Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

‘You and your posh education,’ Jon replied. ‘Finally proving good for something. Do us a favour and give this thing something to eat.’

  Rick held up a box of cat biscuits and shook them. The animal immediately ran across to him.

  Jon eased the door fully open with an elbow and looked down the passage leading to the front door. Fragments of mirror littered the carpet and a table was overturned. ‘Signs of a struggle here.’

  Rick appeared at his side. ‘Those look like droplets of blood on the carpet leading back to the front door. Blood on the doorframe too.’

  Jon tilted his head back, assessing the scene before him.

  ‘Someone attacks her here, drags her out of the house and drives her to Alderley Edge. Someone she let in, or someone who forced his way in when she answered the door?’

  Rick was peering into a side room. ‘Someone she let in, I’d say.’

  Jon glanced round his colleague. A small table covered with crimson velvet stood in the centre of the room. A deck of tarot cards were on one side, a jug of water and two glasses on the other. ‘More bloody New Age stuff.’

  Rick picked up a business card from a stack next to a crystal ball on the sideboard. ‘Valerie Evans, Fortune Teller.’

  Jon pursed his lips. ‘Not much good, I’d say.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She didn’t see this coming.’

  ‘Three words Jon. Out. Of. Order.’

  ‘Come on, you’ve got to keep a sense of humour, mate.’ He tried to step into the room and almost tripped over the cat. It looked up at him with an adoring expression. ‘That’s why I can’t stand the things,’ he cursed. ‘Its owner has been snatched a few hours ago and it doesn’t care. All those sad people who reckon their cats love them are fooling themselves. Cats don’t give a shit about anyone, they’re only affectionate when they want something. Usually food. Isn’t that right you fickle little bastard? Want some more biscuits don’t you?’

  Its purr sounded like a distant helicopter.

  ‘Give me a dog any day.’ He stepped over the animal and examined the spines of books lining a shelf on the wall. Secrets of the Shaman. Celtic Myths. Witch Hunt: A history of Persecution. Tarot, the Oracle of Angels. The Magic of Wicca.

  His eyes lit on a collection of slim booklets. ‘These are the ones for sale in Magick.’ He pulled a couple of leaflets out from the shelf below. Details of courses at the Psychic Academy. There in the list of tutors was her name. ‘Valerie Evans – the Real Deal. She taught at the Psychic Academy, just like Troy Wilkes.’

  Rick looked directly at Jon. ‘Yeah, I remember now. She also taught the Way of Wicca course, the one your sister and that Skye Booth were on.’

  Jon shut his eyes. Christ, Rick was right. He glanced about.

  ‘I’ve heard her name mentioned in connection to something else. What the hell was it?’

  Rick was walking his fingers along her collection of CDs.

  ‘Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Verdi, Schubert. Satan’s Inferno, Raging Spires.’ He turned the case over. ‘Signed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s been signed. “To Valerie, thanks for everything. Serberos

  Tavovitch.”’

  Jon narrowed his eyes. ‘So he knew her too. Time we hauled that freak and his band mates to the station. I’ll call this in, we’re going to need forensics.’

  As he reached for his mobile, Rick stepped across to Valerie’s phone on the table in the corner. A red light was urgently flashing. He pressed ‘Play’ and an electronic voice announced there were three new messages and one saved. First new message had been received yesterday at five-fifteen p.m.

  Jon and Rick’s eyes locked as McCloughlin’s voice came on the line. ‘Miss Evans, this is DCI McCloughlin from the Greater Manchester Police. Could you call me at the earliest opportunity please.’

  As McCloughlin read out his number, Rick whispered, ‘What the hell does he want with her?’

  Jon’s sense of unease was rapidly growing. Pressure against his legs. That bloody cat again. The electronic voice continued. Second new message, received yesterday at six-twenty-four p.m. McCloughlin again. ‘Miss Evans, DCI McCloughlin, Greater Manchester Police. Sorry to bother you. Can you call me as a matter of urgency please.’

  As he read out his number again, Jon racked his brain. How had McCloughlin linked her to his side of the investigation? a connection to the first victim, surely. They were colleagues at the Psychic Academy, after all.

  The machine began to speak again. Third new message, received today at eight-thirty-six, a.m. ‘Miss Evans.’ McCloughlin now sounded impatient. ‘It’s imperative that you call me as soon as possible. My number again.’

  Jon resisted the urge to boot the cat across the room. ‘Shit. This is going to McCloughlin’s syndicate, he was on to her first.’

  The electronic voice carried on relentlessly. ‘First saved message, received on, Wednesday, twenty-eighth of April at fiveeleven p.m. “Hi Val, it’s me, Skye.”’

  Jon’s eyes latched on to the blinking red light.

  ‘Give me a buzz about tonight. Blessed be.’

  His mind clicked. Skye Booth. That’s where he’d heard Valerie Evans’ name mentioned. In the interview room at Longsight. His eyes swept the room, eventually finding a small photo on the window sill. Facing the camera was a middle-aged woman with a shock of white hair. It curled over her shoulders and hung down to her waist. It was the woman who they’d seen in the reception of the Psychic Academy. ‘Fuck, I know why McCloughlin was calling. Skye Booth claimed she was staying here the night Troy Wilkes was murdered. McCloughlin is trying to check out her alibi.’

  Rick’s mouth was slightly open. He looked around his feet as if suddenly realising he’d wandered into the middle of a mine field. ‘When he finds out we’ve been tramping around in here . . .’

  Jon’s phone was already in his hand. As he scrolled through for Buchanon’s number he thought about Skye Booth. A vision for one murder victim and an alibi that depended on the second. McCloughlin wouldn’t go so easy on her this time.

  Chapter 20

  Serberos leaned back in his chair, wrists draped over his thighs, hands almost cupping his crutch. He tilted his head at the tapes revolving round in the Neal twin-deck. Next to him a duty solicitor rotated a silver fountain pen between his finger and thumb, his eyes fixed on Jon.

  ‘What’s the speakers on that thing got?’ Serberos asked. ‘Can we put on some music after this and see?’

  Jon was looking down at his notes. ‘It can only record.’ At the edge of his vision he saw Serberos’ right hand slide out on the table top. He began tapping up and down with all four fingers. ‘Could you stop that?’

  Serberos’ fingers paused in mid-air, then fell in sequence against the hard surface. A last little tattoo. If it was meant to wind Jon up, it worked. He kept his eyes on his notes, taking his time. Eventually he looked up. ‘What is your connection to Valerie Evans?’

  Serberos examined the nails on his thumb and forefinger. They were long, pointed and varnished black. ‘She works at the Psychic Academy. I did her tarot course. Crap tutor she is. Waffles too much.’

  ‘Do you know her in any sort of context outside the

  Academy?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Ever visit her house?’ He sniffed. ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a signed copy of one of your CDs there.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I gave her it at the end of the course. As I did everyone in the class. Spreading the word, you know?’

  ‘So you’ve never met her outside the confines of the

  Academy?’

  ‘No.’

  The duty solicitor sat up straighter. ‘When you arrested my client, it was on suspicion of arson. What’s that got to do with Valerie Evans?’

  Jon ignored his question. ‘Who else was on Valerie’s course? Was Luke Stevens?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen the guy, as I’ve already stated.’

  Yes,
you have, thought Jon. And I don’t believe you. ‘Do you remember the names of anyone else on that course?’

  He tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling tiles. Jon knew them well. Brown water stains formed rings on the ones directly above the table. ‘Let’s think,’ Serberos sighed. ‘Older guy, Pierce something. Two middle-aged dears. One was called Margaret.’

  As he spoke, Jon watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

  ‘Good looking chick. Bit hippy-dippy. Saffron . . . Celeste . . . Skye? something like that, I think.’

  Skye Booth. Surprise, surprise, thought Jon. ‘See any of them outside the classroom?’

  ‘The hippy chick. She works in a New Age shop on Oldham Street. I’ve been in to put up posters for our gigs. Offered her a free ticket once or twice.’ He gave Jon a look. ‘Never snagged her though.’

  ‘Thing is Serberos, Luke Stevens had a poster of your band above his bed and a collection of ticket stubs from dozens of your gigs. What I’m wondering is this: was he just a regular fan, or something more? Don’t groupies get invited backstage occasionally? Cross the line from just a member of the audience to something a little more familiar?’

  Serberos sneered. ‘If they’re girls, yeah. Not skinny little lads.’

  Jon’s pen paused. Serberos had just fucked up. ‘I didn’t say he was skinny.’

  The singer raised his eyebrows. ‘Every bloke at our concerts is skinny. The only fat Goths you get are female.’

  Jon reflected a moment. The bloke was bloody right. The ones he’d seen were emaciated to a man. ‘So where’s Peter Robson at the moment?’

  ‘Yo no sero, amigo.’ Jon stared at him.

  Serberos kept the Spanish accent. ‘I know notheeng.’

  Jon kept on staring. Yeah, he’d make a good waiter on the Costa del Sol. Where the hell are you really from? ‘Why aren’t you telling me the truth?’

  The other man’s nonchalant expression was back. ‘Isn’t that your job to find out, officer?’

  Jon’s nails pressed hard against his pen. You cocky shit, I’m going to steamroller you. Not yet, but soon. ‘Is Peter Robson burning down these churches?’

  A pause that lasted a nanosecond too long. ‘No idea.’

  There was a knock on the door and Buchanon poked his head in. ‘Jon.’

  He caught the note in his SIO’s voice. ‘Rick, suspend the interview please.’

  A group of officers were gathered in the corridor outside. As Jon closed the door behind him a couple parted and he saw McCloughlin’s face. It was red with anger.

  Buchanon turned to face him. ‘Progress?’

  ‘Some,’ Jon replied. ‘I’m about to spring the news that Valerie Evans has been murdered. His body language is giving away quite a bit so far. What about the other band members?’

  ‘Padmore’s just giving us the no comment treatment. However, Turnbull is another matter.’

  Jon nodded. ‘I thought he would be. The guy looked like he was shitting himself when I spoke to him backstage that time.’

  ‘He wants to leave the band,’ Buchanon continued. ‘Says he didn’t join it to get in all this. In his opinion Tavovitch, Padmore and Robson torched the first two churches.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Subsequent comments made by Tavovitch and Padmore. No outright admissions, just a hint that it’s all good for publicity. Tavovitch and Padmore also seemed genuinely surprised on hearing about the third and fourth attacks. Padmore was worried, according to Turnbull. He says he overheard Padmore asking Tavovitch if it could have been Robson. Tavovitch just shrugged.’

  Jon leaned against the wall, aware that McCloughlin’s eyes were boring into him. He avoided the stare, just to aggravate him a bit more. ‘Interesting. What about Luke Stevens? Does Turnbull recall ever seeing him backstage?’

  ‘No. But there are a few more developments.’ Buchanon held up a document. ‘Analysis of the glass fragments found in the front of Luke Stevens’ hooded top. The bit protected from the fire by the weight of his body.’

  Jon leaned forward slightly in anticipation.

  ‘They match the glass from the smashed windows of The Sacred Heart and the third church to be attacked, All Saints in Whalley Range. Nothing from the first two though.’

  So was he a part of the first two attacks, or just copying them, Jon wondered. ‘What about the glass fragments from the car jack found at the Sacred Heart?’

  ‘Those results are in too,’ Buchanon replied. ‘A match for the Sacred Heart and also All Saints. Again, nothing on the first two.’

  Jon turned the information over. ‘So if Luke Stevens wasn’t a part of the first two attacks, surely that means we’ve got more than one arsonist at work?’

  Buchanon looked unsure. ‘Well, he certainly wasn’t working alone when he was killed.’

  ‘And an association with the band members from Satan’s

  Inferno is extremely likely,’ Jon added.

  ‘Extremely likely, but not by any means a certainty.’ This from McCloughlin.

  ‘He was a regular at all the gigs they played round town,’ Jon answered. ‘I know some of those venues. A crowd of more than a dozen and you’re doing well. He must, at the very least, have been a familiar face.’

  Buchanon turned to DC Adlon. ‘Follow that up when we resume the interviews. Now, all the band members’ clothes are at the lab. If any of them crawled through one of these church windows recently, we’ll soon know. DC Gardiner, what have you got?’

  She opened the topmost plastic sleeve in her hands. ‘First is the nails in the barrel. I got on to our contact at the Met, the expert on the occult. It rang a bell with him and he tracked down a passage from a book called The Philosophy of Witchcraft. By the way,’ she lowered her file, ‘he’s sending me his copy, along with various other titles from his collection which he thinks will be of help. He’s also put together some fact sheets on the occult, witchcraft and Satanism, they came through on the email just now.’

  ‘The nails, Detective,’ McCloughlin said, as if cajoling a doddery aunt.

  Jon saw Susan frown as she looked down. ‘Sir. The passage describes how there’s a stone in Perthshire called Witches’ Crag. The name stems from an event where a suspected witch was forced inside a barrel. Sharp nails were then driven through its sides and the barrel was pushed down a hill.’

  McCloughlin looked puzzled. ‘It was a technique used for killing witches?’

  ‘Yes. Quite common in Scotland during the sixteenhundreds.’

  He scratched the bristly hair on his head. ‘But witches were executed by representatives of the church, surely?’

  Jon thought of Henry Robson and his manic stare.

  ‘When I described how Troy Wilkes was killed,’ Gardiner continued. ‘With his thumbs and ankles bound by wire, he immediately said that was a recognised technique for swimming a witch.’

  ‘Which means?’ McCloughlin demanded.

  ‘When they were thrown in ponds or rivers. You know, if they floated they were guilty. A sign of God’s water rejecting them, like it was some sort of baptism. If they sank, they were innocent.’

  ‘But probably drowned anyway,’ Jon added.

  ‘As did Troy Wilkes,’ Gardiner replied.

  Jon glanced at his SIO. ‘They burned witches too. Was that what happened to Luke Stevens?’

  Buchanon was now looking lost. ‘Hang on. Luke Stevens was into Satanism.’ He turned to Gardiner. ‘Have a look at those fact sheets or get on to the guy who wrote them. Have Satanists ever killed each other? If they have, do they imitate the methods the church used for killing witches.’

  ‘OK,’ Gardiner replied. ‘Next?’ Everyone nodded.

  She swapped sleeves and brought out some sheets of A . ‘One of the chemists at the drug squad got back to me on the legal status of henbane, hemlock and belladonna. You’ll like this.’

  Realising not everyone was aware of the allegations against Tristan Arkell, Jon cut in. ‘It appears Tristan Arkell, head o
f the Psychic Academy, drugged a student who had signed up for a transcendental experience with him.’

  ‘A what?’ Buchanon asked.

  ‘Out of body experience. She has no memory of over three hours and suspects Arkell assaulted her while she was out of it. The ‘flying ointment’ recipe he gave her contained henbane, hemlock and belladonna.’

  Gardiner flexed her sheets of paper. ‘All three plants are native to Britain and all are renowned in folklore and witchcraft for their magical properties. Let’s start with henbane.’ She started reading from the notes. ‘Grows up to three feet tall, bell-shaped flowers, stem and leaves sticky to the touch. All parts of the plant are highly toxic, its leaves being the most poisonous. Smelling them alone can cause disorientation and stupor. This is due to several tropane alkaloids, the main one being hyoscyamine.’

  ‘What exactly does it do?’ McCloughlin asked.

  ‘Affects the nervous system, causing a dry mouth, dilation of the pupils, hallucinations and, if the does is high enough, coma and death. Interestingly, it was a pharmaceutical preparation of henbane that Dr Crippen poisoned his wife with.’

  Jon crossed his arms. Arkell was really in the shit, especially if the fat bastard had anything to do with this bloody coven Ellie wanted to join.

  Gardiner flicked over another sheet. ‘Belladonna, otherwise known as Deadly Nightshade. A bushy plant, growing to about four feet high, bearing purplish-black berries in the autumn. In folklore it’s known as the Devil’s own plant. Tradition has it, he’s so keen on its cultivation, it’s only on Beltane night that he can be diverted enough from its care to allow others to harvest it. Hence its older name, The Devil’s Cherry.’

  ‘What is Beltane?’ Buchanon asked.

  Jon stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at his shoes. ‘May

  Eve.’

  ‘Tonight,’ added Gardiner.

  ‘Also known as Walpurgis Night.’ Jon continued. ‘It’s one of the main dates in the Pagan calendar, Signals the coming of summer.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ McCloughlin again, the faintest hint of a sneer in his voice.

  Jon looked up and caught the glint in the other man’s eye.