SEATED ON THE SOFA in the spacious living room, the priest once again described Hawkings's death. Afterward, he was thoroughly questioned by the journalist, who intended to squeeze every last detail out of him. When the interrogation was finally over, Saul rose from his armchair and said:
— It isn't polite to leave a guest alone, but under the circumstances, I hope you'll forgive me and accept my invitation to dinner as soon as I finish my work.
— Don't worry. Do what you have to do.
— Would you like a glass of Port wine?
— I love that style of wine — Raphaniè replied, forcing a smile.
— I think you'll enjoy this one — Saul said as he opened a wooden cabinet and removed a bottle of Quinta do Noval Vintage 1955 from a built-in wine cellar.
He placed it on a small table before sliding open the glass door of the lower compartment and taking out two small crystal glasses.
— Will you join me? — the priest asked.
— Just for the toast. I'll need some inspiration while I write the article — the journalist replied, uncorking the bottle and filling both glasses.
— We all need that right now.
— To the success of the mission — Saul said first, handing one of the glasses to the Italian.
— May God help us — Raphaniè added.
— I have no doubt He will. After all, we're on His side — Saul replied with a smile. — I'll leave the bottle here. Help yourself, and if you need anything, just call me.
— You're leaving me in excellent company — Raphaniè joked, relaxing into the sofa.
— If you'd like, I can call Meggie and ask her to send over a massage therapist.
Raphaniè gave him an unfriendly look.
— Just kidding, Father. A hot head and a cold heart won't help anyone solve problems.
AS SOON AS HE ENTERED HIS OFFICE, Saul closed the door and turned on his computer.
— I need to speak with Mikhail — he muttered to himself as he picked up his phone and searched for the number of his contact at Scotland Yard.
The agent had supplied him with confidential information about the serial murders and had become his secret contact within Scotland Yard. Saul often referred to him as "the only trustworthy investigator in a den of wolves." That was why they had adopted code names, so that if their calls were intercepted, their real identities would remain concealed.
Seated before his computer, Saul dialed the investigator's number and hung up after the fourth ring. Moments later, the agent called back from a device that could not be traced by Scotland Yard. As soon as Saul answered, the voice on the other end warned him:
"... This investigation is classified..." the man said, his voice disguised through an application to conceal his identity.
— I just interviewed a witness. He entered the restroom shortly after the murder — the journalist revealed.
"... A priest. His name is Raphaniè Marin, and he's staying at L'oscar London under a false identity: Italo Mannieri. He was sharing the table with you at the stadium. Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say?... "
— As well informed as ever. But leave him out of this. He simply had the bad luck of crossing paths with Baruch Hawkings shortly before the murder — Saul defended him.
"... Then he was the last person to see him alive..." the agent continued.
— What happened?
"... Officially, he slipped on his own urine and hit his head against the sink. A tragicomic end for a pathetic man..."
— No suspects?
"... No suspects..."
— Just an accident?
"... That will be the conclusion of the forensic reports..." the investigator insisted.
— And the real version?
"... You know they always cover things up whenever that crowd is involved..."
— But I'm sure they'll conduct a parallel investigation. If they uncover the truth, they can always keep it as a trump card.
"... The case will be handled by the SID..."
— A supernatural crime? — Saul asked in surprise.
"... His neck wasn't twisted by the fall. Someone incredibly strong broke it..."
— Then why was the SID assigned to investigate a crime committed by someone incredibly strong? — the journalist pressed, emphasizing the last three words.
"... Two burns. One on his back and another on his chest, directly over the heart. His internal organs were torn apart. It looks as though he was pierced by an incandescent blade. I've never seen anything like it..." the agent explained.
— Anything else?
"... Nothing worth mentioning..."
— I'm writing an article about Hawkings's death. May I include what you've told me?
"... As long as you don't reveal the source..."
— As always. No one needs to know you're Mikhail — Saul concluded.
WITHOUT HESITATION, the journalist called Francis Bishop. The newspaper's editor answered on the first ring.
— I've got a scoop, Francis.
"... About Jessyca Volpi?... "
— Even better.
"... What could possibly be better than a visit from the most desired woman in the world?... "
— A murder inside the restroom at Wimbledon Greyhound Stadium.
"... Who was killed?... "
— Baruch Hawkings.
"... Tell me it's the same Hawkings I'm thinking of..."
— Obviously. Scotland Yard will claim he died in an accident after slipping on his own urine, but I have an eyewitness and an off-the-record statement from an investigator proving otherwise.
"... What happened?... "
— The Supernatural Investigation Department—the branch of Scotland Yard that investigates unusual crimes—has taken over the case.
"... Fantastic! Send me the article as quickly as possible. I'm changing tomorrow's front page. We'll sell copies like water in the desert..."
— It'll be in your inbox within fifteen minutes. Goodbye.
Saul ended the call, picked up his glass of Port, and took a sip.
He closed his eyes, savoring the layers of flavor as they spread across his palate.
Delicious inspiration... he thought, turning back to the computer screen.
SEVEN MINUTES LATER, the article on Baruch Hawkings's murder was finished. It took him another three minutes to revise it and email it to Francis.
He finished the wine and took a deep breath. He needed to relax before facing the priest again.
His phone rang.
He frowned when he recognized the number. Ever since his falling-out with his father two years earlier, his mother had always called him secretly from her own cell phone. But the number displayed on the screen belonged to the main line of the mansion at The Holme, where his family usually spent their weekends.
That can't be... he thought, hesitating before answering.
— Something terrible must have happened — he concluded aloud as he accepted the call.
"... My son..."
It was his mother's voice, almost inaudible. She was clearly emotional, struggling to keep herself from crying.
THE CALL CAUGHT HIM COMPLETELY OFF GUARD. Saul waited until his mother had calmed down before asking:
— What happened, Mom?
"... I've waited so long for this, my son..." she confessed.
— Then tell me, Mom. I need to finish an important assignment.
"... Your father wants to speak with you..."
— I know that's what you want, Mom, but we have nothing to talk about — Saul replied bitterly.
"... Do it for me, son..." she pleaded.
— Have you forgotten that he publicly disowned me and already gave away my share of the inheritance? We have nothing left to discuss.
"... He made a mistake and wants to explain himself..."
— What made him change his mind? — Saul asked, a faint smile crossing his face.
"... He'll explain it himself..."
— I'm not meeting him unless I know what changed his mind — Saul insisted.
"... Baruch's death..." his mother finally admitted.
— One of his little friends whom I exposed.
"... Can you come here tomorrow?... "
— I don't have many good memories of that place.
"... Your father wants to talk during his morning walk..."
— I have to work tomorrow — Saul replied evasively, drumming the fingers of his right hand against the desk.
"... Are you working all day?... "
Saul remained silent for several seconds. The top model's flight was scheduled to arrive at two o'clock in the afternoon. He wouldn't be working before one.
— Starting at noon, Mom — he answered reluctantly.
"... Then we can have breakfast together, and afterward you can talk to your father. What do you think?... "
— All right. I'll be there at eight. See you tomorrow.
AFTER HANGING UP, Saul took a deep breath. He didn't feel ready to face his father, nor could he imagine what Hawkings's murder had to do with his sudden change of heart.
Unless he's being... he was thinking when a loud crash echoed through the living room.
— Damn! What happened? — he asked himself, rushing toward the noise.
He found the priest lying on the floor.