way back into the hallway and over to the final room whose door remained shut. He reached down to turn the cracked white plastic handle and poked his head inside.
If the smell of the kitchen had been unpleasant, what assaulted his nose now was downright offensive, and he recoiled back into the hallway with a hand over his mouth. It absolutely stank and Harker pulled out a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and muffled his nose and mouth with it. The room was pitch black with seemingly no windows and, although it was impossible to make anything out clearly, he had the strangest sense he was being watched. He actually felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and this caused him to pull away from the open doorway and step to one side of it, out of view of anyone who might be lurking inside. The problem with instinctive feeling is that it is a process of evolution, a natural warning system that tends to favour caution above anything else, and if allowed it can override one’s common and practical senses. Realising this, Harker now forced himself towards the open doorway, to peer inside with extreme wariness.
He was confronted by a wall of blackness at first but, as he slowly scanned the interior of the room, his eyes began to acclimatise to the dark and various shapes began to take form. He could now make out the edges of something, and maybe also a circular object on the floor, but no more than that. However as he continued to scan the room, his focus settled upon something that caused him to freeze and his blood ran cold. A pair of eyes stared back directly into his, with the light from the hallway just catching its pupils in nothing more than a temporary glint of light.
Harker abruptly pulled his head away from the doorway. ‘Detective,’ he shouted loudly, raising his fists to defend himself, while Russo came running along the hallway to join him.
‘There’s someone inside,’ Harker informed him in nothing more than a whisper and the Detective, with no further persuasion needed, pulled the gun from his side holster and aimed it inside whilst taking cover at one side of the door.
‘Police,’ Russo announced gruffly. ‘Come out with your hands up… and slowly.’
There was no sign of movement inside and, after a few seconds, he gestured to Harker with a flick of his chin. ‘Reach for the light switch.’
It was a simple enough request but Harker found himself flexing his fingers nervously till, after an encouraging look from Russo he finally reached inside and slid his open palm across the inside wall until he felt the switch. With a nod to the detective, he flipped it downwards.
The room was instantly bathed in light from the single light bulb dangling from the ceiling and the sight of a shrouded individual standing before them had every muscle in Harker’s body tensing. Even the well-trained Detective Russo was putting extra pressure on his trigger finger at first.
‘What the hell is that?’ Russo exclaimed, pulling his gun back to a resting position.
The unblinking glazed eyes of a bull stared back at them as flies began to zip around its head, having been disturbed by the light source now shining above them. Harker’s first thought was that it was a man standing there in a mask, with a dark shroud wrapped around his shoulders which fell all the way to the floor, covering his feet, but a closer inspection dispelled that notion. Shreds of rotting meat hung from the neck where the head had been severed, and a gap in the shroud below the neckline revealed a section of the black metal candelabra that held it in place. The set-up reminded Harker of the terrible photos he had seen earlier that day of a woman’s decapitated head impaled on a broomstick, and he wondered if this particular piece of artwork had been created as practice for the worse atrocity Father Davies would commit later on.
‘That’s pleasant,’ Russo commented drily as he and Harker made their way on into the room and nearer to the revolting flesh sculpture on display. ‘Your Father Davies was quite the budding artist.’
The bull’s long blackened tongue lolled off to one side and Harker now examined the shiny ornaments surrounding the base of the candelabra, placed in a circle around it. A gold-coloured dish filled with coagulated gore sat directly beneath the head as if to catch the blood like a stale offering that no one in their right mind would ever want. Surrounding the gruesome effigy, burnt-out candles amid decaying bunches of flowers littered the floor, and a stained metal sickle protruded from the bull’s neck. Judging by the blood smearing its surface the same implement had been used in dispatching the poor beast.
Neither man said a word as they approached this bizarre spectacle, with the foul smell of decay growing ever stronger. As Harker investigated closer, he noticed what looked like a black smudge on the bull’s left cheek, so he craned his head around to one side and began to focus in on the mark while keeping as much distance as possible. Gradually a shape began to take form. At first, he thought it was a cross but, as he examined it closer, it became clear that this wasn’t a smudge but a symbol – one that he knew well.
‘It’s a swastika,’ he exclaimed, moving closer, ‘and it appears to have been put there with a branding iron.’
Russo looked confused as he moved to Harker’s side, inspecting the mark for himself. ‘A swastika? What, like this is a Nazi bull?’
It sounded a dumb question but Harker could tell the detective wasn’t joking.
‘Not necessarily Nazi,’ he replied, standing himself back from his inspection, ‘The swastika itself was originally a sacred symbol used in many religions, Buddhism to name just one. It was only when the Nazis adopted it that it came to mean something altogether different in the eyes of the world.’
Russo was now looking particularly confused. ‘You said the tenant here was a priest… was he a Buddhist priest?’
The question was going off on completely the wrong tangent, but it did still give Harker pause for thought.
‘No, he wasn’t a Buddhist but, that said, I’m not sure he was a Catholic either.’
‘Well whatever he was, I need to call this in.’ Russo took one last look at the bull’s head, exhaled a large sigh and headed out of the room, and leaving Harker alone with his thoughts.
Exorcisms, bull’s heads, swastikas? It was baffling, Harker decided, attempting to get his head around something clearly completely out of his reach for now. Following this gruesome discovery, what on earth was he going to tell Stefani? ‘Hey, Stefani, checked out your father’s place and you’ll never guess… not only was he the first exorcist ever to become possessed but he also saw himself as prodigy of Damien Hirst.’
As Harker contemplated how best to tell Stefani that her father was already nuts before undertaking the exorcism, a thudding sound began coming from the other room. ‘Russo,’ he called out but heard no reply, so he moved swiftly away from the bull’s head and back to the menagerie of death in the living room, as the thudding continued. ‘Russo, are you all alri…’ Harker’s words trailed off as he turned the corner to see Russo standing there upright and shaking. His first thought was the detective was choking, because the man was gripping at his throat with both hands. But as he swayed to one side, Harker caught a glint of steel laced around his neck, and then a hand connected to it and he froze.
Standing directly behind him, a hooded figure was pulling tighter on the wire garrotte as droplets of blood began to seep onto the detective’s shirt collar. Russo’s eyes were beginning to bulge due to the pressure around his neck
‘No,’ Harker yelled and, as he launched himself forwards with arms outstretched, Russo was thrust towards him and slammed into Harker, who sank to the floor under the weight even as the hooded man, garrotte still in his hand, ran for the front door, sending stuffed birds flying in his wake.
Russo was now blue in the face and still clutching at his neck, but he managed a few words as Harker supported him under his arms. ‘I’m OK,’ he puffed finally, struggling to catch his breath. ‘It didn’t go deep.’
This was all Harker needed to hear and he rolled the larger man onto his side as carefully as he could, then jumped to his feet and sprinted towards the apartment’s entrance. The front door was still wide open, and as Harker leapt outside into the stairwell, he could hear the scuffling of shoes on the level below. Without further thought, he raced down the two flights of stairs and towards the entrance leading out on to the street. He reached the last flight just in time to catch a glimpse of the hooded man’s legs disappearing through the main door; a sense of urgency made him leap the last ten steps and he dived out the main entrance, almost breaking his ankle in the process.
The street was busy and though pain shot through his foot, he kept on moving. Up ahead of him the hooded man was already bounding along the street in a full sprint towards the Fontana della Barcaccia situated at the foot of the famed Spanish Steps. Harker knew the area pretty well but, with so many people milling outside, it wouldn’t be hard to get lost amongst the crowds. As the hooded escapee started to pull away, Harker began shouting in Italian, ‘Rapist! Stop the rapist!’
In almost any city in the world if a person shouts ‘Stop that man’ or ‘Stop the thief’, most people will not intervene, or if they do it’s too late, but if a person shouts ‘rapist’ then almost always everyone piles in immediately and it was with this logic that Harker continued to yell at the top of his voice. Within seconds, heads within the crowd were darting back and forth and, as Harker barraged his way past the throng, he glimpsed his target’s bobbing black hood in the distance, getting further away. With so many people it was impossible for any have-a-go-hero to tell who the ‘rapist’ was and instead people began to look towards at Harker with aggressive intent. As the hooded man put even more distance between them, Harker came close to giving up, his ankle now throbbing.
And then it happened.
The hooded man looked back for just a moment and, in doing so, tripped on something. What it was Harker couldn’t tell, but the man went flying face first down onto the street and disappeared from sight. With renewed vigour Harker ploughed ahead and he reached the same spot just as the hooded man was still scrambling to his feet, whereupon Harker slammed into him with the full momentum of his body, sending them both sprawling to the ground and ending up in a heap right next to the fountain.
Harker was the first to get back to his feet but his ankle buckled underneath him and, before he could recover his balance, the hooded man leapt at him and propelled them both over the low boundary wall and into the main trough of the fountain. Harker landed face down and before he could pull himself up he felt a tremendous weight pushing down on his back to keep him below the surface. After that short but energetic chase, Harker already needed another breath of air and the panic of possibly drowning now fuelled him as he managed to flip on to his back and raise his head up to gasp for oxygen.
Above him his assailant allowed him no quarter, but instead grabbed him by his lapels and thrust him back underneath the surface, while some sort of unintelligible mumbling issued from the man’s lips.
Back beneath the surface again, Harker stared with blurred vision and fought wildly against the rippling image of a hooded head hovering above him. The crazy thing was that the water itself was barely six inches deep, but this was all that was needed and digging his fingers hard into the man’s forearms had absolutely no effect. Harker’s lungs were now burning and then, as his strength began to weaken, the pressure around his neck suddenly eased, enabling him to propel himself upwards and suck in one of the most gratifying mouthfuls of air he had ever taken in his life.
Coughing and choking he still managed to look over and glimpse his hooded attacker sprinting off until he melted into the crowd, and out of sight.
His ankle aching painfully, Harker dragged himself shakily to his feet only to see a large man in an NYU sweatshirt moving rapidly towards him. He put up a hand and was about to say ‘Thanks, but I’m OK,’ when a voice from the crowd called out, ‘He’s a rapist. Stop him!’
Harker felt a solid punch catch him in the side of his head, then everything went black even before he hit the pavement.