Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

  ‘Amateurs hardly sacrifice people,’ someone sitting to Buchanon’s side murmured.

  The SIO paused. ‘True. But it’s not yet been confirmed the victim was killed as part of some black magic ceremony. The Met officer thought if that was the case, the victim would more likely have been left on the altar. He also says the victim would probably have been drugged, in order to be bled while still alive. The victim’s blood, it seems, is often an essential part of a Satanic sacrifice. The pathologist has been instructed to look for lacerations to the throat or wrists. A blood sample has already gone to toxicology.’

  He glanced at the display once again. ‘Now, going back to the incidents themselves. Samples from the first three scenes confirm petrol was used to soak the combustible material. Scorch marks on the floor then indicate a trail was laid back to the broken window. It was probably lit with a cigarette lighter, given the absence of any match remains recovered so far.’

  ‘They can find a charred match in all that mess?’ asked Rick. Buchanon nodded. ‘The lower levels of debris are swept away by officers using paint brushes. Not much escapes their attention. So, until we get an ID off the corpse, we’ll continue with door-to-doors at each scene. Jon, you were looking at that band, what was it? Devil’s something?’

  ‘Satan’s Inferno. Yes, I went over the dossier handed in to me by Henry Robson. I also went to a gig they were playing last night in a venue called Diabolic.’

  ‘And how was it – diabolical?’ Buchanon smiled at his own joke, earning a few obsequious laughs at the same time.

  ‘Well, it was just a load of shouting to me,’ Jon replied, ‘but so were the Sex Pistols to my mum and dad. Didn’t stop me thinking they were great though. Maybe this style of music will get bigger, everyone there was loving it.’

  ‘What sort of crowd is it?’ Buchanon asked.

  ‘A load of sullen spotty Goths. The ones who’d managed to get a girlfriend all looked like they were planning suicide pacts together. What’s his name, Marilyn Manson? You’re about there with his look.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Buchanon muttered. ‘I pray to God that stuff is long gone before my daughter hits her teens. And the lyrics – you’d describe them as inflammatory? Pardon the pun.’

  Jon returned to his desk and opened Robson’s dossier. ‘I’ll spare you the actual music,’ he said, removing the CD. ‘But this verse is worth hearing.’ He read aloud the extract Robson had pointed out.

  ‘That’s a blatant instruction to burn down churches,’ Buchanon said, outrage in his voice. ‘They might not be attacking these churches in person, but they’re encouraging others to do it.’

  Let’s see that stand up in court, Jon thought. ‘I reckon it’s just teenage angst, dressed up in black. Kids have always gone on about rebelling. They don’t do much about it though, other than smashing up the odd phone box.’

  ‘They did a bit more than that in Columbine,’ Rick said. Buchanon crossed his arms. ‘And if the body found yesterday was that of Peter Robson?’

  ‘We haul them in for some proper questioning,’ Jon said.

  ‘But they claim not to have seen him for a fortnight.’

  ‘What else did they say about their missing band member?’

  ‘He was scared of his dad. I have to admit, Henry Robson is a worrying man. He was at the gig last night, wearing a disguise.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Trafford Division mentioned that he’s banned from seeing Satan’s Inferno in person. He was in there though, wearing a black wig and sunglasses. Observing.’

  ‘As long as that’s all he does.’

  ‘It’s more his attitude that worries me. He has this assumption he’s right, and takes it totally for granted we’ll be on his side. The way he came up to me in the gig and revealed himself, it’s like he thinks we’re battling the forces of evil together. People like that believed they’re justified in doing anything.’

  Buchanon considered the comment for a moment. ‘Any other

  Satanic stuff from his dossier?’

  ‘Some,’ Jon replied, thinking of the Psychic Academy and the New Age shop on Oldham Street. ‘I wouldn’t mind looking into the whole occult thing a bit more. There are a couple of places where Rick and I could start.’

  ‘Fine,’ Buchanon replied. ‘Let’s meet again at four-thirty.’

  ‘Ticketless booking system nowadays.’ Canon Maurice Kelly extended the print-out from bmi baby.

  Father Waters took the sheet of paper, struggling to keep it steady in his hands. ‘Thank you so much,’ he replied. ‘You don’t know how much this means to me.’

  ‘Nothing more than you deserve. Now, why not let me drive you to the airport? It will cost a fortune to park your car there for the next month.’

  Waters looked at his Volvo, the back window of which had now been replaced. Standing on the tarmac next to it was a single brown leather suitcase. ‘If you’re sure.’ He turned to the remains of his church. ‘And Gerald at Our Lady is happy to welcome my congregation in? You’ll get word to them that they’re expected?’

  ‘It’s already happening. The lady who organises the coffee mornings was most helpful.’

  ‘Agnes. Yes, she is.’

  ‘And I’ll place an announcement on the notice board at the front to explain exactly what’s going on.’

  Waters looked to the wooden structure standing to the side of the church gates. ‘What if they don’t look there? The police tape stops you from getting too close.’

  ‘Then I’ll put another one on the front door of the vicarage if you like.’

  ‘Yes, that would be good.’

  The Bishop’s assistant placed a hand on Waters’ shoulder.

  ‘Ben, we’ll take care of everything. You can relax. Now we’d better get going, your flight leaves in less than two hours.’

  Waters stooped to pick up his suitcase, then straightened up without it. ‘And you’re sure it’s not too much trouble ringing round my hockey team?’

  ‘Ben, I said it wasn’t.’

  ‘You’ve got all their phone numbers? I gave you the printout and the keys to the clubhouse?’

  ‘Safely in my briefcase. Really Ben, stop fretting.’

  Waters nodded. ‘I can’t believe I’ll be there again. In just a few hours.’

  ‘You’ve got your passport?’

  He patted the breast of his jacket. ‘Yes.’

  Kelly unlocked his Saab, picked up the suitcase, and placed it on the back seat. ‘Right. Away we go. Friar Ignacio is expecting you. He said that he’s put aside the cell you stayed in last time.’ Waters sighed as he clicked his seat belt in place. ‘The one with the bougainvillea climbing the wall outside? That’s so thoughtful of him.’

  As Kelly drove down the close, Ben Waters watched the blackened ruins behind shrink ever smaller in the passenger door mirror.

  Chapter 10

  Jon and Rick headed up Oldham Street, passing an Army Surplus store with racks of walking boots outside. The buildings seemed to get older and the shops smaller as they walked further up the road. Soon, many were not much more than a doorway and a small window. A barber’s. A tiny newsagent’s. A vintage clothing store.

  With green paint peeling from wooden window frames and a dimly lit interior, Magick looked more like an antiquarian book shop. Jon peered at the display behind the dusty window pane: a variety of books, crystals and tarot cards arranged on a purple velvet cloth. He could see numerous dead flies on the inner window sill and he realised the glass was probably dirtier that side, but that was what he liked about the Northern Quarter; it was still free from the presence of the sterile identikit chain stores that plagued every town and city centre across Britain.

  He pushed the front door open and immediately the cloying scent of joss sticks hit him. Above the door frame a collection of wind chimes began to tinkle. Music drifted from ancient looking speakers, whispering notes punctuated by the sound of waves crashing on a beach. It was the sort of stuff Alice used in the salon wh
en she gave a reflexology treatment. Ethereal was how she described it. Insubstantial crap was more accurate, Jon thought.

  ‘Welcome.’

  The voice had come from behind a large desk to the left. A man wearing a paisley waistcoat over a white collarless shirt sat watching them. The trail from the joss stick beside him slowly righted itself, the line of rising smoke touching the leaves of the biggest cheese plant Jon had ever seen. It towered almost up to the ceiling, its larger branches supported by lengths of twine nailed to the walls. Leaves the size and shape of lion’s heads hung down, some tilted to the side as if listening.

  The man’s sleeves were rolled up, exposing skinny forearms and a copper band around one wrist. What few strands of hair he had left were stretched back over his bald crown before bunching together in a sad and wispy ponytail. An image of a withered spring onion appeared in Jon’s mind and he had to turn away to hide a smile.

  ‘Hi,’ Rick replied. ‘Just browsing, thanks.’

  ‘Be my guests.’ The man turned back to his book.

  Jon looked at a glass cabinet holding various sizes of crystal ball. Below them were packs of tarot cards. The next cabinet contained a variety of candles. Tall and thin, short and fat, white, swirly coloured and jet black.

  The end of the shop was devoted entirely to books. Jon was just starting across the threadbare crimson carpet when Rick said, ‘Interesting.’

  Jon turned to his partner who was nodding at the wall. A notice for the Psychic Academy dominated it. Jon looked at the pieces of paper pinned up around it. A hand-written note detailing the next meetings of the Glossop Pagan Society sat alongside a flyer for Satan’s Inferno.

  Jon turned to the desk and took out his warrant card. ‘DI Spicer, major incident team. Is Skye in by any chance?’

  The man looked at it for a moment. ‘Major incident team?’

  ‘Just background enquiries. Is she around?’

  ‘Not today,’ the man replied. ‘She’s in all day tomorrow though. Can I help?’

  ‘What do you think of this place?’ Jon pointed to the

  Academy’s poster.

  ‘Well, some of the courses are outstanding. Especially the one I run.’ He gave a crackly laugh as he took the top copy from a pile of prospectuses on the desk. ‘Troy Wilkes,’ he said, pointing to his name at the top of the page. ‘I run the course on attaining a higher quality of spiritual health.’

  ‘And how do we achieve that?’ Jon said, keeping his face straight.

  ‘I teach a lifestyle based on yoga, meditation and acupressure, combined with a strict organic vegetarian diet.’

  Yeah, you look like a mung bean muncher, Jon thought, taking in the lack of muscle in the man’s shoulders. ‘I thought the Academy was more concerned with magic. Casting spells, telling the future, making contact with the dead, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose a lot of the courses give the impression you can learn about such things.’

  ‘Give the impression? Something tells me you’re not convinced.’

  Wilkes sucked in his cheeks. ‘My only quibble would be how some of the staff are happy to let students believe they can become a clairvoyant, psychic or medium by attending a few classes.’

  Jon smiled inwardly. No organisation, it seemed, could escape a bit of antagonism amongst its staff. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You can learn about these things, but not how to do them. The Academy can be, how should I say, a little vague on that point.’

  Jon lifted up a prospectus. ‘How long have you taught there?’

  ‘Since it opened last year. We’ve become the principle supplier of books for people taking its courses.’

  ‘I’d never heard of the place until the other day. Popular is it?’

  ‘Incredibly. There are similar establishments popping up all over. The College of Psychic Studies in London is perhaps the most well known. Then there’s the Academy of Psychic and Spiritual Studies in Swansea. There are others in Leeds and Glasgow. And of course the on-line ones.’

  No wonder the church is dying on its arse, thought Jon. Everyone’s going New Age.

  ‘These are some of the main books we sell to students at the Academy.’ He handed Jon a small paperback that looked like it had been printed in someone’s garage. Techniques for Out of Body Experiences. Jon turned it over and saw the handwritten price sticker. Eleven bloody quid! A nasty bottle of vodka cost less and actually guaranteed a result. He put it back down. ‘Well, thanks for your help. And you say Skye is in tomorrow?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Great, we’ll pop back then.’

  They emerged back on to Oldham Street, cut across the road and entered one of the narrow side alleys leading into the disorderly jumble of streets that made up the centre of the Northern Quarter.

  White clouds of steam belched from an extractor fan mounted on the rear wall of a blackened building. The vapour was laced with the scent of washing powder.

  ‘Makes a nice change from the sickly-smelling stuff in that shop,’ Rick commented.

  Jon raised his eyes in agreement. The angular struts of a fire escape’s stairs cut into the narrow strip of blue sky above. A pigeon regarded him from the ledge of a windowsill. ‘What do you reckon to all this New Age stuff ?’

  ‘Probably grains of truth in it. The problem is sorting the genuine bits from the crap.’

  ‘Which bits do you think may be genuine?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ve got to admit some clairvoyants are capable of incredible things. Haven’t we used them in investigations before?’

  Jon shrugged. Rumours sometimes circulated, but no senior officer he knew had ever admitted to resorting to such measures.

  ‘So what’s the situation with this Academy place?’ Rick asked.

  ‘It’s where Peter Robson, the missing band member, met Serberos Tavovitch, the lead singer of Satan’s Inferno,’ Jon replied, holding back on the fact that Ellie had enrolled there too.

  ‘I thought they’re not in the frame for these arson attacks?’

  ‘They aren’t. But I’d like to check it out, find out who else was on the course they attended. Get a feel for what the place is really about.’

  As they navigated their way through the maze of narrow streets, Jon looked around with relish. He loved to imagine Manchester when it was establishing itself as the cotton-producing capital of the world. The city had undergone an astonishingly rapid and haphazard expansion of mills and warehouses – and the Northern Quarter was testimony to the chaotic growth.

  Soon they were walking along the front of a grime-covered building, its heavy brick sides punctuated by a monotonous series of windows. Jon looked through those at street level. All had displays of thin garments hanging in them. Suspended by near-invisible nylon wires, the items’ sleeves were held out to the sides in a beseeching manner, like trapped ghosts.

  At the main door Jon examined the list of tenants. Where once the name of a single textile producer had stood, there now jostled a multitude of white plastic business signs. Stencilled black lettering revealed names such as ‘Absolutia Collections’,

  ‘Paradise Couture (Retail only)’, ‘Plazio Fashion Import and

  Wholesale’.

  Finally Jon saw the sign he was looking for. ‘The Psychic

  Academy. First Floor.’

  They climbed the steep stone steps and pushed through the heavy wooden doors into an enormous and deserted hallway, from which numerous doors led off into the ground floor shops. The first of these was locked and Jon glanced over the notice pinned on the other side of the glass:

  Parkside Bailiff Services Ltd. Ref: P11757 Re: Sanjay Patel. Address: Unit 1, Knott House, Back Dale Street. Take notice: Under the terms and conditions of your lease, we as authorised agents acting on behalf of the landlord, have this day, the nd of March, re-entered these premises and the lease is hereby determined. Any attempt to re-enter will result in legal proceedings being taken against you.

  ‘Clas
sy premises,’ Jon observed as they headed up the stone stairs, reaching a double set of doors on the first floor.

  Rick pushed one open.

  On the other side was a neatly decorated reception area. The green carpet led across to a simple wooden counter. Behind it, an elderly lady was chatting to a younger woman. Seeing the two visitors waiting, the younger woman said, ‘Right Valerie, I’ll get you the information later.’

  Jon gave the elder woman a quick smile as she hurried past, then he turned to the receptionist. The wall behind her was decorated with a row of circular wooden tablets. Chiselled into their surfaces were various symbols and letters. Jon immediately spotted a pentagram.

  ‘Are you here to enrol?’ The receptionist was looking up at him expectantly.

  Rick stepped forward with a smile on his face and produced his warrant card. ‘Actually, we’re here to enquire about a couple of your students.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m not allowed to give out those details.’

  ‘Then who is?’ Rick asked.

  A reverential note crept into her voice. ‘Mr Arkell. He’s our

  Academy Head.’

  ‘Can we see him?’

  She glanced at a timetable. ‘He’s working on the new timetable at the moment. The meeting is due to end in ten minutes. I can ask him when he comes out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rick turned to the seating area in the corner.

  ‘May I?’ Jon asked, taking a copy of the existing timetable from the stack on the counter.

  ‘Of course,’ the lady nodded.

  Jon took the folded piece of paper, sat down next to Rick and turned his eyes to Monday’s classes.

  In the Company of Angels, Marianne Ash: How to use divine angelic guidance to empower yourself in everyday dealings.

  Advanced Healing studies, Rob Brown: Building on what you’ve learned in earlier courses, Rob will use resonance healing powers to show how our presence as microcosms in the universe can nourish fellow human beings. This session counts towards the credits needed to attain healership status.