The Last Enemy(11)

‘Did it kill him?’ asked Guy.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Jake.

‘That would make a powerful weapon,’ said Guy thoughtfully. ‘I can see people paying for that.’

‘And for some of the other stuff. There are said to be cures for cancer, and other serious illnesses. Can you imagine how much the patents on those would be worth to a drug company!’

Guy nodded, and Jake could almost see the young earl’s mind calculating his new wealth.

‘And I own it,’ he murmured, awed.

Jake shook his head.

‘Whoever’s got the books owns them. And whoever has The Index . . .’

‘Knows where the books are hidden,’ finished Guy.

‘Exactly,’ said Jake.

Guy smiled and stretched back on the bench.

‘Jake, my friend, I think this unfortunate death of Mr Munro, leading to us being thrown in this cell together, could be the beginning of a whole new and very profitable partnership. Your knowledge of this business, and mine about our family and the library.’

‘I’m not in the hunt for the books for profit,’ said Jake.

‘Oh, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ said Guy. ‘Now, it could be jet lag, but my body thinks it’s about time I had some sleep.’ He looked at Jake and smiled again. ‘Wake me up if my solicitor arrives, will you.’





Chapter 4




Jake lay on the bunk in the cell, listening to Guy snoring. Without his watch or his mobile, he had no idea what the time was. There were no windows to the outside. The light behind the protective wire mesh in the ceiling had been turned down, but not switched off. The fact it had been turned down, so it didn’t glow so brightly, told Jake that it was night-time. But whether it was midnight, or two in the morning, he could only guess.

Jake’s thoughts turned to Alex Munro. Dead. Shot through the head, according to the police. He remembered his first meeting with Munro, when the solicitor had promised Jake everything — as much money as he wanted and Lauren’s freedom — if he would work with him and his law firm, Pierce Randall, to find the missing Malichea books.

Munro had been lying, of course. Munro always lied and schemed and double-crossed.

Was that what had happened? That Munro had double-crossed the wrong person? Because most of Pierce Randall’s clients were very dangerous people: as well as governments, they represented international gangsters, terrorists, dubious dictators. Any of those people wouldn’t think twice about having someone killed. But why Munro?

One thing was certain: whoever had done it had gone to some lengths to frame Jake for the murder. Which meant whoever it was knew about Jake and his interest in the books. So his instinct had been right: he had been under surveillance.

Jake’s thoughts flitted to the Watchers, the mysterious organisation set up way back in the fifteenth century to keep watch over the hidden books and protect them from being discovered. At first the Watchers had been cooks, servants, carpenters, stonemasons. Trusted tradespeople who’d worked at the abbey in Glastonbury. As time passed, the role of Watcher had been handed down from generation to generation. Parents to their children. Uncles and aunts to nieces and nephews. They were still ordinary people doing ordinary jobs — nurses, teachers, railway workers, taxi drivers, carpenters, journalists.

But peaceful, Jake murmured to himself. The Watchers’ creed was no violence, but to protect the books at all costs.

Of course, there had been renegades. Perhaps one with the skill and commitment to blow someone’s head off and frame someone else for it.

So many questions nagged at Jake. Why frame him now? Why kill Alex Munro? Where was Lauren? And where was Gareth, and why hadn’t he got Jake out of here!



Jake woke. There was a humming noise.

For a moment he was disorientated, couldn’t work out where he was. He was lying on something hard. And then, as he opened his eyes and saw the walls of the cell and smelt the disinfectant, he remembered.

He sat up, and saw Guy sitting on his bunk, smiling at him. It was Guy who’d been humming a tune.

‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ said Guy.

‘I’d hoped it had all been a dreadful dream,’ groaned Jake.

‘Afraid not,’ said Guy. ‘We’re still locked up.’ He sighed. ‘I wish I knew what time it was. My stomach tells me it’s breakfast, but I could still be working on Mexican time. Or it could be just that I haven’t eaten in ages. Aren’t they supposed to feed us? That’s one thing about the prisons in Latin America, you get fed. Mainly beans, but at least it’s food. I’m sure withholding food from us is a breach of our human rights, or something.’