Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

‘I don’t know, I haven’t asked her.’

  ‘Give her a buzz, will you? Casually, that’s all.’

  ‘She’ll know I’m asking for you. Do your own dirty work.’ His mobile started to buzz. He disconnected it from the charger and looked at the screen. The station. Christ, it wasn’t even eight o’clock. ‘DI Spicer.’

  ‘Morning Jon, it’s Mark Buchanon here.’

  ‘Sir, everything OK?’

  ‘The radio room just contacted me with something. I’ll need you to check it out, I’m just going into a status meeting with the Super.’

  ‘No problem. What is it?’

  ‘A body’s been found. It could be linked to the one in the canal.’

  ‘But that’s McCloughlin’s case, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a strong possibility it has a bearing on our case too. The victim has a tattoo of a five-pointed star.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He paced down the corridor and shut the door of the TV room behind him. ‘Why do you think there’s a link to Troy Wilkes?’

  ‘Victim is naked.’

  ‘Arms and legs bound?’

  ‘No. She’d been forced into a barrel.’ He paused. ‘This is where it gets bizarre. Nails had then been hammered through the wood. It appears the barrel was rolled down a hill. Multiple puncture wounds. There’s a massive amount of blood.’

  ‘She’d been rolled down a hill? Where?’

  ‘Alderley Edge.’

  Jon felt his heart jump. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘No ID at the scene.’

  ‘Any description?’

  ‘Probably in her fifties. Big mane of white hair. That’s it.’

  His heart beat slowed a fraction. ‘Won’t me turning up there tread on McCloughlin’s toes?’

  ‘It’s not even been given an incident number yet, let alone have a syndicate assigned. I’d prefer a member of my team to be on the scene first, but just shout if you’re not happy with that, I’ll try and find someone else.’

  ‘No, that’s fine sir. I’m on my way.’ Once Buchanon had given him what other information he had, Jon hung up, reflecting on the piece of manoeuvring his SIO had just displayed. Maybe, he thought, that’s why he’s a DCI and I’m not. ‘Alice!’ he called towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to go. Tell Ellie she has to stay away from Alderley Edge, OK?’

  Jon saw Rick waiting for him on the pavement in front of Longsight station. He turned his hazards on and slowed to a halt in the middle of the road so his partner could jump straight in. Holding up a hand to the car beeping away behind, he quickly accelerated away.

  ‘Where’s Buchanon and McCloughlin?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Still in with the Super,’ Rick replied, clipping in his seatbelt.

  Jon flicked the siren on, and soon they were clear of the city, hurtling along a dual carriageway past fields that were dotted with sheep and their newly born lambs. Jon watched the young creatures as they chased each other about, their exuberance in total contrast to the grazing adults. A massive John Lewis and M&S loomed up on their right hand side. ‘For the landed gentry who live in these parts,’ Jon commented.

  The turn for Alderley Edge appeared a few minutes later and, as they took it, Jon spotted an expensive looking hotel restaurant at the side of the road. The Merlin. Next came the high street itself, a strange mix of small boutiques and traditional charity shops.

  ‘Best place in the country to pick up cheap designer gear,’ Rick stated.

  Jon peered at the shop they were passing. The items in the window looked anything but reasonably priced. ‘What in there? Tangerine Dreams?’

  ‘No. The Red Cross place next door. All the footballers and their wives who live around here need somewhere to dump last month’s fashions.’

  They got to a Threshers and Rick pointed across to it.

  ‘According to the guy I’m seeing, that off-license sells more bottles of champagne than any of their other branches in the country.’

  Jon whistled. ‘Marvellous, darling.’

  The sign for the B5087 was on their left, and Jon swung the car into the far narrower road. The road began to rise and the houses grew further apart, high walls or hedges screening them from passing traffic.

  ‘The rendezvous point is in the National Trust car park, somewhere along here.’ Jon looked to his left. The field now bordering the road ended at a row of pine trees, the ground beyond dropping sharply away. They were on The Edge itself.

  ‘There you go.’ Rick pointed ahead.

  Jon swung into a small car park – the oak leaf emblem of the National Trust on its gate posts – where three patrol cars and a pale blue Rover were already stationed. Jon could see an officer taking a statement from an elderly woman, whose spaniel stared eagerly out of the vehicle’s back window.

  They climbed out and Rick paused to look at an information board. ‘Says here this place has copper mines that date back to almost two thousand years BC.’

  Jon gave a nod. ‘It’s an interesting spot all right.’

  Uniformed officers were gathered outside an old barn that had been converted into a cafe called The Wizard.

  ‘What is it with this wizard business?’ Rick frowned.

  ‘It’s a local tale. I learned about it on a school trip out here. A wizard waylaid a farmer hundreds of years ago, needing a horse for one of King Arthur’s knights. They’re all meant to be in hibernation somewhere beneath the hill.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rick. ‘Along with a few dragons and ogres no doubt.’

  Jon headed for the nearest uniform, ID badge out. ‘DI Spicer, DS Saville, major incident team. What’s the situation?’

  Before he could answer, a middle-aged man with brown hair in a side parting turned round. ‘Sergeant Dodd, Sir.’ They quickly shook hands. ‘She was found at ten past seven by the lady in the Rover. Or the barrel was. It had rolled into one of the shallow open cast pits further up. Lying on its side in a large pool of blood. She rang nine nine nine.’

  ‘Who was first to the scene?’

  ‘Constable Norris, Sir. Kevin, run through what happened.’ The officer was in his early twenties, hair cut short and flattened down by gel. ‘Well, I arrived at seventy-twenty-five. There was just the dog walker waiting for me here. After speaking with her, we headed up the path and I approached the barrel. As Sarge mentioned, blood was leaking out of it and running into a dip in the ground. The lid of the barrel was nailed shut, so I used a screwdriver from my pen knife to prise it off. I thought it would be a dog or something inside. As soon as I saw the body, I retreated from the scene and called for assistance.’

  ‘I got here twenty minutes later,’ the Sergeant cut in. ‘Had a look myself. Not a pretty sight. That’s when I spotted the tattoo on her shoulder.’

  ‘The five-pointed star?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s naked?’

  ‘I think so. There’s a heck of a lot of blood.’

  ‘How old does she appear to be?’

  ‘Middle aged, a bit older maybe. Long white hair, the bits not matted with blood anyway.’

  ‘Who’s up there now?’

  ‘Three constables, Sir. We’ve sealed the pit off,’ the sergeant replied. ‘About two hundred yards up that way.’

  Jon looked at the wide sandy path rising up into the wooded slopes. ‘OK, show us the way please.’

  The sergeant led off and within seconds they were among beech trees, smooth trunks rearing up around them. Birdsong trickled down and the loamy smell of soil filled the air. Sunlight was breaking through the newly formed canopy above, freckling bluebells that seemed to float like mist just above the forest floor.

  Glancing about, Jon was struck by the sheer force of life bursting out all around him. Things were, he thought, at a tipping point. That brief period as spring segues into summer. Within days the new foliage would have lost its delicate shades of lime and the countryside would sink in on itself, darker, heavier, denser. Ready to soak up the days of sunshine ahead.
r />   He looked at the beech trees again, suddenly realising where architects of religious buildings found inspiration. The trunks were as impressive as those of the columns in any cathedral he’d visited. Ellie’s comments came back, how she wanted to worship outside in the open air. She had a point, this wood was far more pleasant than any fume-filled church.

  They emerged in a large clearing, the area dotted with bowlshaped depressions. Striped tape surrounded one and two officers watched them in silence. At the edge of the shallow pit, Jon glanced down.

  The barrel looked like it had come from a brewery. Curving lengths of dark brown wood were held in place by rusted metal bands at each end. He could just make out the shiny heads of nails peppering the woodwork.

  ‘They’re nine inchers, big and sharp. Must be over fifty of them. She’d been thrown around inside like a rag doll. It’s a right mess.’ The sergeant crossed his arms and planted his feet apart.

  Not on for a second look then, thought Jon, also glad to put it off until forensics gave the all clear. His eyes travelled to the other side of the flat clearing where the slope resumed. ‘What makes you think the barrel was rolled down from higher up?’

  ‘Marks in the soil. It’s left a visible trail down the path.’

  ‘Anyone been up to the top yet?’

  ‘I’ve posted another officer up there,’ the sergeant replied.

  ‘But he’s been instructed to keep well back from where the barrel began its journey.’

  ‘Good work.’ Jon took out his phone and called Longsight.

  ‘DCI Buchanon please.’

  ‘He’s en route to a crime scene. Shall I patch you through to his mobile?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. Is McCloughlin around?’

  ‘En route to the same incident.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He pressed red and looked at Rick. ‘This’ll be interesting. Buchanon’s on his way, McCloughlin too.’

  ‘Dogs fighting over a bone.’

  ‘Yeah, I just hope we don’t get bitten in the process. Shall we take a little wander? See what’s up there?’

  Rick looked sceptical. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Come on. We’ll keep off the path, there’s not going to be much evidence we can contaminate in the undergrowth.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  They walked round the cordon and crossed the grassy clearing. Now the beech wood was interspersed with oaks and Scots pine. The path rose gently, gouges in the sand clearly marking the barrel’s route down.

  Stepping through the ankle-high layer of undergrowth at its side, they eventually reached a steep mound. Standing off to the side was another officer.

  ‘Morning,’ Jon announced. ‘Major incident team.’

  ‘Morning, Sir.’

  ‘Something at the top of this thing then?’ Jon said, looking at the swathe of crushed bluebells leading down from the mound’s summit.

  ‘We reckoned so.’

  Jon and Rick circled round and carefully climbed up the other side. At the top a pile of clothes lay next to a concrete plinth.

  Rick peered at its inscription. ‘The Armada Beacon. Highest point of The Edge and site for one of a chain of fires to signal the anticipated arrival of the Spanish fleet in . Jesus, this place has a long history.’

  Jon was looking at the pile of clothes. The cardigan and blouse were smeared with blood, the stains heaviest on the left collar. Droplets spattered the pair of shoes. ‘She was injured prior to going in the barrel then.’

  Rick took a breath. ‘How do you force someone into a confined space like that? It must have taken some coercion.’

  ‘Perhaps what the blood on the clothes is all about. The threat of a worse beating if she didn’t obey. There’s no way she could have guessed what was being planned.’ He noticed several nails on the sandy earth and felt the skin across his back tighten.

  ‘Imagine being trapped inside when they started hammering those things through.’

  Rick turned away. ‘Horrific. And what a bizarre way to kill someone. What the hell is it about?’

  Shrugging, Jon pulled on a pair of latex gloves and lifted up the cardigan. A bracelet fell out of the folds. Attached to the links was a collection of silver charms. A moon and a sun. A small fish. A frog. A leaping figure. A little cat. In the middle of the tiny sculptures was a rectangular panel, words etched in the metal.

  ‘Allergic to penicillin.’ Jon murmured.

  ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do her now,’ Rick replied, also crouching down.

  Jon turned it over. ‘Ah-ha, here we go. Valerie Evans, Woodlake Avenue, Didsbury.’ He looked at the shifting leaves above them. ‘Where’ve I heard that name before?’ He continued to stare at the canopy, but nothing came.

  Rick looked at the path they’d followed up. It carried on past the mound and snaked off into the trees. ‘Where does the trail lead? Another way up here?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  They picked their way back down and followed it along. A short distance on was a stone circle. Jon regarded the arrangement of moss-covered boulders, then examined the vegetation springing up around it with a sense of trepidation. Ellie was planning to be ferreting around here, searching for bloody herbs. Not any more she won’t . . .

  A hundred or so metres further on, they stepped out of the trees on to a rocky ledge. Below, the Cheshire countryside stretched away, an occasional church spire rising from the rolling green fields. Far off to the left, the grey tower blocks of Manchester’s outer estates glowed dully in the sun. He breathed in the clean air, imagining the existence people scratched out in the shadows of those ugly structures. A different bloody world.

  ‘I doubt they came up this way,’ he said, his glance shifting to the steep incline at their feet. The wail of sirens carried up on the breeze. ‘That’ll be the cavalry. We’d better get back.’

  As they neared the clearing, they could see the number of people gathered in it had increased.

  ‘There’s Buchanon,’ Rick said.

  ‘And McCloughlin,’ Jon added. ‘He’s going to be delighted at finding us here.’

  They emerged from the trees. Buchanon was talking to Sergeant Dodd. McCloughlin had ducked under the tape and was stalking silently round the barrel.

  ‘Sir, we’ve just been up to the top,’ Jon called out. McCloughlin’s face soured. ‘DI Spicer,’ his former SIO spat.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Buchanon glanced over his shoulder. ‘I sent Jon when I realised I couldn’t make it here straight away.’

  McCloughlin’s scowl deepened. He turned back to the barrel and its puddle of blood.

  ‘Anything up there?’ Buchanon asked.

  ‘A pile of blood-stained clothes.’

  ‘Female?’

  ‘Yes. Seems like she was made to strip and then climb into the barrel. I’d guess the lid was then sealed and the rest of the nails hammered in through the sides.’

  Buchanon shook his head. ‘It’s a very particular way of killing someone.’

  ‘Ritualistic, wouldn’t you agree?’ McCloughlin called over. Jon picked up on the implications of the comment. Same as the body in the canal, therefore McCloughlin’s case. He waited for his former SIO to look back at the barrel. ‘There was an identification bracelet with her clothes,’ he whispered to Buchanon. ‘Name and address.’

  ‘Really?’ Buchanon mouthed.

  ‘We could pay a little visit. While you’re sorting things out here.’

  Buchanon’s eyes slid to the floor, creeping across towards McCloughlin. He was leaning to the side, trying to see into the barrel. ‘OK, then. Ring me with what you find.’

  ‘Sir.’

  As they set off towards the car park, McCloughlin suddenly stood. Breathing deeply he took a few steps back, looking like he wanted to puke.

  Chapter 19

  The drive to Didsbury took half an hour. Number thirty-three was set back off the road, window frames and porch painted in cheerful lime. As they walked up the driv
e Jon noticed a battered old orange Citröen 2CV parked by the garage. The choice of Green Party voters. Rick rang the front doorbell and they waited for a reply.

  ‘Try the back?’ Jon eventually said.

  ‘Suppose so.’

  They walked round to the rear of the building. A huge greenhouse filled most of the garden, rows of plants visible through the dirty panes. After knocking on the back door of the house, Jon tried the handle. It opened on to a kitchen done out in a rustic style. Pots and pans hung from a succession of black hooks above an open range stove.

  ‘Hello! Police, is there anyone in!’ The silence was unsettling. Cautiously they stepped inside. Racks of glass pots lined one wall, each one full of herbs. To the side of the door was what looked like a framed tea towel. Jon scrutinised the poem woven into the fabric:

  Poplar makes a bitter smoke, fills your eyes and makes you choke, It is by the Irish said, Hawthorne bakes the sweetest bread,

  But Ash green or Ash brown, is fit for a Queen with a golden crown.

  Elmwood burns like churchyard mould, E’en the very flames are cold, Apple logs will fill your room, with an incense-like perfume,

  But Ash wet or Ash dry, for a Queen to warm her slippers by.

  Old Saying

  A bell began tinking from further inside the house. It was getting closer. Jon and Rick stared at the door on the other side of the room as it began to inch open. A grey cat stepped through the gap. Rick let out his breath. ‘A moggy.’

  It made a beeline for Jon and began to rub itself against his shins, purring loudly. ‘How do they do it?’

  ‘What?’ Rick asked.

  ‘Work out who can’t stand them, then bother that person most.’ He pushed it away with his foot, but the animal didn’t seem perturbed. It snaked between his legs, dipping its head to rub the side of its face on his shoe.

  Rick was squatting by a tray on the floor in the corner. He snorted.

  ‘Found something?’ Jon said, high stepping away from the creature.

  Rick held a forefinger towards the name pointed on the food bowl. ‘Greymalkin. The name of the witches’ cat in Macbeth.’