Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

  ‘Here, put these on,’ he said, holding the manky earphones out, his eyes glued to Jon’s once again.

  Bollocks, Jon thought, glancing at the headset and imagining dead flakes of the other man’s skin embedded in the deteriorating foam. Robson thrust them a little closer, as if encouraging a reluctant animal to feed. Gingerly, Jon placed them over his ears.

  Robson pressed play and a sound like someone scraping an iron file across a guitar’s strings filled Jon’s head. A drum was struck again and again, before a mangled voice began to scream,

  ‘Kill, kill, kill!’

  Jon reached for the volume control and turned it down. ‘Jesus

  Christ. Is that meant to be a song?’

  ‘Please don’t blaspheme. They claim it is music.’

  Jon listened for a few moments longer. Nothing changed, except for the loudness. The same monotonous beat, the same tortured chant. He took the earphones off. ‘That’s awful, I agree, but what’s it got to do with these arson attacks?’

  ‘My son, Peter, disappeared four weeks ago. He was, until that time, the support guitar for Satan’s Inferno. Six months ago, he was playing in our church band. Then he went along to an organisation that claims to be a college. It teaches you how to commune with spirits, read tarot cards and predict the future, amongst other things.’

  ‘What’s this place called?’

  ‘The Psychic Academy. Here.’ He took out a small booklet which Jon could see was a prospectus. Robson began reading from the contents page. ‘The secrets of heart-centred healing. Clairvoyancy – connecting with the other side. Psychic powers

  – unlock yours. Tarot – learn the art. I could go on. In my opinion, this is nothing more than a front for an occult organisation, exposing people to forces they don’t know are dangerous until it’s too late.’

  Jon crossed his arms. ‘You’re losing me here. How does this Academy link to Satan’s Inferno?’

  ‘Peter met the singer from Satan’s Inferno on a course at The Psychic Academy.’ He tapped the photo. ‘This person is the new support guitarist. I fear my son may no longer be alive.’

  Jon sat back. He wouldn’t be getting out of here in a hurry.

  ‘You’ve reported him as a missing person?’ Robson nodded.

  ‘And how does this link to the arson attacks?’

  ‘May I quote you a passage from one of their songs?’

  In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Jon. ‘Go ahead.’ Robson unravelled the CD’s sleeve notes and started to read:

  The beast will be among us soon, The night shall be torn asunder,

  Let us light his way with burning spires, As the air cracks loud with thunder.

  ‘That sums up the message of Satan’s Inferno,’ Robson continued, lowering the cover. ‘They actively encourage people to destroy churches and embrace Satan.’

  Jon held out a hand and Robson passed him the photocopied piece of paper. The album was called Raging Spires and on the front an enormous demon towered over the skyline that Jon quickly recognised as Manchester’s. There was the dome of the central library, the gothic turrets of the town hall, the ugly edifice that was the Jarvis Piccadilly hotel. The horns from the creature’s head curled up into a night sky that was laced with forks of lightning. Flipping the poorly cut-out piece of paper over, Jon looked at the album’s lyrics. Though the words were slightly smudged, he could see an emphasis on the devil, death and destruction. ‘Nice,’ he murmured. ‘I take it this lot are still searching for a record deal?’

  ‘They play at plenty of venues around Manchester. And their following grows at a frightening pace. The ringleader is, without a shadow of a doubt, the singer. This one.’

  He produced another photo. It was of the band member wearing sunglasses. This time the shot was head on, though an out-of-focus shape in one corner made Jon suspect it had been taken from some distance, then blown up.

  The man appeared to be in his early twenties, straggly dark hair tied back, sideburns tapering into a thin line of stubble that ran along his jaw before connecting to a goatee. Jon squinted.

  ‘What’s that on his forehead?’

  ‘A tattoo. It’s an inverted cross, the sign of a devilworshipper.’

  ‘You’re serious? He’s had that tattooed on his forehead?’ Robson stared grimly back and Jon’s gaze returned to the photo. His dark looks and black leather waistcoat gave him a

  Latino air. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Serberos Tavovitch.’

  ‘That a stage name?’ Robson shrugged.

  ‘Where’s he from?’

  ‘He claims to be descended from Romanian gypsies. His soul is lost. He exudes profanity from every pore and he despises all that is decent and Christian. I have seen him drink blood on stage then pass it from his lips into the mouth of a female plucked from the audience. They decorate the stage with severed pigs’ heads. They are wicked.’

  ‘Well,’ Jon replied. ‘Health and safety may have something to say about that, but it’s not really my area of expertise. I’m more interested in your assertion that they’re burning churches. How can you prove that?’

  Robson pointed to the sleeve notes. ‘They confess to it here.’ Jon handed back the piece of paper and the photo. ‘I need more than that to take this further. Have you video footage of them near one of the churches that’s been attacked? A recording of them talking about setting one on fire? A letter or a note?’ Robson shook his head.

  Jon looked at the pile of documents. ‘What else have you got there?’

  ‘I’ve been tracking them. Dates of their concerts, what they do during the day. Which shops they visit.’

  ‘Are they aware of you doing this, Sir?’ He waved a hand. ‘Sometimes.’

  Christ, the guy’s a loony. ‘Do you know where they were on the night of each attack?’

  ‘Only the third one.’

  Jon looked up. ‘And where were they?’

  ‘Leeds. Playing a concert there. They stayed in a Travel Lodge in the city centre.’

  ‘On the night a church was burned down in Manchester, the entire band was in a hotel in Leeds?’

  ‘Yes. But one of their acolytes could have done it. They are legion, you should see the crowds at their concerts. They worship them, such is the band’s power.’

  Right, time to wrap this up, thought Jon. The guy’s got an obsession. ‘Thank you, Sir. I’ll look into it.’

  ‘Will you arrest them? Search their houses?’

  ‘Not at this stage of the investigation. I’d prefer to gather some evidence of my own first.’

  ‘Well, take my dossier. I have copies of everything. It will give you plenty to consider.’

  Jon accepted the stack of sheets. ‘Thanks. I’ll go over it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I get the time.’

  Robson just sat and stared. God, thought Jon, I need to get out of this room. He resorted to a tried and tested tactic. ‘If I could take your number, Sir. I’ll be in contact in due course.’

  Jon jotted it down and was putting his notebook back in his jacket when Robson said, ‘Do you have a card? The other officer had a card with a number on where I could reach him.’

  ‘Other officer?’

  ‘Inspector Mather. From the Trafford Division. Not that he returns my calls.’

  The bastards, Jon thought. They let me walk straight into this. He reluctantly held out a card as he stood. ‘Thanks for your help Mr Robson.’

  Robson reached for it, but latched on to Jon’s hand instead.

  ‘Will you pray with me, Detective?’

  Jon tried to pull free of his grip, but the man’s fingers dug in.

  ‘Sir, let go of my hand.’

  ‘You will not pray with me?’

  ‘I’m very busy.’ He saw something register in the other man’s eyes as Robson released his grip and took the card without a word.

  Once he’d shown him back to reception, Jon bounded up the stairs two at a time. He open
ed the door and knew immediately everyone was now in on the joke.

  ‘Has he converted you yet?’ Mather asked innocently. Chuckles broke out all round. ‘Yeah, yeah, good one you tosser. Christ, he’s a bit scary.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t use profane language like that in his presence?’ Buchanon said.

  The laughter picked up a level. Great, thought Jon. Even

  Buchanon’s managed to crack a joke at my expense.

  Still smiling, Inspector Mather said, ‘Did he ask for a card by the way?’

  ‘He didn’t give me much choice.’

  ‘Thank God for that, maybe he’ll stop ringing my number now.’

  More laughter.

  Jon sat down and placed Robson’s sheath of papers on his lap.

  ‘So what’s the score with his son? Has he really vanished?’

  ‘Has he, heck,’ Mather replied. ‘We made some enquiries following the father’s allegations that Satan’s Inferno were behind the arson attacks. It took us less than two hours to track down the missing son. He was kipping on the sofa of that Serberos fellow’s flat. Robson had left home, unable to take any more grief from his old man.’

  ‘Was kipping there?’

  ‘According to Mr Robson, his son is no longer at that address.’

  ‘So when was the last time anyone saw him?’

  Mather lifted his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know. Around three weeks. He’ll be hiding from his dad, and I don’t blame him.’

  ‘True. Does the dad work for the church or something?’ Jon asked.

  ‘No. He’s in charge of all the machines at a printing company near Urmston.’

  ‘But manages to combine it with a good bit of Biblebashing.’

  ‘Absolutely, real fire and brimstone. Evangelical, I think. The world’s about to end and only true Christians will be plucked from the face of the earth and levitated up to a life of bliss in heaven. The rest of us get dragged down into the pits of hell for an eternity of torment.’

  Jon thought about how his mum had fallen out with Ellie.

  ‘His son joining Satan’s Inferno didn’t go down too well.’

  The team from Trafford nodded their assent. ‘His dad tried to take a belt to him on several occasions. The local nick attended more than one disturbance at the family home. The son refused to press charges each time.’

  ‘Where’s the mum?’

  ‘Committed suicide about six years ago. Small surprise, being married to that nutter. The lead singer of the band is also taking out a restraining order on Mr Robson. Repeated harassment, emails, phone calls. He’s barred from all their gigs too, after he climbed on stage and threw holy water over an amp.’

  Jon opened his notebook. ‘Shall I just tear out his details now?’

  Mather laughed. ‘Keep them. I don’t think that’s the last you’ll hear from Mr Robson.’

  ‘Right, back to business,’ Buchanon cut in. ‘I want door-todoors on the neighbourhood of the Sacred Heart. DCS Gardiner and Adlon, can you take another statement from Father Waters? Cover last night’s entry, the incident from the eleventh and the assault DI Spicer mentioned. The rest of you—’

  Someone’s mobile began to ring.

  ‘If it’s a Mr Robson, I’m out,’ Jon stated.

  Frowning with irritation, Buchanan fished his phone out of his jacket. ‘Buchanon here.’ His face grew more serious. ‘No sign of ID? OK, clear the scene until we get there.’ He snapped his phone shut. ‘We’ll be needing a forensic pathologist. A badly charred body has just been found inside the Sacred Heart.’

  Chapter 6

  The mini crane stood motionless, its arm leaning over the side wall of the church. Jon looked at it, thinking how much these towering pieces of machinery had become a part of Manchester’s landscape over the past decade.

  As soon as one part of the city centre had been revamped, work seemed to shift immediately to another. He’d walked out of the Printworks the other week to be confronted by a colossal building site directly opposite. He’d racked his brain trying to remember what had been there before. The arse-end of the grotesque Arndale Centre? Probably. Things changed so fast it was hard to keep up. Now, according to the posters on the hoardings, it was going to be a massive Next.

  They’d skirted round the perimeter to Shudehill tram stop. Behind it was another enormous building site on what used to be waste ground. Soon the city would have a gleaming new bus terminal and multi-storey car park right on that spot. But for now it was just a cluster of cranes. Each one was lowering vats of concrete down to workmen who waited by the side of canyon-like foundations. He watched the men, catching fragments of the unfamiliar languages they spoke. A century ago it had been generations of his family who had helped build Manchester up into an industrial giant. Now those Irish navvies had been replaced by workers from Poland, Romania and other countries from eastern Europe.

  Jon turned to the remaining fire crew, now all relegated to the outer cordon. A lady from a nearby house was walking over to them, carrying a tray laden with mugs. They gathered round her and she beamed with pleasure at their grateful smiles.

  Nikki was over by the crime scene caravan where a forensics officer was pointing at a row of nylon bags, the necks of which were tightly closed with plastic ties. Jon knew each would contain samples from inside the church along with a quantity of air. This would allow forensics to gently warm up the bags back at the lab, then draw off a sample of the vapours inside. Gas chromatography would quickly identify whether the type of accelerant used to light the fire matched the one used to burn down the other churches.

  Buchanon was tapping his foot. ‘Come on, come on,’ he murmured to himself.

  Finally Webster appeared through the side entrance of the church, its door now reduced to ash. He walked back along the line of footplates to where they waited. ‘OK, the pathologist is next to the body. We can get to within twelve feet of him on these footplates. Hard hats on please.’

  Jon glanced down at his white oversuit and heavy-duty rubber boots. Buchanan gave him a pained look as he donned his helmet. Jon imagined the kinks in the man’s hair fighting to resist being squashed down. Slipping his own on, he stepped back to trail Buchanon as he followed Webster through the graveyard, blackened roof slates and charred beams now neatly piled at its edge.

  As they got nearer the church the familiar sharp smell got stronger. Jon examined the walls. Big chunks of stone. No way they were about to fall down. Footplates formed stepping stones through a puddle in the porch. They moved into the ruined interior and surveyed the scene. A roof timber had crashed down on to the pulpit, breaking off the lectern. The left-hand side of the church still waist deep in debris. The remains of the roof – a sodden layer of tiles, slats and sooty plaster – lay over the few pews that had survived the blaze.

  The FIO led them along the uneven walkway stretching down the aisle. Ahead was a crouching figure, his white oversuit and hood contrasting with the grim landscape. Poking out of the mound of ash before him was a pair of blackened legs, little more than bone.

  ‘I’d say the point of origin is right where the pathologist is.’

  Webster stated. ‘See the burn pattern on the wall?’

  Jon looked for the V-shaped smear of soot the dumpy woman had described back at the station.

  Webster pointed. ‘Just above the layer of debris can you see a clean patch of stone work?’

  Jon nodded. Curiously, there was a spot at the base of the V that appeared to be free of any smoke damage.

  ‘That’s what we call a clean burn. It’s where the fire was at its fiercest, the high temperatures burning away all the soot laid down by the fire in its earlier stages. Chances are that’s where it started.’ He gestured across the aisle. ‘The door to the vestry has been forced open judging by the damage to the lock. Usual routine – choir surplices, priest’s robes, hymn books, all dragged out. They’ve smashed up several pews as well, then piled everything up against the side wall. There were wooden panels lini
ng it, so they knew the flames would travel up to the timber roof relatively quickly.’

  Buchanon’s gaze was on the pathologist. ‘So, effectively, it was a pyre – if that’s where the body was.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Webster replied.

  Jon’s boss gave a cough. ‘DCI Buchanon, SIO.’

  The forensic pathologist looked over his shoulder, face concealed by his mask. ‘Doctor Richard Milton.’

  ‘Can you see if it’s a male or female?’ Buchanon asked.

  ‘Not at this stage, it’s too badly charred, and the pelvis appears to have been crushed by falling debris. However, it’s face down and lying directly on the floor, so the chest area may well be relatively unscathed. Once it’s lifted I can look for evidence of breasts. There may be items of jewellery under there too. A necklace or pendant if we’re lucky.’

  ‘DNA?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Certainly. Complete destruction of a body requires temperatures in excess of a thousand degrees Celsius.’ He paused.

  ‘Portions of pelvic bone and dentition even survive the crematorium furnace.’

  Jon wanted to roll his eyes. Typical pathologist. They loved giving out details like that.

  The other man looked back down. ‘Even in a body as badly burned as this, I imagine there’ll be some liquid blood and relatively undamaged internal organs.’

  Buchanon glanced around. ‘So our arsonists entered in the usual way, only this time they leave their car jack and a body behind. Why?’ He glanced at the altar with its gouges and chips.

  ‘Sacrifice, or something that went wrong?’

  Jon looked at the window frame and its bent grille. The sill was a good five feet high. ‘If it was a sacrifice, how do you persuade your victim to quietly climb through a gap like that?’

  ‘Maybe he was sedated,’ Buchanon replied.

  ‘Or maybe the person wasn’t aware they were going to be the victim at all. Someone they’d picked out and set up. They could have been attacked once they were inside the building.’

  Buchanon addressed the pathologist. ‘Any sign of trauma to the head?’

  The other man craned his neck forward. ‘Oh yes.’