Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

  ‘I asked Jon to look into all this New Age stuff as part of the investigation,’ Buchanon stated.

  Jon clenched his teeth together. McCloughlin, Beltane, witchcraft, the Devil and his plants. He didn’t know which he disliked most.

  Gardiner pressed on. ‘Belladonna contains a number of psychedelic ingredients. Along with hyoscyamine, there’s scopolamine which causes profound confusion and disorientation, along with atropine which is a nerve poison. Anyone ingesting it will experience pleasantly hypnotic, visionary effects to begin with. However it can quickly lead on to confusion, anxiety and panic. An overdose causes vomiting, convulsions, heart failure and death.’

  ‘Nice,’ Buchanon muttered. ‘And these plants grow in

  Britain?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Including hemlock, though the chemist wasn’t quite sure why that plant featured in the ointment. It contains no psychedelic properties, it’s just a straightforward nerve poison.’

  ‘What’ – Jon heard the aggression in his voice and proceeded more calmly – ‘is the legal position in regard to possessing this stuff ?’

  ‘If in their natural forms, no problem,’ Gardiner replied.

  ‘You what?’ Jon demanded.

  She held a finger up. ‘But if they’ve been treated in any way, dried or mashed up for instance, they count as a herbal remedy. And under The Retail Sale and Supply of Herbal Remedies Act, you need a licence from The Medicine and Care Agency for that.’

  ‘Has Arkell got a licence?’

  ‘I’ve made the enquiry. They’re getting back to me.’

  ‘Right,’ Buchanon said. ‘Let’s carry on with Tavovitch and

  Padmore. Jon, a bit more pressure maybe?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Jon replied, reaching for the interview room’s door handle.

  ‘By the way,’ Buchanon added. ‘Word’s obviously got out that you lifted Tavovitch earlier.’

  Jon remembered the sulky looking couple with raven black hair hanging around outside Tavovitch’s house when they’d driven him away.

  ‘In fact, there’s a bit of a gathering forming at the front of the station,’ Buchanon continued. ‘Chants of “Free Serberos”, among other things.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Jon replied.

  ‘And another thing, DI Spicer.’ This time it was McCloughlin’s voice. ‘Given the fact that Valerie Evans was murdered, I’m having another go at Skye Booth. Warming up to find out exactly who else is involved in – what do you call a group of witches?

  – ah yes, her coven.’

  Jon opened the door without bothering to reply.

  Chapter 21

  Once Rick had formally resumed the interview, Jon stared at Serberos for a bit, relishing the prospect of nailing him. ‘Your guitarist isn’t so keen on staying in Satan’s Inferno anymore.’

  The news brought an angry shine to the eyes of Serberos.

  ‘Give a fuck. Couldn’t play anyway.’

  ‘Ah, but he can sing. In fact he’s singing away for us right now. Beautiful voice, telling my colleagues all about how you and Padmore talked about the first two churches that went up in flames. Though, according to him, news of the third and fourth seemed to come as a bit of a surprise.’

  Serberos acted out a yawn, saying nothing.

  Jon was loving it. Time to sow a seed of doubt about his other band member too. ‘Padmore seems to suspect Robson’s got something to do with the most recent arson attacks.’

  Serberos’s eyes flashed.

  Jon consulted his notebook. ‘Now, forensics have been busy since someone started setting Manchester’s churches on fire. They’ve been taking samples of glass from each side window that’s been smashed in. What do you know about smashing windows, Serberos?’

  He glared back in silence.

  ‘Not a lot then, as I suspected. When you smash a window, the bits don’t just fall inwards and downwards. The pane of glass actually flexes slightly before breaking. Not something you’d notice with the naked eye, but it happens all the same. This results in the outer edge of glass snapping back and sending microscopic particles towards the person who broke it. And when that person then crawls through the window frame, they get a really good coating of fragments down their front. Just bunging the item in a washing machine doesn’t get rid of it.’ He paused to let the information sink in.

  ‘Still got nothing to share wtih us? Come clean now and it’ll look far better in court. No? OK, I’ll continue. Analysis of the remains of Luke Stevens’ top – the one he was wearing when he was burnt to a crisp – has shown fragments of glass from both The Sacred Heart and All Saints in Whalley Range. At the moment we’re going over all your clothes with a fine toothcomb as well. When forensics find fragments of glass from churches one and two, I’m charging you with arson. If they find fragments from churches three and four, I’m charging you with murder too.’

  The duty solicitor waved a hand. ‘I’d like to speak with my client in private. These revelations have nothing to do with the pre-interview briefing you gave me.’

  Serberos’ hands lifted and he started massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers. A low moan came from his slightly open mouth.

  Time to finish him off, Jon thought. ‘Also, I omitted to mention earlier that Valerie Evans was found dead this morning.’

  Serberos froze and his eyes met Jon’s.

  ‘I don’t advise you to say a word more,’ the solicitor snapped.

  ‘Stuffed into a barrel, then rolled down a hill,’ Jon said. ‘This barrel’s sides had been driven through with fifty or so nine-inch nails. The mirror in the hallway of her house had been broken too. The effect I just mentioned? There’ll be bits of that mirror in her attacker’s hair and clothes.’ He lifted his eyes to the top of Serberos’s head and made a snipping motion in the air. ‘Your turn with forensics is soon. They’ll be taking samples.’

  Serberos placed his hands on the table, then turned them up to reveal his palms. ‘Listen, Pete Robson had a fixation with fire.’

  The solicitor leaned towards Serberos. ‘I really must—’ Serberos flicked his fingers at him. ‘The more his dad bullied him, the worse he got. Then he started reading up on Satanism, really getting into it too.’

  Jon sat back, keeping his silence. The little shit was only too happy to start spilling his guts now.

  ‘He started talking about attacking the church. He really wanted to do it damage.’

  ‘It?’ asked Rick. ‘A particular one, or the church as a whole?’

  There was a click as the solicitor replaced the cap on his pen, then sat back with arms crossed.

  ‘The church in general. Christianity, God, everything. He’d got this book by a bloke called Aleister Crowley. He’s a real figurehead for devil worhsippers. Pete wanted us to hold a ceremony to try and summon up a demon. Fuck, it was really disturbed stuff, you know what I mean? We said we weren’t interested.’

  Jon nodded at the tattoo on the younger man’s forehead. ‘And you expect us to believe you with that thing on your face?’

  ‘This?’ Serberos touched a finger against the inverted cross.

  ‘It’s a stunt. I’ll get it lasered off when I’m rich.’

  ‘’Course you will Serberos,’ Jon smiled. ‘After all, I can really see Raging Spires topping the album charts.’

  The skin around Serberos’ eyes tightened. ‘We’ve got a record deal practically on the table.’

  ‘So where will you go with your wads of cash to get it removed?’

  ‘The clinic next to the tattoo parlour on Shudehill. The same guy owns both places.’

  Jon had seen the building. One half for putting the things on, the other for taking them off. The owner was a bloody genius.

  Rick spoke. ‘Convenient. Suddenly the whole devil-worshipping business is just a bit of a laugh. You’re not serious about it at all.’

  Serberos was nodding back. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘And your concerts, the words in your songs, th
ey’re all just a bit of fun too? A harmless charade?’

  Serberos took a deep breath. ‘It’s an act OK? A stage act. Like my name.’

  ‘Your name checks out on our system,’ Rick answered.

  ‘I had it changed by deed poll, that’s why.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Dan Humphries.’

  Jon had to bow his head to hide his smile. ‘Not very Death

  Metal.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Jon looked up. ‘So you’re not descended from Romanian gypsies?’

  ‘Am I fuck! Dad’s from Rochdale, Mum’s from Italy. He worked the cabins on cruise liners, she was the on-board cabaret singer.’

  ‘Was?’ Rick asked.

  ‘They’re retired. Live in Whitby now. Some hideous caravan park on the cliffs.’

  Jon shook his head. It was so good, it had to be true. ‘But I’ve seen you up on stage. Don’t tell me you’re not really enjoying yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, I enjoy it. The girls screaming, who wouldn’t get a buzz? But I don’t believe it. The actual music is shit. To be honest, I prefer older fashioned stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Dylan, Cohen, Cash. Even Sinatra. I’ll take their stuff any day over what I do. Those guys really use their voices. Me? I growl and scream. It’s shit.’

  Despite wanting to laugh, Jon kept his voice cold. ‘I’m not convinced.’

  Serberos sighed. ‘Look, I can keep a distance between the stuff we rant about in our music and what’s actually real. Pete couldn’t. He was getting really confused, frying his brains on

  ’shrooms and acid. Losing the plot big time.’

  Jon leaned forward. ‘Is it Serberos or Daniel then?’

  ‘Dan’s fine.’

  ‘Who burned the churches down then, Dan?’ His eyes dropped to the table.

  ‘Who killed Luke Stevens, or should I say sacrificed him? Was it Pete Robson?’

  No reply.

  ‘You know where Pete is, don’t you?’ He didn’t move.

  Jon slammed a hand on the table. ‘Murder, Daniel! We’re talking murder here! Now, do yourself a favour and start cooperating. Where is Pete Robson?’

  Dan screwed his eyes shut, then pressed his fingers into the sockets. A mumbled reply emerged from his lips.

  ‘Look at me and speak clearly.’

  Dan’s hand dropped and he straightened out of his slouch. ‘I said it’s hard to describe. Easier I just show you.’

  ‘Show us what?’

  ‘Where he’s hiding.’

  Jon turned to Rick. ‘We’ll need a car. In fact, three. One for us, one for Robson and one for evidence. Let’s meet out the back in five.’

  In the corridor, he collared the first officer he saw. ‘Has

  McCloughlin got anyone in for interviewing?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s in room four.’

  Jon ducked into the observation room attached to four. Skye was on the other side of the glass. Her head was tipped back slightly as a female officer took a swab from the inside of her mouth. The officer backed away and Jon could see a tear running down Skye’s cheek.

  He half turned to his fellow observers. ‘No solicitor?’

  ‘Didn’t want one. Not yet, anyway.’

  Jon felt a pang of worry. Be careful, he found himself thinking, McCloughlin is one canny bastard. ‘What’s he charging her with?’

  ‘Obstructing a murder investigation.’

  His old senior officer sat immobile. ‘Valerie Evans was a member of the coven you belong to?’

  Skye nodded.

  ‘As was Troy Wilkes?’

  ‘No. It’s a female only coven. He happened to work in the same shop as me, that’s all.’

  ‘Who else is in this coven then?’

  Alarm spiked in Jon’s chest as Skye licked her lips before replying. ‘The rules are, apart from the person who introduces you to the coven, you don’t learn anyone else’s real name. It goes back to the days when witches were persecuted for their beliefs. It was safer if you didn’t know the identities of those you worshipped with.’

  McCloughlin’s jaw muscles worked back and forth. ‘Would you care to tell me how many people normally belong to a coven?’

  She shrugged. ‘Twelve.’

  ‘And it was Valeria Evans who introduced you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about the person you introduced?’

  Jon picked at his lower lip with a thumbnail. Please don’t feed my sister’s name to that bastard.

  ‘I haven’t introduced anyone, as yet.’

  ‘And you’re certain you don’t know the identity of a single other member?’ McCloughlin asked.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘So you do know who your fellow witches are?’

  ‘Only one.’

  Buchanon’s pen was poised. ‘Who?’

  ‘She’s someone I see around town, that’s all.’

  ‘What, you pass her in the street?’

  ‘No. Through her work.’

  ‘Her name please.’

  ‘I can’t say. I can ask her to contact you, but I can’t give you her name.’

  ‘Skye,’ McCloughlin’s voice was surprisingly soft. ‘Your fellow witches are being murdered, one by one. How will the next execution go? We’ve had a swimming and a barrel roll. Maybe a burning at the stake? The Inquisition had some great ways of killing people. Spiked braces, nasty ratcheted machines. Valerie looks like a pin cushion. Shall I get a photo? Oh, I forgot. You’ve probably seen her already. In one of your visions.’

  Another tear set off down Skye’s cheek.

  ‘What’s going on Skye?’ McCloughlin suddenly shouted.

  ‘You claim you were at Valerie Evans’ house the night Troy

  Wilkes died. What were you doing there again?’

  She wiped her face with her fingers. ‘Performing certain rites. By the time we’d finished it was very late, so I stayed over.’

  ‘Which room?’

  ‘The spare one.’

  ‘Where exactly in the house is it?’ Top of the stairs, second on the left.’

  ‘Sheets or a duvet?’

  ‘Duvet.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Dark purple.’

  ‘So when I direct forensics to that bed, they’ll find hairs from your head on that pillow?’

  ‘I doubt it. I stripped it the next morning. It all went into

  Valerie’s washing machine.’

  ‘You’re not helping yourself much here, are you? Don’t worry, if you slept in that room, you’ll have shed DNA evidence somewhere. You’d just better pray we find a hair somewhere. In fact, there’s quite a lot riding on that little head of yours isn’t there?’

  Skye’s eyes were now closed.

  ‘Jon!’ Rick’s voice from the corridor.

  He took one last glance at McCloughlin. God, you’re a prick, he thought as he left the room.

  Chapter 22

  The crowd of teenagers looked over at the convoy of three vehicles as they left the station’s staff car park. Jon stared back, taking in the black beanie caps, Satan’s Inferno T-shirts, absurd chains looping down from belts, studded leather wristbands and ridiculous platform boots that bristled with buckles.

  Traffic on the main road forced them to a standstill and the group edged closer. Daniel Humphries began to wave, revealing the handcuffs. Their cries of delight turned to shouts of dismay.

  A lanky young male in a full-length black coat ran forward, acne peppering his chin. ‘Let him go!’

  He was joined by a white-skinned girl, black eye-shadow adding to her angry look as she yelled, ‘Fucking pigs!’

  Others joined her and they pressed forward as one, many holding up hands with just a forefinger and little finger extended. They gestured at Jon, eyes wide and hostile. Some sort of Satan thing no doubt, he thought. A bang went off in the vehicle like a rifle shot. Someone had slammed a hand on the roof. Jon lowered his window. ‘To
uch this vehicle again and you’re under arrest. Now fuck off.’

  They hesitated, some stepping back on to the pavement. A gap opened in the traffic and they sped off round the corner. Looking at Daniel in the rear view mirror, Jon spotted his smirk.

  ‘You think it’s funny? Messing with their heads, encouraging them to worship the devil?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘If they weren’t so estranged from the world, they wouldn’t be so interested in me. You should see the stuff I get sent through myspace.’

  ‘What is this bloody myspace?’ Jon growled.

  ‘A networking website, granddad. Kids message me all the time, asking about the meaning of life. Me?’ He laughed.

  ‘Great bloody example you are,’ Jon murmured in reply, eyes on the road.

  Dan slumped back. ‘They’re not my fucking responsibility, I’m in the entertainment business. Where the hell are their parents? It should be their mums and dads offering them guidance, not me. How fucked up is them asking me for advice? Serberos Tavovitch, lead singer of Satan’s Inferno, the one who beckons to the Beast, trying to draw him up to the surface of the earth. Fucking joke.’

  Jon glanced at him in the rear view mirror. ‘So that crowd of morbid-looking losers back there. You’re totally free of blame?’

  ‘If they weren’t left in their rooms with only a computer for company, my fan base would plummet. Give them something to enjoy in their miserable lives. Mum, dad, a meal round a table for a start.’

  ‘And your mum and dad, what do they think of what you do for a living?’

  ‘They’re not arsed. Mum asks how things are going sometimes.’ He met Jon’s eyes. ‘You’ve got a wedding ring. Any kids?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What sort of hours do you work? Ever home to read them bedtime stories? I suspect not. That’s what I do. My website, my songs: bedtime stories for kids whose parents aren’t around.’

  Jon focused on the road in front, thinking about the hours he worked. Christ, as Holly got older would he find the time to be at home for her? Any murder case soaked the hours up like a sponge. He heard the older officers when they worked late, murmuring in babyish voices to their kids back home. Despite cupping the receivers close to their faces, their sing-song intonations stood out a mile against the brusque work conversations going on around them. And when they hung up, they always looked awkward, having to pause slightly before switching back into work mode.