Book of JUDAS

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

London

With the right connections and for the right price almost any information you wanted on a person residing in the UK could be discovered in London. Whether accessing police records, bank or credit card details or simply using the internet, there was always a host of person-specific data that could be uncovered.

In this case the records being sought belonged to two mobile phone companies and the subjects of the investigations were Simon and Philip Trenchard. The private investigation company had a long-established mole within their corporate structures who was more than happy to supply details on these anonymous names for a bit of extra cash.

Conchos had agreed to meet the private investigator in a public house called The Coal Hole on the same side of the Strand as the Savoy Hotel in Central London. It was early evening and the famous old pub was busy – it had been the rendezvous site for countless clandestine and romantic liaisons over the years. Both parties were punctual and the transaction didn’t take very long. He stood at the end of the bar drinking a pint of bitter to blend in with his surroundings although privately he detested alcohol. Wearing his brown leather jacket and reading a copy of The Times as agreed, he waited patiently for the man to arrive.

It wasn’t long before the private eye walked in, pushing his way through the dense mass of bodies to reach a standing place next to him at the crowded bar. He placed a half-folded newspaper on the bar and, pulling out a cigarette, he stretched over and asked Conchos for a light. A few seconds later the hired private eye left but this time he was several thousand pounds richer. After a reasonable length of time, Conchos nonchalantly drained his glass, picked up the newspaper and walked outside into the busy thoroughfare as the dusky evening light began to fade.

Passing Charing Cross Station, he marched towards the north end of Trafalgar Square accompanied by the sound of irate drivers beeping their car horns. The centre of London had lost the ability to cope with its traffic volumes years earlier and the “gridlock” congestion was now commonplace. He stepped through the throng of idling black cabs and entered the church of St. Martin in the Fields. Once inside, he walked down the aisle and sat in the third pew from the front of the altar. Lowering his head, he smiled to himself. It was the smug, manic grin of someone bordering on insanity. Here he was, the Satanica’s “brutal slayer”, used to carrying out macabre executions for the Zoroastrian High Priests, sitting shamelessly, blasphemously in a church pew challenging the very sanctity of the Christian religion.

In the other wooden pews around him sat a handful of local worshippers facing the altar while a youthful-looking member of the church’s clergy edged his way around the perimeter lighting the tall wax candles.

He opened the brown envelope and began to study the reports. The pages detailed all the phone calls made to and from Philip and Simon Trenchard’s mobile phones over the past few days since he had viciously murdered his latest victim − Professor Palanski.

He ran down the list and noted the location and number of the calls. There weren’t many and most of them were between the brothers themselves. He saw the calls from Basle and Athens and then picked up on the last call made by Philip to a number in Bangkok. He made a mental note that he would investigate this number in more detail a bit later on.

As he folded the sheet, his mind homed in on one interesting aspect of Philip’s mobile communication list. Why were there so many inbound calls from this same number in America? Who was it that was communicating so persistently with him? This aspect was puzzling. The information he had on the brothers was limited and put together at very short notice by the Satanica’s own researchers. Before he had set off to England, Conchos had been given a dossier that contained as much as they had on Simon and Philip Trenchard. Nothing signalled such a strong link with this residential number in New York. He knew it was not related to his firm’s office and the dossier confirmed that he was not married. Again, he made a mental note to investigate the number carefully – if he could establish any close ties or relationships they could be useful later on.

As he stood up to leave, the young clergyman stood at the end of his pew holding the long pole used to light the candles.

“Go in peace, brother,” he smiled as he saw the “worshipper” stand up in the pew – and then his expression crumpled as he stared into the executioner’s cold, emotionless face. Never before had he encountered such vindictive wickedness burning with so much intensity: the foreboding sense of death behind those callous eyes.

Cowering, he coughed and spluttered as the menacing Conchos covered the few steps towards him with terrifyingly silent speed. Sharply, he turned away and cast his eyes to the ground as he drew level, no longer able to bear that maniacal gaze. As he passed he felt a strange sensation that felt like a gust of pure and intoxicating evil whistling around him. Seconds later, he had passed, leaving the young cleric gasping to catch his breath.

Shaken, he leaned on the wooden pew as he turned to watch the back of the black figure exiting the church, his footsteps echoing loudly on the grey stone floor.