Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

‘Out! This is private . . .’

  He found Jon’s warrant card inches from his face. ‘I need a word with the band members.’

  ‘They’re on stage in quarter of an hour. They’re getting ready.’

  Jon extended an arm and began opening the door. ‘Best not keep them then.’

  The small room was thick with marijuana smoke. A fulllength mirror was on one wall, light bulbs mounted in its frame. In front of it Serberos Tavovitch was tying his hair back in a ponytail, a joint hanging from his mouth. Jon saw the inverted cross tattooed on his forehead. I can’t believe he’s done that.

  Round a table were four other people. Jon recognised the drummer and the support guitarist. A bottle of Jack Daniels stood in the table’s centre. They all stared at him in silence. Screwed into the wall behind them a speaker relayed the noise coming from within the club. It sounded far busier than it actually was.

  Jon heard the staff member begin to speak in the doorway behind him. ‘Guys, I’m sorry. He wouldn’t listen—’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Serberos interrupted, still regarding his own reflection. His voice was surprisingly deep, but there was no trace of a foreign accent in it. Jon was almost surprised to hear him coming out with an actual sentence. He’d half expected him to start speaking in tongues.

  ‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’

  No one spoke. Jon saw Serberos slowly raise his hand and move the joint out of sight.

  ‘Just put it out while I’m in here,’ Jon said, shifting a guitar case off a chair and sitting down. ‘I appreciate you’re about to perform, so I’ll be quick. What can you tell me about Peter Robson?’

  The other band members immediately turned to Serberos. The leader, Jon thought, watching as he carefully tamped down the end of the joint against the heel of a pointed leather boot.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Serberos, now adjusting the cuffs of his flowing black shirt.

  Jon couldn’t take his eyes off the inverted cross. As statements go, you didn’t get more extreme than that. ‘I gather he’s been staying at your house. He still there?’

  Serberos shook his head. ‘He left a fortnight or so ago.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  We, Jon thought. You speak for everyone in the band, do you? He looked at the table. The drummer, Padmore, was keeping his eyes down, the support guitarist, Turnbull, looked like a frightened school kid. Jon studied the other two men.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We work here,’ one replied, dragging himself upright, pupils heavily dilated. ‘Front of stage security.’

  What a joke, Jon thought, doubtful they’d be able to stop a determined five-year-old, the state they were in. His stare returned to the two band members. ‘Either of you two seen him?’

  The drummer shook his head.

  ‘You?’ Jon asked the guitarist.

  ‘I’ve never met him,’ he replied, speaking too fast. ‘I joined the group after Pete left.’

  Jon made a mental note. He was the weak link, no doubt of that.

  ‘Alec joined us two weeks ago,’ Serberos said, ‘when it was obvious Pete was out of it.’

  ‘Out of it?’

  ‘This,’ Serberos looked about. ‘Gigging.’

  ‘Why’d he give up?’

  Serberos pushed his bottom lip up and held it there. Somehow the expression didn’t seem British. Mediterranean, Transylvanian, something foreign. ‘Trouble at home. Hassle from that crazy fucking dad he’s got.’

  ‘Henry Robson?’

  ‘That’s him,’ Serberos answered. ‘Head case.’

  ‘A colleague informs me you’re taking out a restraining order against him.’

  ‘Too right. We’ve had to ban him from our gigs. He should be inside.’

  ‘What was going on with him and Peter?’

  ‘He didn’t want Pete playing with us. He was doing Pete’s head in, constantly going on at him with his God and damnation stuff. Pete couldn’t handle it.’

  ‘How did you meet Peter Robson?’

  ‘We were both on this lame course. Started chatting about music and it went from there.’

  ‘What was this course?’

  ‘Some tarot-reading bullshit. At a shit heap called the Psychic

  Academy. I thought it would be a laugh.’

  That place, Jon thought, he’d be paying it a visit. ‘So he came to live with you.’

  ‘For a bit. We had his old man camped outside my house and Pete was losing it big time. Couldn’t rehearse. One day he just disappeared.’

  Jon thought of the body in the church. Hopefully by tomorrow they’d have a DNA match off the national database. ‘If he shows up can you get him to call me?’

  He flicked a card on to the table, pretty certain it would end up as roach material in the next joint.

  Back in the main part of the club he saw things were a lot busier. Several groups had emerged from the shadows to stand in front of the stage, and there was raucous laughter as a lad stumbled across the dance floor, thin legs struggling to hold him up. Jon reclaimed his corner and ordered another pint. Ten minutes, he thought. Just see if they’ve actually got any talent.

  The music slowly died down and was replaced by a single funereal organ note as smoke began to swirl across the stage. A laser was switched on at the back of the club, its wafer-thin layer of luminous green bisecting the dance floor at shoulder height. People began to whistle and more bodies started to appear from the alcoves.

  The side door opened and the three band members trotted up the stage steps. Padmore headed straight for the back and Turnbull kept to the edge, allowing Serberos centre spot. A beam of light bore down on him as he slid up to the microphone. ‘Greetings.’

  The crowd erupted in response and Serberos swelled at the applause. His right fingers ready on his guitar, he held a hand over the crowd and drew an upside down cross in the air. ‘Time to worship.’

  The barrage of sound was immediate. The crowd began to leap up and down, tossing their long hair about as Serberos strutted the stage, tensing his knees to bellow out lyrics distorted beyond comprehension by the amplifier’s volume. Frequently his left hand went to his open shirt, his fingers caressing his nipples. The first song ended on a long scream and the drum immediately started again, this time even faster. Towards the end of it the drummer went into a frenzied solo and Serberos just stood there swaying, as if in a trance. Jon suddenly realised his eyes had been fixed on him since the music began. Jesus, the guy certainly had stage presence.

  The third song launched on the back of the second and Jon continued to stare as Serberos tensed in a crouch, microphone held close to his lips. His body language was lascivious, heavy with suggestion.

  ‘See how it tempts them?’

  The comment had been yelled in his ear by a man wearing a black T-shirt and sunglasses. Jon turned back to the stage but the man tugged at his sleeve. He removed his mirror shades. Jon immediately recognised the manic stare. Jesus fucking Christ, it was Henry Robson in disguise.

  He pushed back a long black fringe. ‘I wear this because they don’t want witnesses who are hostile to their cause. I’m surprised you’ve been permitted to stay.’

  Jon was nonplussed. Serberos’ words echoed in his head. The bloke should be inside. Jon could see his point. ‘Aren’t you banned from their gigs?’

  Robson nodded.

  ‘And isn’t there a restraining order against you?’

  Robson looked annoyed. ‘That hasn’t been formally served.’

  ‘But Serberos has applied for one?’

  ‘So I’m led to believe. Will you be arresting them soon?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘I’m still conducting my investigation. Mr Robson, you didn’t tell me about the incidents with your son.’ The comment finally broke Robson’s stare and his eyes dropped down. ‘His soul was in mortal danger.’

  The guy was standing too close. Jon leaned back on his barstool. ‘Did
an officer contact you for a DNA swab?’

  ‘They did. It’s my son’s body in that church DI Spicer, I know it. And the monster up there is responsible.’

  Jon’s eyes turned to Serberos who was now kneeling at the front of the stage. He drank from what looked like a ram’s horn, then let the dark liquid trickle from his mouth over the upturned face of a female fan. Jon could see Robson’s frame was shaking as he opened his mouth. ‘Such depravity.’

  Jon finished his pint and got off his barstool. ‘It’s probably blackcurrant squash. The pig heads aren’t real either.’

  The muscles in Robson’s jaw bulged out.

  ‘Just don’t do anything stupid Mr Robson. I’ll be in touch.’

  As he left the maelstrom of sound behind him Jon decided on a new priority. Henry Robson was an individual who they should be watching very closely.

  He slid over the low wall and dropped into the graveyard beyond. The grass was long and slightly damp. Crawling towards the nearest headstone, he felt the ground rise slightly beneath him. As he squatted on the grave he pictured the mouldering remains just six foot beneath. Would the person’s clothes have rotted away by now? Had the skin shrunk on the head, leaving a mouth that gaped up at the eternal blackness above? What could those empty sockets actually see?

  Peeping over the marble, he looked at the remains of the church, lit brightly by rows of arc lamps. Somewhere out of sight generator engines idled. Seeing it like that – gutted by fire, ravaged by heat – pleased him.

  He wanted to look through the empty window frames, allow his eyes to linger on the ruined interior. The house of God, burnt to a crisp. Where was the Almighty’s power now? He gazed up at the sky. You’re impotent up there, aren’t you? Unable to stop anything happening to you or your precious flock.

  He ran a hand over the gravestone, felt the grooves on its surface. Letters, numbers, probably a prayer. Whatever it said, it meant nothing. An exercise in futility.

  He moved round the outer edge of the graveyard, keeping a careful watch for any police. There was one, sitting in his caravan. The man was oblivious to what moved beyond his windows.

  The vicarage lay in darkness. He cut between the graves and reached the wall that led into its garden. More confident now, he vaulted over, feet crushing a plant on the other side. The lawn was cut short and pleasant to jog across. At the living room window, he paused, trying to look in, but closed curtains blocked his view. Was he upstairs? He moved to the corner of the house, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path. The side door was locked. By shaking it, he could tell that it was only secured by a Yale halfway up. At the front of the house he tried the main door. Locked and, by the feel of it, bolted at the top and bottom.

  That made the side door his best bet of getting in. He walked back round, crouched down and began to turn the handle again. Torchlight suddenly illuminated the panels before him.

  ‘Stay right where you are!’

  The voice was behind him, by the caravan. Not looking back, he sprinted across the garden and dived over the graveyard wall. Rolling on the other side, he jarred his back against an ungiving monument. His hand brushed something cold and metallic. Water sloshed over his fingers. He ripped the flowers from the vase and got ready to hurl it towards the shrubs at the bottom of the vicarage garden. But the torchlight was bouncing along in that direction. Bent double, he scurried to the outer wall of the graveyard, slid back over it and fled down a side street.

  Chapter 9

  As Jon jogged round Heaton Moor golf course his stride seemed to be in perfect time to the drumbeat of a Satan’s Inferno song. Alongside the monotonous pounding, three words repeated over and over. Dave and Ellie. Dave and Ellie. He searched his mind for something powerful enough to distract him and settled on his daughter’s face.

  She’d been sleeping through now for almost a month. When it had finally happened Jon realised that an uninterrupted night was among life’s finest pleasures, ranking easily with winning at rugby, watching a good video with Alice or spending a night in the pub. Jesus, I’m getting old, he said to himself.

  Punch bounded out from behind a patch of gorse bushes, his coat glistening with early morning dew. The animal’s sudden reappearance snapped Jon’s mind back to the Monster of the Moor case. The sound he and Nikki had heard that night up on Saddleworth. A shudder ran through him and the loop from the Satan’s Inferno song finally dropped from his brain.

  Jon glanced to the fir trees on his left, deliberately looking at the dawn sun as it glinted between the branches, trying to sear so much from his mind. Punch lolloped up to him, tongue hanging from his mouth. ‘Come on boy,’ Jon said, cutting across the damp grass towards Peel Mount. ‘I need to be at work.’

  He dressed in silence, Alice watching him from the bed, their sleeping daughter in her arms.

  His eyes kept going to the bedside clock. Seven-thirty-six. That was good, he’d be in the office well before eight.

  As he pulled a tie from the collection dangling from a coat hanger in the wardrobe, his wife finally spoke. ‘You haven’t asked after Ellie.’

  He focused on the thin length of silk. Cross it over, round the back, up, then down through the loop.

  ‘Jon, are you listening?’

  ‘She got home OK then?’

  ‘Yes. She left about five minutes after you did. Said she wanted to be alone.’

  He nodded, tightening the knot and then glancing in the mirror to check it was straight.

  ‘How do you feel about what she said?’

  He tried to swallow, but a lump had suddenly risen in his throat. Do something. You need to do something. Quickly, he skirted round the bed and retrieved his mobile from next to the alarm clock.

  ‘Jon, talk to me, will you? How do you—’

  He held a finger to his lips and then pointed at Holly. ‘You’ll wake her up at this rate. We can chat later.’ He hurried from the room, anxious to be clear of her questions.

  The incident room was busy, and after turning his computer on he headed for the kettle in the corner. He didn’t know if the decision to get rid of the coffee machine in the corridor was a good one: all the clean cups on the brew table had already gone and he peered into the ones that were left, picking out the least dirty.

  He spooned in granules from the large tin of Nescafe, filled his cup and walked over to his desk.

  ‘OK everyone, gather round.’

  Buchanon’s voice. Time for the morning meeting. Without sitting down, Jon wheeled his chair over to the centre table, next to Rick who was already there. ‘All right mate?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ Rick replied, eying Jon’s greasy looking coffee with distaste.

  Jon grinned, knowing how, if Rick had his way, a miniature

  Starbucks would be operating in the corner of the room.

  ‘First things first,’ Buchanon announced. ‘There was an attempted break-in at the vicarage of the Sacred Heart church. It happened at two-forty last night.’

  Jon lowered his cup. ‘Was the priest there?’

  Buchanon shook his head. ‘The hospital had kept him in for observation. According to the uniform at the scene, it was a lone male trying to gain entry into the house. The officer came out from the crime scene unit, heard footsteps on the gravel by the house and spotted a figure lurking by the side door of the vicarage. His torch lit up the person, but he was dressed entirely in dark clothes, including a wool-type cap. Ignoring an instruction to remain where he was, the person sprinted into the back garden and escaped. The uniform put the person down as a young male, dark hair, about six foot tall. More than that, he can’t say.’

  ‘Nothing left at the scene?’ Someone asked.

  ‘No,’ Buchanon replied. ‘Forensics will dust the side door for prints. This could be linked to the earlier attempts on the church which’ – he glanced at Jon – ‘was filed under attempted B and E. Or it could be some local lad trying his luck, knowing the vicarage is unoccupied.’

  Jon sat back. Bucha
non had a point. Someone had broken into the priest’s car as well. Did it indicate a concerted campaign against the man?

  ‘A person from the Bishop’s Office for the Pastoral Support of Clergy was in contact yesterday. Full title, the Reverend Manager Canon Maurice Kelly. He was checking that it’s OK if Father Waters is allowed to travel to a monastic retreat in Salamanca. A bit of rest and recuperation. The hospice have confirmed to DC Gardiner that Father Waters was there during the night of the arson attack, so I don’t see a problem with him going. Does anyone else?’

  Jon’s finger tapped on his armrest. The priest deserved a holiday, no doubt about that, but if someone was specifically targeting him, they needed to know why. ‘Will he be contactable at this retreat?’

  ‘Yes,’ Buchanon nodded. ‘By phone.’

  Jon shrugged. Maybe the man would be safer out of the country until they’d cleared this mess up.

  ‘OK,’ Buchanon announced. ‘Next is the progress report from the crime scene itself. The corpse has gone to the MRI for an autopsy.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m hoping to get that tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, the fire investigation officer has continued with the church excavation. All the tiles and roof timbers have now been removed and they’re concentrating on clearing the right-hand side of the aisle around where the corpse was discovered. All debris is being sieved and magnets are being run over it. Webster hopes to have that side of the church completely cleared by tomorrow afternoon. That will enable forensics to focus on the point of origin.’

  Buchanon stood up and turned to the board behind him. Photos of all four churches attacked so far covered it. ‘As mentioned yesterday, each incident follows the same MO. Side window forced back by means of a car jack. The arsonist – or arsonists – then vandalise the church, including spray-painting the walls.’ He tapped several photos of symbols and strange letters. Greek, Cyrillic or Arabic, Jon had no idea what. The five-pointed star, and simple diagrams – representations of the planets and their trajectories perhaps.

  ‘The graffiti has been studied by an officer at the Met who worked on a similar case last year. He confirmed these are all things associated with Satanic rituals, but used in a fairly random way. The work of amateurs or kids, in his opinion.’