by Chris Simms
‘Did she have the shower anyway?’
‘Afraid so. There’s no evidence – she only mentioned it to an adviser in the Students’ Union two days later. Even then, she could only say it was a feeling, an instinct that he’d abused her.’
‘Why did she believe he’d drugged her?’
‘At the start of the session, she’d applied some flying ointment to her forearms and throat area.’ She caught his look. ‘Er – it’s to do with witchcraft. A concoction that contains hallucinogenic ingredients to facilitate the experience.’
‘Those being?’
She examined a piece of paper. ‘She says it contained henbane, belladonna and hemlock, mixed with safflower oil.’
‘What are henbane and hemlock?’
‘Native British plants. Belladonna, of course, is also known as Deadly Nightshade.’
‘Hemlock’s a poison,’ Rick said. ‘Didn’t Socrates die from drinking it? Punishment for challenging the religious order of ancient Greece, wasn’t it?’
‘Fucked if I know,’ Jon shrugged. ‘Are these plants legal?’
‘I’m checking with one of the drug squad’s chemists. He’s getting back to me,’ DC Gardiner replied.
‘No wonder it never went to court,’ Jon stated. ‘She’d have had more chance of proving fairies lived at the bottom of her garden. What about the bloke who made an allegation?’
‘Can’t trace him as yet.’
‘OK. I’ve got details of some other people who’ve recently attended courses at the Psychic Academy. If I get you their names, can you start phoning around to see if any of them have had similar experiences with Arkell?’
‘Is this on Buchanon’s time or my own?’
‘Your own, but just when you get any spare moments.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘All right then.’
Jon held up a thumb while thinking of one list that he wouldn’t be giving to Gardiner: the one with his sister’s name on it. That was a piece of information he didn’t need getting out.
Susan turned to go, then looked back. ‘By the way. McCloughlin’s brought in the girl you mentioned. The one who rang you about seeing the body.’
‘Skye Booth?’
‘That’s her. She’s in interview room two. He’s giving her a right grilling.’
Jon’s foot was already on the pedal for the bin. The lid sprang up and he dropped his gloves into it. Shit, he thought, I forgot to call her back. She’d probably still been waiting for me to phone when McCloughlin steamed through the door. You dickhead, Spicer.
He marched down the corridor and slipped into the observation room. On the other side of the one-way mirror Skye and McCloughlin were sitting at a table. In the corner a female officer stood silently watching.
McCloughlin’s head was jutting forward, bristly hair sticking out of the ridges of skin at the back of his skull. His voice sounded tinny as it came through the speaker mounted on the wall above Jon. ‘For the fifth time Miss Booth, how did you know Troy Wilkes was in that canal?’
Skye looked remarkably unruffled as she tilted her head to the side. ‘Officer—’
‘Detective Chief Inspector.’
Skye’s eyebrows rose slightly, revealing her exasperation just for a second. ‘Whatever. Sometimes it happens to me. It runs down my mother’s side of the family, skipping a generation each time. Grandma had it, so did her grandma, so did—’
‘Spare me the second sight nonsense will you? This is a murder investigation. Take me through your whereabouts last night.’
‘Again?’
‘Again.’
As Skye crossed her arms and started speaking, Jon turned to the members of McCloughlin’s syndicate who were watching.
‘Is she under arrest?’
‘No, just helping with enquiries. Though I don’t think she realises that. McCloughlin played it heavy with her. Murder investigation and all that. She was happy to come along.’
‘How long’s she been in there?’
‘About forty minutes.’
God! He should have guessed McCloughlin would have latched on to her like an attack dog.
‘And she’s sticking to her story?’
‘Yeah. Not even the tiniest wobble. She had an image of her colleague’s body just below the surface of some brown-coloured water.’
‘But she’d heard the radio report. Every canal in Manchester is full of brown water. When you can actually see it through the layer of rubbish, that is.’
The officer smiled. ‘Her problem is, she also knew the body was naked. That wasn’t mentioned in any news bulletin.’
Jon turned back to the window. McCloughlin was hunched over his notes, head down, shoulders tight. Skye was sitting back, chin up, hands resting on her lap. Something approaching amusement was showing in her face as she looked at the top of her adversary’s head.
McCloughlin stabbed his pencil at his pad. ‘And this friend of yours, Valerie Evans. When I ring her, she’ll vouch that you stayed at her house last night?’
Skye nodded. ‘I said, call her. You’ve got her number. She’ll be at home.’
Eyes still on his pad, McCloughlin crossed his arms, saying nothing.
‘You’ve got a lot of negative energy, if you don’t mind me saying.’
McCloughlin’s head bobbed up like someone had pulled an invisible string. ‘Spare me your spiritual analysis, missy.’
‘Oh, I don’t think your frustration comes from spiritual deficiencies. More a lack of sex, I suspect.’
Silence. Jon heard someone whisper to his side. ‘Did she just say . . .’
All eyes were on McCloughlin as they waited for his reaction. It was common knowledge he’d been divorced over five years ago and no one knew of any girlfriends since. He blinked a couple of times, colour now flecking his cheeks.
‘I notice you don’t have a wedding ring either,’ Skye blithely continued. ‘Surely there’s someone who could relieve some of that tension.’
Everyone in the observation room fought to control their laughter as McCloughlin patted a palm on the table. ‘Please, Miss Booth. You’re killing me with your wit.’
Skye shrugged as she looked away. ‘According to what I’ve seen on TV, shouldn’t you charge me with something or let me go? I have a shop to run.’
McCloughlin sat back. ‘Why, Miss Booth, you’re not under arrest. You’ve been free to go at any time.’
She looked confused. ‘But when you came into the shop, you said it was because you had reason to believe . . .’ Realisation dawned.
‘At no point did I say you were under arrest. I am sorry if I somehow gave that impression.’
Skye’s jaw was set tight. ‘So I can go?’
‘Allow me to find an officer to show you out.’ McCloughlin stood, a gloating smile still on his face. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. Very soon.’ He opened the door and waved the female officer out before him. A second later they heard his voice as he passed the observation room. ‘Someone sling the smart-arsed bitch back out.’
A young looking officer started for the door. Jon put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll do it. She’s spoken to me before.’
Once the other officers had gone up the stairs, Jon stepped into the interview room, careful to leave the door open behind him.
Skye’s eyebrows lowered as her expression turned to one of tired hostility. ‘Thanks for calling me back.’
He took the other chair, recoiling slightly at its warmth. Heat created by McCloughlin’s backside. ‘I’m really sorry. When you called I was in the middle of something. Then, when the identification was correct, things moved faster than I realised.’ He wiped a hand across the table. ‘Sorry you went through all that stuff. I had no way of knowing McCloughlin was getting the case.’
Skye gave a humourless smile and shifted her gaze to the mirrored wall. ‘Of course! Good cop, bad cop. Didn’t realise you actually used those tactics. Behind there is he, watching?’
‘No. No one’s there.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Damn it, Jon thought, I’ve completely lost her trust. ‘Actually, I’ve probably got two minutes before he hears I’m with you and bursts back in.’
‘Why?’
Jon rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. ‘Long story. We don’t get on.’
‘But he seemed so nice.’ Sarcasm distorted her voice.
He grinned. ‘You really rattled him with that sexual frustration comment.’
‘What’s the quote from that film? Never in the history of mankind has someone been in more need of a blow job.’
Jon glanced down. She had absolutely no embarrassment about referring to sex. Did her attitude, he wondered, extend to the act itself ? Suddenly he could see her naked in a field, her body lit orange as she danced and whirled round a bonfire. ‘You can understand why he was on your case though, can’t you?’
‘Because I knew it was Troy in that canal.’
‘Not just that. You knew he’d been stripped. It’s the sort of detail you wouldn’t have known without having been there.’
She held his gaze for a long second, saying nothing. Eventually Jon blinked. ‘So you were there?’
‘No. It was something I saw in my head. It happens sometimes.’
He resisted the urge to groan. She was sticking to her story, for the time being at least. ‘Fine. But you can’t expect someone like McCloughlin to accept an explanation like that. He’ll be on your case.’
‘I’ll have to live with it.’
‘Listen,’ Jon lowered his voice. ‘Ellie mentioned she’s joining a coven. You’re introducing her to it tomorrow night, is that right?’
She looked at the mirror window. ‘There really isn’t anyone back there.’
‘I said there wasn’t.’
She nodded. ‘Now I believe you. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be discussing this in earshot of your colleagues.’
‘Skye, I don’t know anything about your religion, apart from seeing films like Rosemary’s Baby and The Wicca Man.’
‘No wonder you’re worried.’
‘First she does that course, The Way of Wicca, now there’s this ceremony to become a witch.’ He paused, but she didn’t object to his use of the word. ‘What will she have to do?’
She was just about to answer, but then cocked her head to the side, eyes on the partially open door. It was pushed fully open.
McCloughlin stood glowering in the doorway. ‘DI Spicer, get out.’
Jon stood. ‘Sir, this woman is known to me as part of the investigation—’
‘Out. Now.’
Jon shot an apologetic glance at Skye, who was also getting to her feet.
McCloughlin didn’t budge, making Jon step awkwardly around him. Squeezing past, he thought how easily he could lift the other man up and throw him against the wall.
As soon as he was out in the corridor, McCloughlin closed the door and half turned his head. ‘Don’t you ever try and interview one of my suspects like that again.’
‘Sir.’ Jon set off for the stairs.
‘Oh, and DI Spicer.’
He caught the tone in McCloughlin’s voice and, reluctantly, looked back.
The other officer nodded towards the interview room. ‘What was all that talk about witchcraft just now?’
Fuck, Jon realised the door had been open for their entire conversation.
Chapter 16
Peter Robson lifted the square of cardboard, pausing a second to study the worms half-buried in the compacted soil beneath. The creatures sensed they were now exposed and slowly began to probe at the earth, seeking safety below the ground.
Robson dug his fingers into the cold layer and hooked one out. Immediately it contracted to half its length and began writhing about in his hands. He could feel the ridges of its skin catching on his palm.
The magic mushrooms he’d eaten three hours before had now worked their way fully into his bloodstream and he stared at the creature, marvelling at its bizarre construction. A tube of goo; eyeless, limbless, hairless, yet a thinking creature all the same. After a few seconds its movements became calmer and it tried to extend its front tip between two of his fingers.
‘Tickles,’ Robson smiled, saliva glistening on his lower lip as he dropped the creature. He placed the flattened out box against the bare brick wall then turned to retrieve that day’s late edition of The Chronicle. It lay on the other side of the expanse of cardboard he’d spread out across the floor of the tunnel. He looked at the writing on the boxes.
Prince’s tuna. Sharwood noodles. Kellogg’s Frosties. The tiger’s chest puffed out as he gave Robson an approving nod. The young man lowered himself on all fours for a closer look.
‘They’re grrreat,’ he murmured, extracting a few more mushrooms from the tangled clump in his pocket. He popped them in his mouth, keeping it open and chewing quickly, trying to swallow them before the dusty flavour enveloped his tongue.
The layer of boxes undulated slightly as he picked up the paper then crawled back to his improvised seat. The headline on the front page was studied for a second, then the page was quickly turned, rustle of paper deadened by the tunnel’s confines. At page three he paused to bring the black candle closer.
As usual, the flame took his attention and minutes passed as he gazed at the source of light, watching tiny flecks as they were drawn across the pool of wax and into the wick. Eventually his eyes swivelled back and he had to think hard to remember what had originally caught his attention. The report on the church arson. The words kept trying to drift off the page and he had to anchor them down by running a finger below each sentence.
Following the discovery of the body on Monday morning, police are now considering the possibility that the victim died as part of a Satanic ritual.
Robson violently shook his head. That was wrong! They were spouting a loud of bullshit. They had fallen for the lies. He carried on through the report, banging a fist against the floor when he read about how the murder victim was believed to be a fan of the Death Metal scene. It was, the paper attested, an evil form of music inextricably linked to devil worship.
You want evil? I’ll show you the meaning of evil. He looked at the candle once again. When the flames are licking at your feet, you’ll know what hell on earth feels like. And it won’t be the pain that makes you scream, it will be the knowledge of what’s waiting for you once you’re dead. He looked to Tony and the tiger winked back. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Oh no, you’re wrong. You’re very fucking wrong. Vengeance is anyone’s. Vengeance belongs to those who are prepared to take it.
His German army coat felt good as he put it on. He folded the paper up and slipped it into an inner pocket. Then he crawled across to the plastic container. Petrol sloshed inside as he lifted it. Plenty for what he wanted to do. He stood up and, keeping his head bowed, walked unsteadily to the mouth of the tunnel. With his free arm, he lifted the curtain of tarpaulin masking his lair and stepped out into the night.
Movement in the air above him. A black form skittered across the dark orange sky. A helper, sent from below to look out for him. An empty train rumbled past along the embankment on the other side of the railway junction. Robson made his way through a thicket of bushes before emerging at the side of another track. The line was clear and he stepped carefully between the rails, his feet crunching on the thick gravel between the sleepers.
On the other side he followed the fence, knowing the tracks would lead him to within half a mile of the Sacred Heart. Ten minutes later, he squeezed through a gap in the wire, scrambled down a shallow slope, then crossed the Ashton Old Road. The streets were deserted as he strode quickly towards his target, cutting across the playing fields to approach the graveyard the same way as he had done before. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted, telling him it was safe.
Next to the police caravan and the blue Volvo parked next to it, arc lights shone towards the remains of the church. He cradled the container in the crook of an arm, not wanting it to swing against the
perimeter wall as he followed it to the corner of the vicarage garden. He waited for any activity, either in the house or near it. Nothing. Carefully he climbed over the wall and ran across the lawn.
At the front door he began balling up pages of the newspaper, then sloshing petrol over them. Once they were soaked, he forced them through the letterbox, listening as they landed on the other side of the door.
Putting the last sheet of newspaper inside, he held the container up, pressed its neck against the letterbox and tipped more liquid through. Then he rolled the final page into a taper and inserted it below the metal flap. From his pocket he produced a bronze Zippo lighter. He flicked the wheel and a dirty yellow flame popped up. As he held it towards the twisted end of the paper, a notice pinned on the doorframe caught his eye. He pulled it off and held the lighter close to the typed message.
White arrangements are made for the future of The Sacred Heart, Father Ben Waters would like his congregation to know that a very warm welcome awaits them at Our Lady in Abbey Hey. Father Waters is currently taking a well deserved rest for a few weeks at a Catholic retreat near Salamanca in Spain.
The Reverend Canon Manager Maurice Kelly.
So that’s where he’s hiding, thought Robson, stuffing the notice in his pocket. He touched the flame against the end of the taper and it instantly took hold, burning normally for a second before making contact with the damper paper. Suddenly the flame surged towards the door. Blue rivulets of fire began coursing down the wood. By the time the taper fell through the letterbox, Robson was at the corner of the house. A soft whump was audible as the mound of newspaper on the doormat ignited. Yellow light flared up behind the glass panel in the door. He ran for the garden wall, empty container flapping at his side.
Chapter 17
More arc lights had been set up, illuminating the two firemen who were playing streams of water over the front of the vicarage. Jon looked at the blackened door frame and soot-covered bricks above it.
‘It was lucky really,’ Dean Webster said. ‘The bobby on duty in the caravan spotted it early and called us straight away. A few more minutes and the flames would have been up the stairs. As it happens you’ve just got a ruined ground floor.’