Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

  ‘It’s DC Gardiner, Sir.’

  He strode across the lawn, just registering the word ‘shitter’ being hissed at his back. ‘Susan, what’s up?’

  ‘It’s like the buses. Nothing, then three turn up at once.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Females from courses at the Psychic Academy. Three who’ve had private tuition with Arkell have returned my calls in the last hour. All think they may have been assaulted by him.’

  Once again, the enormous chaise-longue in the man’s office flashed in Jon’s mind. ‘Three? How many did you ring?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Christ, that’s some strike rate.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘None thought to come forward before?’

  ‘No. Their experiences are all so similar though. Vague suspicions, a sense of unease, but nothing they thought warranted an actual accusation.’

  ‘Any willing to do so now?’

  ‘If the list grows longer, yes. Safety in numbers. It’ll just take one to jump and the rest will follow. Up until now each one thought they were the only one to experience something dodgy.’

  ‘OK, carry on digging.’

  ‘I’ve run out of names to call.’

  ‘I’m not far from his Academy now. Let me pay him a visit. I’ll get some more attendance lists. Good work Susan.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘By the way, where’s McCloughlin?’

  ‘In with Buchanon at the moment.’

  ‘Is he still holding the girl from the New Age shop, Skye

  Booth?’

  ‘No, he bailed her about half an hour ago, told her to go straight home. He’s also organising a car to sit outside her house.’

  ‘He’s putting her under surveillance?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Skye Booth walked quickly up the path leading to her front door. As she reached for her keys she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. That bastard. He represented all that she hated about the male psyche. Aggressive, patronising, fixated. The way he’d gone at her, using the details about Valerie to upset her. Valerie. Oh, you poor soul. How you must have suffered. She felt tears springing up once again and she sniffed them back.

  The key wouldn’t go in the lock. What was up with the bloody thing? She tried again, but something was blocking it. Shit.

  She crouched down to examine the key hole. Some idiot had jammed tissue paper into it. As she tried to dig it out a shadow fell across her. Skye’s head had started to turn when a hand locked on to the back of her neck. As she opened her mouth to shout, a palm that reeked of petrol clamped over her mouth.

  Chapter 23

  ‘Who was the bloke outside the Cathedral?’

  Jon glanced at Rick, then turned back to the pavement ahead.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Jon could tell more was to come.

  ‘Alice mentioned one time that you’ve got a younger brother. Left home—’

  ‘It wasn’t him. That’s just some scrote I use for information.’ Rick breathed in and Jon could tell he wasn’t convinced. Before another question came, he spoke again. ‘So if Susan’s got three names already, Arkell could have assaulted dozens of girls.’

  Rick nodded. ‘Seems likely.’

  They rounded the corner and were confronted by the dramatic sweep of Urbis. Jon regarded the translucent panels making up the sides of the museum and was reminded of an iceberg, or a ski jump. A couple of skateboarders glided past, backs of their jeans so low that the upper half of their boxer shorts were revealed.

  Their walk took them up the side of the Printworks and into the narrow streets of the Northern Quarter. Five minutes later they were trotting up the steps leading into the building that housed the Psychic Academy. The downstairs foyer was quiet, just a couple of Indian women browsing in the textile shop to their left.

  Jon took the stairs two at a time, his hand on the Academy’s door handle before he saw the sign sellotaped to the wooden panel.

  We are now closed until Monday the third of May. This is to give me adequate preparation time for Beltane. Blessed be, Tristan.

  What the hell is this blessed be business?’ Jon murmured, shaking the locked door. ‘Skye Booth signed off with it on Valerie Evans’ answerphone too.’

  ‘Susan Gardiner asked the guy at the Met about it. It’s a salutation traditionally used by witches.’

  Jon’s hand dropped to his side. ‘To address one another?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Fuck. Did that mean Arkell was involved in the coven Ellie was joining? Skye had told McCloughlin it was a female only coven, but did that apply to the big ceremonies like Beltane? He reached for his phone. ‘Susan? It’s Jon Spicer here. The Psychic Academy is now shut for the weekend. Are you in front of a box?’

  ‘Yeah, logged on right now.’

  ‘Run me an address search on Tristan Arkell would you? I need to know where he lives.’

  ‘OK, hang on.’

  Turning away from Rick’s look of disapproval, he listened to the clicking of the keyboard. A few moments later her voice came back on the line. ‘No Tristan Arkell is on the system. You know, the Medicine and Health Care Agency called too. They’ve no record of any Psychic Academy of Tristan Arkell either.’

  ‘Manchester Council?’

  ‘Contacted them. He’s failed to register the Academy with them as well.’

  ‘How long has this place been doing business? Jesus Christ, you’d have thought they would have noticed.’

  ‘What, in the Northern Quarter? Places are popping up and disappearing there all the time.’

  Jon thought about the warren of roads and old warehouses they’d just passed through. She was probably right. ‘Well, at least when we do find him we can lift him for more than the supply of proscribed drugs. Contact the Department of Work and Pensions – they must have him or his business listed somewhere.’

  ‘OK boss.’

  ‘We’re heading back in, see you in a bit.’

  As Longsight Police station came into view they couldn’t miss the gathering of youths hanging round the front entrance. It had now expanded to well over forty, the lot dressed in black.

  ‘The word to describe a load of crows. Murder I think,’ Jon remarked. ‘Fits that lot too. A murder of Death Metallers. Look at the sight of them.’

  Some were sitting on the pavement, others stood huddled in small groups of three or four. Many seemed happy just to be on their own, flicking cigarette lighters, studying mobile phones or simply staring off into space. At the far edge of the group, blonde hair stood out. Carmel, interviewing a couple of them.

  ‘I’ll get a uniform to move them on,’ Rick said as they turned down the side street. ‘They’re causing an obstruction.’

  Jon waved a hand. ‘Let them protest. At least they’re engaging in something mildly productive.’

  When they got to the incident room Rick made a beeline for his computer. Jon walked across to Buchanon’s office. He was on the phone. Seeing Jon at the door he raised a hand and beckoned him in.

  Jon took a seat, his attention caught by the screensaver on his senior officer’s monitor. The oval form that dominated the screen was made up of an incredibly intricate blend of colours. Speckles of dark blue at the top and bottom of the shape spread inwards, merging into greens, then yellows and oranges. Towards its centre the shades altered again to reds and finally a few purples.

  Buchanon hung up, then gazed at the image for a second.

  ‘Beautiful, don’t you think?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The universe, thirteen billion years ago.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Buchanon smiled. ‘My wife works for the School of Physics and Astronomy at the University of Manchester. She’s involved in a project called The Very Small Array. It’s purpose is to analyse the cosmic microwave background.’

  Jon groaned inwardly. There’s no way I’m holding on t
o the thread of this conversation for long, he thought. ‘Cosmic microwave background?’

  ‘Or CMB. As far as I can understand, every element in the universe has a specific frequency that you can analyse through the radiowaves it gives out. Jodrell Bank, where my wife works, is basically a big ear, able to listen to those radiowaves at frequencies of up to thirty gigahertz.’

  ‘That’s a lot I take it.’

  ‘A television receives at around eight hundred megahertz. A gigahertz is made up of one thousand megahertz, so yes.’

  ‘And this image is meant to be the universe how many billion years ago?’

  ‘Around thirteen. The Big Bang occurred about thirteen and a half billion years ago, but you can’t study it from day one because no elements existed at that point. They took another four hundred thousand years to start taking shape. That’s what this image is – streams of radiowaves from that point, visually represented by colour. The dark reds are the warmest parts, dark blues the coldest.’

  Jon studied the image again. Stuff like this, he thought, actually makes my brain ache. It reminded him of looking up at the night sky as a child and wondering where space ended.

  ‘Scientists,’ Buchanon continued, ‘can analyse this data and gain real insights into the origins of our universe.’

  How can people still believe in heaven, Jon thought, when images like this exist? God has got nowhere left to hide. Except, of course, within the confines of unstable people’s minds.

  ‘That was Nikki Kington, by the way. The Crime Scene Manager at The Sacred Heart.’

  ‘I know who she is,’ Jon muttered, peeling his eyes from the screen.

  Buchanon glanced at him. ‘That sounded a bit ominous.’ Jon shrugged. ‘Sorry. It wasn’t meant to.’

  ‘She’s got some interesting news. Traces of blood have shown up.’

  ‘Where?’

  She’s bringing in a diagram to show us. The pathologist’s final report is due any minute too. Looks like we’re about to get some answers. Now, what’s been going on with you?’

  Jon crossed his legs. ‘Serberos Tavovitch – real name Daniel Humphries – took us to where Peter Robson has been hiding out. DC Murray and Ashford should have brought in the evidence bags from the scene.’

  ‘The container of petrol and the carjack? I’ve already seen them. They’ve gone straight to the lab.’

  ‘Good. It’ll be interesting to see where any shards of glass on them are from.’

  ‘And the petrol in the can,’ Buchanon added. ‘With luck we’ll be able to establish a link to the vicarage too.’

  Jon felt a slight jolt to the chest. The vicarage. Father Ben Waters. He’d forgotten about him. Wasn’t Rick meant to have rung the church representative to make sure the old guy was safe? ‘Is there any chance of putting an alert out to the airports? And ferries too? If Pete Robson is the person targeting the priest, and he’s stolen the man’s car, he could try to track him down out there.’

  ‘You mean attack him in this retreat at Salamanca? How would Robson know he’s there?’

  ‘I’m sorry Sir, it completely slipped my mind. A notice on

  Waters’ front door revealed the fact.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It was for the parishoners. It mentioned that Waters is recuperating in a retreat near Salamanca in Spain.’

  ‘Bloody great, Jon,’ Buchanon cursed, picking up the phone.

  As he made the call, Jon’s eyes strayed back to the image on the monitor. There was a sense of infinity in the frozen kaleidoscope of colours. And here we are, Jon thought, frantically scrabbling around on this little bit of rock.

  Buchanon hung up. ‘Let’s hope that slip doesn’t cost us.’

  Jon’s mind snapped back. ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Now,’ Buchanon breathed in. ‘We’re going to have to release the band members downstairs on bail.’

  Jon shot him a questioning glance.

  ‘Forensics need more time to analyse their clothing and we’ve held them for almost eight hours as it is. I don’t want to eat up any more of the twenty-four hours we’ve got before having to charge them.’

  Jon looked at his watch. Almost four o’clock. Buchanon had a point, fuck it.

  ‘Don’t worry Jon. We’ll drag them back once the evidence is in.’ He turned in his seat and looked out of the window on to the street. ‘Plus it’ll clear that rabble away. It’s like a scene from a horror film down there.’

  Jon remembered what the bouncer outside Diabolic had said and smiled. ‘Night of the Living Dead you mean?’

  ‘Precisely. Oh, I sent a couple of officers among them earlier on. They asked anyone if they recognised Luke Stevens or remembered him having much contact with the band. Taciturn lot, they are.’

  ‘No one had anything to say then?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘The crime reporter from the Evening Chronicle is down there asking questions too. I could try her. She may have more luck.’

  ‘You’ve got her phone number?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And you trust her?’

  ‘She’s a hack, of course not. I’ll be careful.’ Buchanon nodded hesitantly. ‘OK then.’

  Jon took out his mobile and selected Carmel’s entry from the phone book. She answered after a couple of rings. ‘Don’t look now Carmel. We’re watching you.’

  She turned her back to the station. ‘And who says the country isn’t turning into a police state?’

  ‘Every move you make,’ Jon laughed.

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up on Luke Stevens.’ Sarcasm was thick in her voice. ‘I had to get it from the voice bank.’

  Jon thought of the telephone service on which Greater Manchester Police’s press department left announcements concerning ongoing cases. ‘Sorry Carmel, I should have . . .’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’d half a mind not to send those articles about the Psychic Academy over.’

  ‘You dug some out?’

  ‘Arranged for a junior to deliver them a bit earlier.’

  ‘Cheers. What are you up to down there?’

  ‘Background on Satanism and Death Metal. We’re doing a feature on links between the two, just like you suggested.’

  ‘Fair play. Listen, we’re trying to work out if Luke Stevens had any connection to Satan’s Inferno. None of that lot down there will talk to us.’

  He watched her head dip as she processed the comment.

  ‘You’re charging Satan’s Inferno with arson?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But you’ve got them in custody. What are the charges then?’

  ‘None as yet. Can you ask around in the crowd? Do any of them remember Luke from gigs, how friendly was he with the band, were there any times he was invited backstage. Try the girls, I know the lead singer would invite female fans to hang around after gigs had finished.’

  ‘And you’ll reciprocate how?’

  Jon glanced at his SIO, uncomfortable about cutting deals in front of him. ‘I’ll give you the identity of the victim from Alderley Edge a few hours ahead of any official announcement.’

  ‘Which will be?’

  ‘Once we’ve traced a relative.’

  ‘But you know who she is, right?’

  ‘Don’t remember saying the victim was female.’

  ‘Damn!’ She laughed. ‘Nearly got you. Will you give me cause of death too?’

  ‘Let’s see what you get on Luke Stevens first.’

  ‘Done.’

  He cut the connection.

  Buchanon was rolling his eyes. ‘Anything more on Arkell? DC Gardiner informs me his list of accusers is growing all the time.’

  ‘We’re trying to determine his address. Problem is, we don’t even know if Arkell is his real name.’

  ‘This fake name business seems to be catching.’

  ‘And he hasn’t registered the Psychic Academy with the relevant authorities. There’s not much to track him by at all in fact.’r />
  ‘OK. Carry on with it, I’ll call a meeting once Nikki Kington shows up.’

  A few minutes later the sound of cheering started up outside. Jon and Rick wandered over to the windows overlooking the street. The three band members were obviously at the front entrance, just out of sight. A second later Alec Turnbull hurried into view, the crowd hardly noticing him go. Padmore and Humphries then appeared, the lead singer holding his arms up and milking the applause. Jon watched Carmel as she directed the photographer to get it all on film.

  A voice started up and the chorus soon caught on. ‘Serberos! Serberos! Serberos!’

  ‘God, I’d love to open the window and let them know he’s actually called Dan, son of a cabin boy from Rochdale,’ Jon said.

  Rich laughed. ‘They wouldn’t believe you.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ Jon said, considering a quiet call to Carmel instead.

  As the dark mass moved off down the street with the reporter following, Jon and Rick returned to their desks and began typing up reports for that day.

  At five o’clock Buchanon’s voice rang out. ‘Listen up everyone. I have the final report from the pathologist and fresh information from The Sacred Heart. Miss Kington, go ahead.’

  Jon turned round. Nikki was standing next to Buchanon. She glanced up for a second, then turned back to the evidence bags on the table before her. ‘Erm, we’ve been conducting LMP tests on the floor of the church—’

  Buchanon raised a finger and Nikki’s speech immediately dried up. ‘LMP – a test for human blood.’

  ‘Sorry, yes. We impregnate wipes with leucomalachite and hydrogen peroxide. If it comes into contact with blood, the wipe develops a green stain.’ She held up a bag. Inside was a piece of wood. ‘This is a section of floorboard from below the window that Luke Stevens used to enter the Sacred Heart. Though its upper side shows extensive fire damage, its underside is relatively unscathed. The green lines you can see are where blood has run down between the floorboards.’

  She held up another two bags. ‘The neighbouring boards, also stained. We’ve taken up the floor right back to the seat of the fire. The most blood was pooled beneath the floor at that spot, but traces show up all the way back to the window.’