Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

  ‘His record shows up several cautions for possession. Cannabis, acid and, on one occasion, magic mushrooms. From the sound of it, he was a bit of a loner. Unemployed and living at home at the time of his last arrest. I want to know who his friends and acquaintances were – if he had any – where he hung out, what interests he had. Let’s get his last twenty-four hours mapped out. He wasn’t in the church alone, so anyone he was with on that last day is top of our priorities. I’ll take a team over to his house after this, inform the parents, and bag up the contents of his room.’

  ‘Sir,’ Jon said, sitting back on the edge of his desk. ‘I’d better tell Henry Robson that the body isn’t that of his son.’ Buchanon nodded. ‘Make it quick. You, Rick and . . .’ His eyes settled on a couple of officers on the other side of the table.

  ‘DC Gardiner and DC Adlon. You four can accompany me over to Luke Stevens’ address. We’ll need plenty of evidence bags too. Let’s get going.’

  Everyone rose to their feet, a sense of purpose in their movement. News of the victim’s identity had infected the room with energy. It was, Jon thought, the best stage of any investigation. The promise of answers soon to be within reach.

  Jon dug out Robson’s number and punched it into his phone.

  ‘Hello, Mr Robson?’

  ‘Yes.’ The man snapped the end of the word almost clean off.

  ‘DI Spicer, from the Major Incident Team.’ In the background, he could hear voices intoning a Gregorian chant. Cheerful, it wasn’t. ‘Sir, I have some positive news. The body in The Sacred Heart church was not – I repeat not – your son.’

  Breath was let out. A release of tension. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There’s been no formal identification made as yet, but DNA analysis has confirmed it wasn’t Peter.’

  ‘Who is it then?’

  ‘I can’t say at this stage.’

  ‘They still have him though.’

  ‘They still have who?’

  ‘The Satanists. They still have my son, under their power.’

  ‘Sir, I have to go. Of course I’ll be in touch if your son crops up as part of this investigation.’

  ‘Oh, he will DI Spicer. He will.’

  Jon hung up. ‘Jesus, the bloke’s possessed. I think he wants his son to be dead. It would confirm all his prejudices.’

  Rick was standing on the other side of the desk, coat already on. ‘Buchanon and the others are already in the car park. Let’s go.’

  As they crossed the room, Jon overheard two officers talking about an incident from earlier that morning. A body had been pulled out of a city centre canal.

  He turned his head. ‘At Piccadilly basin?’

  ‘Yeah, the edge of the car park.’

  ‘I passed it earlier on. Suspicious then?’

  ‘Unsure at this stage. The guy was naked, though.’ Jon stopped, curious to know more.

  ‘Come on for Christ’s sake!’ called Rick, holding the incident room doors open.

  They hurried down the stairs and jumped into Rick’s black Golf. ‘Where’s this guy live?’ Jon asked, clipping in his seatbelt.

  ‘Ninety-two Fenney Street, Blackley,’ Rick replied, following Buchanon’s Peugeot out on to the A6.

  ‘Nice,’ Jon grimaced.

  They arrived at the house less than thirty minutes later. As Rick parked up, Jon examined the street ahead. They were in a fairly typical run down Manchester neighbourhood, two rows of Accrington brick houses staring at each other across a narrow road. Satellite dishes peppered the fronts of those on the lefthand side. No doubt the houses on the right had their receivers round the back.

  They followed Buchanon to number ninety-two, but all hung back as he knocked on the front door itself. An overweight and balding man, probably in his early fifties, answered. As he looked from Buchanon towards the street, Jon dropped his eyes. Thank God telling him isn’t my responsibility.

  Buchanon spoke quietly for a few second and the man looked back into the house. ‘Jean, it’s the police. They’ve got some news.’

  A dumpy woman with a puffy face and short blonde hair appeared. Jon could see the black of her roots showing through. As she waved Buchanon in, their SIO turned and gestured for DC Gardiner. She stepped towards the house.

  ‘Unlucky, Susan,’ Jon whispered from the side of his mouth. A couple of minutes later Buchanon reappeared. ‘Bring the evidence bags.’

  DC Adlon retrieved a pile of Perspex sacks from the back seat of Buchanon’s vehicle and they trooped inside. The house was heavy with cigarette smoke, and on the way up the stairs Jon could hear the woman half coughing, half crying.

  Opening the door to Luke Stevens’ room was like stepping into a grubby pub during a power cut. Pitch black and reeking of ashtrays and stale beer. Buchanon turned the main light on and a red bulb lit up. Keeping the door wide open, he picked his way through the gloom. Halfway to the drawn curtains, he stepped on a plate. Metal clattered on porcelain. ‘Shit.’ He made it to the other side and drew the dark purple curtains back. Daylight flooded in, illuminating a floor that was awash with objects. They surrounded the unmade bed in the corner as if laying siege to it. Dirty bowls, cups, music magazines, CDs, clothes, king size Rizlas, a large ashtray, army boots, socks, food wrappers, empty cans of Red Bull and Tennent’s Super.

  As they all began pulling on latex gloves, Jon studied the walls. Posters for bands were pinned up edge to edge. ‘Cradle of Filth.’ ‘Dark Throne.’ ‘Sodom.’ ‘Morbid Angel.’ ‘Cadaver Inc.’ Directly above the bed was a huge enlargement of the Satan’s Inferno album cover, ‘Raging Spires’. The headboard of the bed was plastered with ticket stubs. Jon leaned closer. They were all for the band’s gigs.

  ‘Look at this Boss,’ DC Adlon said, finger pointing to a desk in the corner. Newspaper cuttings covered it, spreading up the wall behind. Each report was concerned with the spate of arson attacks on churches.

  Rick was flicking through a stack of CDs by the side of the music system next to the bed. He turned one over and began reading the track listing. ‘“Die like this.” “In the shadow of the horns.” “Black Goddess rises.” Nice music for sending you off to sleep. Sweet dreams and all that.’

  ‘Helped by this, no doubt.’ Buchanon was crouched at the ashtray, the end of a large joint held between his finger and thumb.

  ‘She couldn’t stop him and he just ignored me.’

  They all turned to the balding man in the doorway. Buchanon stood. ‘Mr Stevens, we’ll need—’

  ‘Cooper. My surname’s Cooper. I’m not his dad. He walked out years ago.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Jean’s partner.’

  ‘Sorry, I had just assumed . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. Fair mistake to make.’

  ‘How long have you known her?’

  ‘We’ve been seeing each other around four, five years. I still have my own place, round the corner. Can’t sleep here most nights, not with this bloody music.’

  ‘Liked it loud then?’

  Cooper’s nose wrinkled. ‘When he did put on headphones, he’d still tap away. Biros as drum sticks. Almost applied for an ASBO to make him keep quiet.’

  Buchanon held out his palm, the remains of the joint still in it. ‘Were you aware he was smoking cannabis?’

  ‘Oh aye, puffed away on it morning, noon and night, he did.’ He held Buchanon’s gaze for a second and then shrugged. ‘As I said, he wouldn’t listen to me or his mum.’

  Buchanon’s disapproval was plain to see. ‘Well Sir, perhaps it would be better if you were there for Jean. Let us take care of things in here.’

  Once Cooper had disappeared back downstairs, Buchanon turned round. ‘Right, let’s get the lot bagged up. I think we’ve got a few good avenues to explore here.’

  They’d cleared the floor and desk when Jon’s phone started to ring. He walked over to the brightness of the window. An unknown number was on the screen. ‘DI Spicer here.’

  ‘Hello. It’s Skye Boo
th – from Magick on Oldham Street?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’ A young lad was making his way along the street below, posting brightly coloured oblongs of paper through letterboxes. Another crappy takeaway place for the neighbourhood, just to ensure everyone’s diet was swimming in plenty of fat. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘There’s been a report on the local radio. About a body being found in the Rochdale canal just near here.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My colleague hasn’t shown up for work this morning.’ Bloody hell, that’s a bit pessimistic. ‘Have you tried calling him?’

  ‘There’s no reply.’

  ‘And you think?’

  ‘It’s him. In the canal.’

  Jon blinked. ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘I can just . . .’ She paused. ‘Will you check for me?’

  ‘You can just what?’

  ‘Nothing. Please, can you find out?’

  ‘Skye, that’s a worrying conclusion to make just because he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘No, there’s more. I can’t explain it.’

  ‘You can sense it’s him. Is that what you’re trying to say?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, reluctance making the word stick in her throat.

  ‘It’s an image I had.’

  Right. An image, Jon thought. A vision. A revelation from the cosmos. ‘I’m really busy Skye. Let me get back to you later, OK?’

  ‘Please. Can you just make a call? Troy’s got some scars on his left knee where he had an operation last year. Left and right sides of it. He wears a copper wristband too. It doesn’t come off without being prised apart.’

  Jon remembered. ‘You’re talking about the guy in your shop. Skinny bloke, hair in a ponytail?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘I talked to him yesterday. He worked at the Psychic Academy too. What’s his full name again?’

  ‘Troy Wilkes.’

  I must be bloody mad, Jon thought. ‘OK, I’ll call you back in a bit.’ He hung up and dialled the incident room. ‘DI Spicer here. Who’s this?’

  ‘Sergeant Naylor, Sir.’

  ‘Sergeant, a body was found in the canal by Piccadilly basin car park this morning. It’s probably gone to the MRI now. Do me a favour and write this down. Lightly built Caucasian male, early thirties, thinning hair tied back in a ponytail, scars on each side of his left knee, copper band on one wrist. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Good. Now, can you find out for me where the body from the canal is and see if that description matches?’

  ‘OK, give me a minute.’

  Jon glanced behind him, feeling Buchanon’s inquisitive stare.

  ‘Sir, that call was from a female member of staff in the New Age shop on Oldham Street I mentioned. She has reason to believe a body found in the Rochdale canal this morning was that of her colleague.’

  ‘Reason to believe?’

  He looked down at his feet. Bollocks, I’m going to sound a right idiot if I mention the visionary stuff. ‘He hasn’t turned up for work and his phone’s not being answered. The canal is very close to the shop’s location.’

  ‘So that means he’s drowned in it?’

  Jon took a deep breath. ‘She has a very strong feeling it’s him.’ Great, now he’s looking at me like I’ve lost the plot. A voice on his phone broke the silence.

  ‘DI Spicer?’

  ‘Yes. Any luck?’

  ‘It’s a match. Description fits perfectly.’

  Jon tried to hide his relief. ‘Right. You need to let the investigating officer know it’s a Troy Wilkes, works in Magick on Oldham Street. Can you find out who’s handling things?’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation. I already know who’s handling it.’

  ‘Murder? Why?’

  ‘His hands were tied behind his back, thumbs bound together by wire. Same for his ankles.’

  Jon looked out the window. That meant the incident would have been referred to the Major Incident Team. ‘So who’s SIO?’

  ‘DCI McCloughlin, Sir.’

  Jon’s head went down. Shit, that’s all I fucking need.

  *

  Skye Booth stood behind the counter. Her arms hung at her sides and her eyes were closed. But for a tiny pulsing movement at the side of her throat, she could have been a statue. Or dead.

  Her focus was turned inwards, examining thoughts, emotions, impressions. She didn’t like how things felt. Not in her head or in the world outside. Troy was dead. Of that, she was sure. After all, she had stared down at his pale torso, had seen his tightly folded limbs as their whiteness faded away below the brown surface.

  A creeping sense of foreboding was gathering in the distance. She opened her eyes and glanced towards the window. Grey cloud filled what little of the sky she could see. A shiver gripped her shoulders and she looked at the phone again.

  Come on, call me back. You said you would.

  The phone remained silent. She considered ringing DI Spicer again, then contemplated getting out her rune stones and casting them on the counter. Maybe they would give a hint of what was about to pass.

  Chapter 15

  Jon’s hands had begun to sweat inside the latex glove. He looked at his watch. Ten to five. He’d have to get something to eat soon. Spread out on the white formica surface before him were the evidence bags collected from Luke Stevens’ house.

  He tried to clear his mind and concentrate on the process of sifting, but the photos of Troy Wilkes wouldn’t go away. Seeing a body stretched out on the autopsy table had never seemed strange before. Pathetic, or stomach-turning, maybe. But never strange. It was Ellie’s fault. Her comments about burying the body, not the person, when someone dies. What had she said? The spark, the thing that made the body alive, never dies.

  Shaking the echo of her words from his head, he turned his thoughts to Troy Wilkes’ corpse. Only yesterday, the man had been sitting behind the shop counter, chatting away. He’d picked up the prospectus for the Psychic Academy, laughed, blinked, shaken his head. Apart from the wire marks on the thumbs and ankles, the person lying on that mortuary slab was identical to the person in that shop. Even the water that had flooded his lungs had been removed. But Wilkes was cold and lifeless, the vital spark, the electrical pulse, lost forever. Was that, Jon wondered, what a person’s soul was? A minute charge of electricity?

  ‘Anyone in?’

  Jon felt himself flinch. ‘You what?’

  ‘Anyone in?’ Rick repeated. ‘I was saying, I’ll start this end of the table.’

  ‘OK.’ He looked to his side. A bag containing a black, hooded top was sitting in a grey plastic tray, ready to go to forensics for analysis. Tiny fragments of glass were just visible embedded across the chest area. Glass, Jon guessed, from at least one of the other three churches to have recently burned down. He wondered if the arsonists realised that the act of breaking a window caused minute particles of the stuff to fly out in all directions. Plenty of burglars had discovered it to their cost, once forensics had a chance to go through their wardrobe with a fine toothcomb.

  Rick was carefully prising the lid off a cylindrical pot designed to hold camera film. He took a sniff of the contents. ‘Christ. Smell this.’

  Jon didn’t need to step any closer. A pungent aroma was already filling the room.

  Rick replaced the lid and sealed the container in an evidence bag. ‘Skunk. Strong enough to really mess with your head, especially if you’re not that stable in the first place.’

  Jon considered the canister. ‘You think the government should think again about reclassifying the stuff ?’

  Rick didn’t bother replying; the answer was obvious to both of them. A bag containing signed photos of Satan’s Inferno caught Jon’s eye. He lifted it up and examined the sallow faces inside. What was it with this music? Death, cannibalism, necrophilia and torture. He thought back to his teenage years. King Kurt, Bad Manners and Madness. Music with a bit of fun to it. Stuff you could jump aroun
d to. OK, The Damned could be a bit darker, but even their songs weren’t dragged down by this doom-laden morbidity.

  He placed the bag next to the one containing the press cuttings and band reviews Stevens had carefully harvested. Was the bloke just a fan, or had he got closer to the band members than that? Did they invite him backstage, actually talk to him? If he was going to find out, the fastest way would be to pay Serberos another visit. ‘Definitely no stuff from the Psychic Academy?’

  Rick moved a bag containing all Stevens’ CDs to one side.

  ‘No, not a thing.’

  Bollocks, thought Jon. It would have linked everything together a bit tighter. ‘We should still go back there. Arkell will have records of him attending courses if he ever did. I’d also like to know if Troy Wilkes taught him, or any member of Satan’s

  Inferno.’

  Rick replaced a torn pack of Rizlas on the table. ‘If he did, then we definitely should be paying the Psychic Academy some serious attention. But just because Arkell’s in charge of the place, doesn’t mean he’s behind all this.’

  ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’

  ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’

  They stared each other out in silence until a knock on the door caused Jon to look away. DC Gardiner’s face was at the window. Obviously not wanting to go through putting on protective clothing all over again, she spoke through the glass.

  ‘Just came off the phone to the female who dropped the assault charges against Arkell last year.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Jon said, also raising his voice. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She still believes Arkell drugged her. She’d been having some private tuition classes with him, said he was guiding her towards some sort of transcendental experience.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘In the final session, she has no memory for the three hours she was in his office. Her head felt groggy as she walked home, which Arkell said would be quite normal. It was only when she got undressed to have a shower that she realised the fastening on her bra wasn’t done up properly.’