by Chris Simms
‘Fine. We did a bit of shopping, stopped in M&S for lunch.’ She grinned impishly. ‘Holly wanted a big slice of cherry cake, didn’t you?’
Jon cocked his head to the side. ‘Oh she did, did she? And was Holly able to eat her slice of cherry cake?’
Alice shook her head. ‘Nope. She had to give it all to me.’
‘Gosh,’ Jon replied, feigning surprise. ‘Well, at least it didn’t go to waste.’
‘That’s right,’ Alice smiled, patting her stomach. ‘Fancy spaghetti Bolognese Rick? I’ve made a load.’
Rick took his eyes from Holly. ‘Sure you’ve got enough?’
‘’Course.’
‘OK, thanks.’
Jon reached out and plucked Holly from Rick’s hands. ‘Come here gorgeous.’ He placed a series of kisses on her cheek before pressing her against his chest. A layer of fine hair now covered her head and he breathed in the aroma of baby shampoo. God, she smelled so good. ‘Has she had her bottle?’
Alice shook her head. ‘I’ll get it. After that she’s ready for bed.’
Jon nodded at the dossier. ‘Have a flick through. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Alice reappeared in the doorway with a three-quarters full bottle. ‘Cheers,’ Jon said, taking it from her, and trudging up the stairs to the nursery with his daughter. Cuddly animals peeped down from the top of the wardrobe as he sat down in the armchair, positioned Holly across his lap and held the bottle to her lips. As she began to drink, he looked at the top of her head, studying her wispy strands of blonde hair. One day it would be long, probably tied back in pigtails. He imagined her five years from now, skipping through the local park. Would she prefer dresses or dungarees? A shy little girl or a confident tomboy? If she was anything like her mum, it would be the latter. An image of Holly as a miniature Alice, practising her kickboxing moves on the boys in her toddler group, almost made him laugh out loud. Gazing down, he saw her lashes begin to droop lower as the milk made her drowsy.
Another day had passed for him, a lifetime for her. Every minute an adventure, every carpet a giant expanse to be explored, every object on it a thing of fascination. The world was awaiting her discovery. He looked at her tiny fingers curled round his thumb, saw the smoothness of her skin against his crisscrossed flesh. Suddenly he felt very old.
The teat slid from her lips and he placed the empty bottle on the floor. She was barely awake as he wound the key of the mobile attached to the head of the cot. ‘Rockabye Baby’ began to tinkle out and the white fluffy sheep hanging over her mattress slowly started to revolve.
Jon stood up and laid Holly on the cotton sheet before tracing a finger down the side of her face. ‘Night-night.’
As soon as he moved towards the door her eyes began to open. Quickly he stepped out on to the landing and, as he pulled the door shut, he could hear her struggling to turn over, an angry cry starting up. Wincing, Jon tip-toed down the stairs, but by the time he reached the bottom, she was in full throttle. He stood with his head bowed, analysing the noise. Though it was a frustrated cry, there was a shrill of tiredness in it too and he knew she wouldn’t keep it up for long.
Hard as it was leaving her, he stepped back in the living room, glancing at the dossier as he closed the door behind him.
‘Right,’ he announced. ‘Henry “the end of the world is nigh” Robson has been stalking the band his son used to play guitar for. This lot.’ He sat down and slid the photo of the group to Rick. ‘Satan’s Inferno. You ever listened to Death Metal?’
‘No,’ Rick replied.
‘Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden – that stuff is tame in comparison. This music has stripped out any actual tune. Sounds like something recorded in a torture chamber. Goes on about the devil taking over the world. Here.’ He showed Rick the cover of the band’s CD.
His partner examined the image of the demon towering over
Manchester’s skyline. ‘I think I get the picture.’
Jon got up to listen at the door. Silence from upstairs. Relieved, he sat down again. ‘So Peter Robson joins the band, leaves home and starts avoiding his dad.’
‘Then he disappears.’
‘According to the father.’
‘And Pete Robson met the other band members on a course at this Psychic Academy?’
‘Serberos Tavovitch at least.’ Jon tapped the photo of the lead singer. ‘This freak.’
Rick checked the door was shut, then quietly said. ‘And
Ellie’s started attending courses at this place, too?’
Jon shook his head. ‘Don’t remind me. Thing is, what if the body in the church is Peter Robson’s? What implications does that have for the investigation?’
‘We’d need to get the rest of the band in.’
‘Agreed. But what would their motive have been for killing him?’
Rick looked down at the photos. ‘Which one is Peter?’
Jon flicked through to the press clipping Henry Robson had shown him. ‘Here.’
They looked at the image of Peter, taking in the lank hair framing his mournful face.
‘Reminds me of Neil from The Young Ones,’ Jon stated.
‘Who?’ Rick asked.
‘Neil. You know, the moping hippy one.’
‘The hippy one. One what?’
‘Jesus,’ Jon murmured. ‘I keep forgetting you’re just a baby. Forget it. What I’m saying is, there’s something sad about him. Like he’s not totally happy about being on that stage. Maybe he started having doubts about continuing. I mean, he’s led a pretty strait-laced life up until that point. We know he’s fucked up about his mum. Suddenly he’s in a Death Metal band, playing gigs round the city and torching churches in the dead of night.’
‘Wait up,’ Rick interrupted. ‘Torching churches? We’ve got no proof of that.’
Jon hunched forward. ‘Just assume it, for the moment. They’re torching churches, getting into all the messed up Satanist stuff.’
‘So why kill him?’
‘I don’t know. He starts to waver, maybe, wants out.’ Rick nodded. ‘But they don’t want him to leave.’
‘Yeah,’ Jon replied, feeling the familiar glimmer of excitement as a scenario started to take shape. ‘Could even have been a kind of sacrifice, I don’t know.’
Rick pinched a bottom lip between a forefinger and thumb.
‘It’s a theory. Not much more than that.’
Jon’s shoulder dropped. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Until we get an identity on that body we could go on speculating for days.’
‘What about Father Waters? Did you get hold of him when you called that retreat?’
Jon snorted. The instant the phone had started to ring, he knew it was going to be a nightmare. For a start the ring tone was a single beeping sound. He was just wondering if it was an engaged tone when his call was answered.
‘Buenos noches,’ a croaky voice had said.
Jon was thrown into confusion. ‘Hello. Do you speak
English?’
‘Un poco. A little.’
He realised his voice had slowed right down and increased in volume. ‘I’m an English policeman, calling from England. DI Spicer.’
‘Deeyie?’
‘DI. Detective Inspector.’ He paused. ‘Spicer. My name is
Jon Spicer. Is Father Ben Waters there?’
‘Waters?’
‘Yes. Is he there?’
‘You have his message?’
‘I have a message for him. Is he there?’
‘Father Waters?’
‘Yes. Can he call me?’ Jon had read out his number, dreading what the person on the other end of the line was writing down.
Jon rubbed at his temples with both forefingers, then looked up at Rick. ‘Put it this way, if Waters hasn’t called back by lunchtime tomorrow, I’ll try again. We need to know if he’s met either of the Robsons, or Tristan Arkell for that matter.’
‘Why not ring Henry Robson and ask him?’
Jon raised his eyebrows.
‘And encourage a dialogue with that nutter? No chance.’
Alice’s voice came from the kitchen. ‘Food’s ready!’
Jon and Punch stood simultaneously, the Pavlovian reaction equally strong in the both of them. ‘Let’s eat.’
In the kitchen Alice was ladling Bolognese sauce into three large white bowls. ‘You can do the honours,’ she said, nodding at the bottle of red on the side.
Jon gestured for Rick to sit, took out a corkscrew and began removing the foil from the bottle’s neck.
‘So who is currently on the receiving end of an Alice Spicer mauling?’ Rick asked with a grin.
Alice brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, an innocent look on her face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you mean?’ Rick repeated incredulously.
Jon had to nod. Since the Monster of the Moor case the previous year, his wife had developed quite an activist streak. Local politicians, councillors, journalists, and figures from the business world all regularly received letters of complaint when Alice sensed duplicity, hypocrisy or dishonest statements. ‘I might be sinking my teeth into the council at the moment.’
‘What have those poor bastards done?’ Rick asked breezily.
‘They’re withdrawing funding for a phone line that helps people suffering from mental illness. As if Manchester hasn’t got a high enough suicide rate as it is. I tell you, it really pisses me off.’
Jon sneaked a look at Rick which said, ‘You’ve gone and bloody started her now.
‘They need to pinch a few pennies,’ Alice continued, ‘and the first thing they look at are those services which, by the nature of the people who use them, are less likely to draw criticism when cut. Someone in the depths of depression isn’t exactly in a position to stand up for themselves. It’s just plain cowardice on the council’s part.’ She paused. ‘Anyway . . . How’s city-centre living treating you?’
Rick rearranged the salt and pepper pots in the middle of the table. ‘Great thanks.’
She picked up two bowls and placed them on the table. ‘And how’s the love life?’
Jon felt a sinking feeling. Why did she always have to ask? He glanced at Rick who was smiling coyly.
Alice’s eyes had widened. ‘You’ve met someone. You have, haven’t you?’
Rick hunched a shoulder.
Alice sat down and leaned forward over her bowl. ‘Come on, tell me!’
He ground a little pepper over his food. ‘He’s an events organiser. Puts on private parties round town. For footballers, TV celebs, all sorts.’
‘Never!’ Alice’s face was beaming. ‘He organises parties for footballers? Like who?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember the names. Is it Fedrosa?’
‘Sol Fedrosa?’ Alice’s eyes were almost popping out.
‘That’s it. He did his birthday bash. And that one they call
Shrek.’
‘He’s done a party for him as well?’
‘His girlfriend I think. It was in Ebony. They hired the whole place.’
‘I saw the photos in one of those magazines!’ Alice exclaimed. Jon reached for his bowl, knowing Alice had now totally forgotten about his food.
‘Wait until I tell Melvyn. He’ll be so jealous.’
Jon pictured the camp owner of the salon where Alice was due to go back to work. The news would cause him a chronic bout of hand-flapping.
‘So what’s he like?’ Alice asked, now twirling spaghetti round the prongs of her fork.
‘Late thirties. About six feet tall. Black hair, sort of brushed forward on top.’
‘And his body?’
Jon glanced at his wife. For fuck’s sake.
Rick grinned. ‘Very nice, thank you. He works out most days.’
‘Good firm arse then?’
Before Rick could answer, Jon picked up the bottle. ‘Rick. Red?’
‘Thanks.’ He slid his glass over.
‘Ali?’
‘Cheers.’
Jon filled hers up. As he poured his own he frantically tried to think of some way to change the conversation, but an image of Rick caressing another man’s naked buttocks was now lodged firmly in his head.
Alice’s eyes were still on Rick, an expectant expression on her face.
Rick drew in breath through his nose. ‘Let’s just say you could pop open a bottle of Stella with it.’
Jon slumped over his spaghetti. That, I didn’t need to know. A knock sounded at the door. Jon looked at Alice. ‘Expecting anyone?’
‘Nope.’
He walked down the passage, eyes on the pane of frosted glass. The top of a head was just visible and Jon recognised the silvery hair. Mum. Part of him wanted to retreat to the kitchen and pretend she wasn’t there. He opened up.
‘Oh Jon, sorry to come round like this, but we’ve really got to talk.’
She was standing on the step, clutching a small handbag against her coat with both hands, her face pinched with worry.
Bollocks, thought Jon, waving her in. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Ellie,’ she said breathlessly, stepping into the hall. ‘She simply refuses to see sense.’
‘You’ve spoken to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. Why?’
Jon met his mother’s eyes, but it was obvious Ellie had said nothing about the Sunday school. ‘So you’ve had another argument,’ he said, walking back to the kitchen, his mother babbling away behind him.
‘She doesn’t understand what she’s getting herself into. Really, she doesn’t. I asked her what she believes joining a coven is all about.’
‘She told you she’d going to join a coven?’
‘Yes, on the phone. Not a word about the dangers of worshipping false idols . . . oh, hello Rick. I didn’t realise you were here.’
‘Hi, Mrs Spicer,’ Rick replied.
‘Have you eaten, Mary?’ Alice asked.
‘Yes, thanks. Don’t mind me. You carry on.’ She moved the local paper off the stool in the corner and sat down. Jon sank back on his chair and took a large sip of wine. ‘So what did you say to provoke her?’
‘I didn’t provoke her. I went round with some information about the occult. Father O’Dowd kindly gave it to me.’
That old wino, Jon thought, picturing the red-nosed old priest who ran the Catholic church his mum attended. The guy knocked back so much Irish whisky he wouldn’t be able to look at a number six without seeing three of them. ‘And what information was that?’
‘He obtained some figures for me about exorcisms. Do you realise how many people come to believe they’re possessed by the devil after meddling with the occult? The church performs dozens of exorcisms every year. In Italy it employs a couple of priests whose full time job is to perform them. It’s frightening, it really is.’
‘But Mary,’ Alice said. ‘Practising a pagan religion isn’t the same as worshipping the devil. We went over this.’
Mary flicked a hand. ‘It’s the thin end of the wedge according to Father O’Dowd.’
Jon saw his wife’s lips tighten and he knew she was having to bite her tongue.
Mary turned to Jon once again. ‘I’ve done a bit of research into this event when she wants to be initiated. May Eve is also known by paganists as Beltane. It’s a festival of fire that celebrates the fertility of the coming year.’
Jon lowered his glass. ‘Fertility?’
‘Yes. Men and women go off into the woods in pairs to collect flowers for the festival. Then they light a bonfire and take it in turns to jump over it. It’s meant to purify them and bring good fortune for the coming year. It’s all about increasing fertility.’
Jon looked at Alice. ‘They pair off and go into the woods?’ Alice sighed. ‘These things are symbolic. It doesn’t end up with everyone having sex. The Maypole is a phallic symbol. Just because young girls will be dancing around it at village fairs up and down the country this Mayday, doesn’t mean they’re warming up for an orgy.�
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Jon turned back to his mum. ‘What else did Ellie say about the festival?’
‘She laughed at me. The girl in her house tried to claim the church is repressed, she came out with some nonsense about these stories being the product of sex-starved priests’ imaginations.’
‘Which girl?’
‘I don’t know who she was. She had beads in her hair and a tie-dyed top.’
Skye, Jon thought, liking the sound of his sister’s new friend less and less.
‘Jon tells me you used to go to the church at Gorton monastery,’ Rick said.
Mary’s face softened. ‘Yes, I did. Years ago now.’
‘It looks like a magnificent building. Must have been a lovely place to worship in.’
She swivelled slightly to face Rick. ‘Oh, it was. Did you know it’s Manchester’s highest single-storey building? They positioned it with the nave running north to south, rather than east to west as is traditionally the way.’
‘Why did they do that?’ Rick replied.
Mary’s eyes drifted to a point on the wall above Rick’s head.
‘It was a declaration. Gorton, you see, is twenty feet higher than the city centre. In the 0s – that’s when it was built – there were many fields to the west of the city. The monastery rose up out of them.’ She lifted her palms like a preacher addressing a crowd. ‘The aim was to mimic Chartres cathedral, and it worked. The building towered above the skyline, dominating the view from Manchester. You know it was designed by Edward Pugin, son of Augustus, who was responsible for the Houses of Parliament?’
‘No I didn’t.’
Jon glanced at Rick. Where’s your interest in church architecture suddenly come from, he wondered. Then he realised the ulterior motive behind the questions. Rick was diverting the conversation from an argument about Ellie, and he was succeeding very well.
‘You can see his father’s influence in my opinion,’ Mary continued, her fingers tracing shapes in the air. ‘The intricacy of the stonework, the buttresses, and those gargoyles peering down.’
Now she was talking out of her arse, Jon thought. The Houses of Parliament didn’t have gargoyles on its façade.
‘How was it a declaration?’ Rick asked.
‘Well,’ she replied, hands returning to her lap as she took on the tone of a schoolteacher. ‘You must remember Catholicism in this country was banned by King Henry VIII. It took another three hundred years until the Catholic Emancipation Act was passed, allowing us to own property. We’re back, the friars who built it were saying. Catholicism has returned to Britain.’