by Chris Simms
‘Jon, stop it.’
He pinched the bridge of his nose between a forefinger and thumb, sniffed loudly and let his hand fall away. ‘Who was he?’
‘I don’t know. One of the teachers in that place. The memories are so unclear.’
Jon took a seat opposite her. ‘Did you . . . when did . . .’ He stopped. ‘Oh shit Ellie, you never said a word. Why did you never say a word?’
‘I was what? Five, six, seven?’ She looked at him, eyes cold and bright. ‘It was our strict secret of course. He said I had to keep it quiet, or we would never be allowed back to the church. Mum would be angry, God would punish us.’
I will find this fucker, Jon thought, and rip his bastard head off. ‘You and Dave. It was the same man?’
‘Maybe. I was so young. I remember stuff from that time and I still don’t know if it’s real or not. Huge birds of paradise in the trees of our local park. They didn’t really live there, did they? By a little lake?’
Jon smiled, tears in his eyes as his fingers closed over hers.
‘They were peacocks, Ellie. Yeah, there used to be an aviary there.’
She stared off to the side. ‘Peacocks? So I didn’t imagine it.’
‘No, that was real.’ He paused, giving her a second. ‘Ellie, which Sunday school? Mum took you and Dave to a couple, didn’t she?’
‘The first one. The second one I remember far more clearly. It was much closer to our house, so we walked there. The first was a car drive away.’
Jon strained his mind. ‘You’re right. I can still see your two faces in the rear window as Mum drove you off. It was a Zodiac, the car. Massive thing.’
‘I remember the church. It had a big tower. Emerald. Like a turret in the castle from The Wizard of Oz.’
‘The monastery in Gorton? The copper on its spire is green. That’s where the memories are from? The Sunday school there?’
She closed her eyes. ‘I think so. I remember the layout. There was a main hall, then some smaller rooms off to the side. One connected through to the main church, where the old guys in their robes were.’
‘The monks? They wore brown cloak things.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it a monk who . . .’
‘No. He wore trousers, a jumper. Maybe more of a helper . . .’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘I remember him clapping his hands a lot. Calling us to the central bit for stories. And he sometimes played a guitar I think.’
‘How old was he?’
‘He was a grown-up. Looked the same age as Mum and Dad. Not elderly.’
‘Thirtyish then?’
‘I suppose. I’ve tried to remember his face but nothing solid ever appears. I’ve realised over the years that it’s easier just to forget. I should never have even mentioned it.’
‘Forget it? Fuck that. You reckon you were between five and seven when this happened?’
A sudden sigh ended in a shiver. ‘I think so. But Jon, it’s so long ago.’
His mind was racing. Ellie was born in nineteen-seventy-six. So it was someone – an assistant by the sound of it – who helped out at Gorton monastery’s Sunday school in the early Eighties. He knew the school had been knocked down a few years before the entire place finally shut, in Eighty-nine. But there would be records somewhere. There had to be. And whoever the bastard at that Sunday school was, he would find him.
His phone started to ring, but he kept his hand over Ellie’s.
‘Jon, answer it, I need to eat something.’
He met her eyes and could see she was glad of the interruption. Reluctantly, he picked it up. ‘DI Spicer.’
Ellie stood and went over to the toaster.
‘Sir, it’s DC Gardiner. Sorry to call so early, but I had a brainwave.’
‘Go on.’
‘I just logged on to yell.com and put in the name Tristan
Arkell.’
His eyes were fixed on his sister’s back, her bowed head and plump waist. The monastery. Early Eighties. A male helper, in his fifties by now.
‘Sir, are you there?’
‘Sorry Susan, yes. You put his name in where?’
‘Yell.com. The online version of the yellow pages.’
‘And?’
‘His address and phone number are right there. He lives in
Chorlton.’
‘Susan, you’ll go far in this game.’
‘Thanks. Can I bring him in?’
‘Clear it with Buchanon, then go get the fat turd.’ As soon as he pressed red, his eyes were drawn back to his younger sister.
‘Ellie?’
She kept her back to him. ‘Let’s talk about this later. If you want to make me feel better, find Skye.’
Chapter 25
The reports were piling up on Buchanon’s desk. With the allocator at his side, he picked up print-outs, scanned them, then moved them to another pile. Welcome to the role of SIO, Jon thought
Irritation danced in his eyes when he saw Jon at his door. He beckoned with a finger as if summoning a waiter. Jon opened the door and stepped inside. ‘Morning Sir.’
‘DC Gardiner came rushing in here earlier, requesting permission to bring in Tristan Arkell.’
‘Yes, I asked her to clear it with you.’
‘Clear it with me?’ Buchanon spat. ‘What other developments are occurring on this investigation that haven’t been sanctioned by me?’
‘Sorry, Sir. It was sort of a spontaneous development. Susan had been ringing Arkell’s ex-pupils to see if any others thought they may have been assaulted.’
‘Again, something I don’t remember requesting her to do.’ No, Jon thought. But I mentioned it yesterday and you seemed fine with it then. ‘I asked her to. As long as it didn’t impinge on any actions given to her.’
‘I was warned of this aspect to your character.’ Buchanon’s eyes moved momentarily to the side.
Jon turned, tracking his glance. McCloughlin was sitting on the other side of the incident room, head down as he conferred with a colleague. The fucker was slipping in the knife again.
‘Sorry, Sir. As I said, it was kind of unplanned.’
Buchanon gave a curt nod. ‘Care to bring me up to speed on what else you know that may be relevant to this investigation?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I mean, DI Spicer, that your real motivation for bringing in Arkell is to ascertain what risk he might pose to your younger sister.’
McCloughlin again, Jon thought. The bastard has told Buchanon about Ellie. ‘Sir, my younger sister has attended a course or two at the Psychic Academy with Skye Booth. Yes, I’m concerned by the fact someone like Arkell runs the place. We all should be.’
‘Is that it – she’s only attended a course or two with Skye
Booth?’
Jon kept his anger down. ‘Yes. I’d describe them as course mates. Casual friends, at the most.’
Buchanon said nothing for a second. ‘It’s highly likely we’ll need to talk with her. Especially if she was with Skye at any point during the twenty-four hours before she disappeared.’
‘I realise that, Sir.’
‘So what are your movements from now on?’
‘Well, DS Saville and I were heading back to the Cathedral in a bit. The person running the day centre there said Peter Robson sometimes shows for the morning session.’
‘Is this assisting us in tracing the whereabouts of Skye
Booth?’
Jon paused. ‘Isn’t finding her McCloughlin’s shout?’
‘Finding that girl alive is all of our shout now, DI Spicer. As decided in a meeting with the Assistant Chief Constable this morning, our syndicates are working together on this. The arson attacks, the murders of Luke Stevens, Troy Wilkes and Valerie Evans, and the disappearance of Skye Booth: same investigation.’
I get it, Jon thought. You’re now feeling the pressure to get a result ahead of McCloughlin. No wonder you’re so wound up. Future promo
tions are on the line. ‘If Peter Robson has snatched Skye Booth, then yes. Finding him must be a priority.’
‘Granted.’
‘Talking of the Robsons, has anyone been to speak with the father again?’
‘Henry Robson? On what grounds?’
‘He’s unhinged. Overly zealous with religion, all that end-ofthe world stuff the officer with Trafford Division mentioned. He’s clearly developed an obsession with the members of Satan’s Inferno.’
‘None of whom have been abducted or murdered.’
Yet, Jon thought. ‘I just think it would be prudent if we knew where the man was yesterday at—’
‘We’ve agreed to focus manpower on questioning all of Skye’s friends. And acquaintances,’ he pointedly added.
Ellie’s face flashed up in Jon’s mind. I should have known
McCloughlin would do it.
‘Hopefully,’ Buchanon continued, ‘we’ll get a hit when we cross-match with an associate or two of Luke Stevens. Now, I’ll give you until lunch to find Peter Robson. Then I want you and Saville back here to help find Skye Booth.’
Back in the main part of the incident room, Jon sat down so heavily, his seat gasped in protest. ‘Heard the news?’
Rick nodded. ‘One big happy team now.’
‘Did that frigging bishop’s assistant call?’
‘No. I’ve already tried ringing. A secretary said he’s in a meeting until late morning. Surely you don’t think Waters is still in danger? Not now Skye Booth has disappeared.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The guy at the Cathdral said Robson normally turns up at eleven. Buchanon’s given us until lunch to find him.’
The door to Buchanon’s office opened and he marched across the room. Jon raised an eyebrow at the allocator who emerged a few seconds later. ‘Where’s he rushed off to?’
‘Arkell’s here. Interview room three.’ Jon frowned. ‘Buchanon’s doing it?’
The allocator grinned. ‘I think he needed a break from my reports.’
Jon nodded. ‘You do like to create a blizzard.’ He turned to
Rick. ‘You coming down to watch?’
His partner tapped the books on his desk. ‘I’ll carry on with these.’
Jon looked at the books the bloke from the Met had sent up.
‘OK, you know where I’ll be.’
The observation room was empty. As Jon went to close the door behind him a foot appeared in the gap. He swung it back and McCloughlin stepped inside. Jon moved as far back as possible. Of all the people to get stuck in a lift-sized room with.
‘DI Spicer. Keeping your fingers in all the pies aren’t you?’
‘Sir?’
‘Anyone would think you’re still hankering after becoming an SIO yourself.’
‘You had to mention it, didn’t you?’
‘What’s that, Detective Inspector?’
‘About my sister.’
McCloughlin continued looking through the observation room’s window. ‘We’re talking to anyone who’s had dealings with Skye. I believe your sister’s name cropped up purely on the basis of her attending the same course as Skye at the Psychic Academy.’
Jon regarded the other man’s profile. No it didn’t, you weasel. I didn’t give Gardiner the list with my sister’s name on it.
‘Really?’
McCloughlin nodded. ‘I think you’re running out of time to come clean with Buchanon.’
Jon looked through the one-way glass without replying. DC Gardiner was handing over her notes to Buchanon. On the other side of the table the head of the Psychic Academy was keeping his bulky form totally immobile, though his piggy eyes were darting between the two officers. Next to him was a solicitor. A thin-faced man who must have been about half Arkell’s weight. Studying the two men, Jon couldn’t help thinking of a bear and its trainer.
The seconds ticked by as Buchanon continued poring over the file in front of him. ‘So,’ he eventually said. ‘We seem to have a few problems with the legitimacy of your business.’
Arkell smiled. ‘My application was submitted to the council earlier this year.’
‘But you’ve been trading since late last year, as I understand.’
‘Not as the Psychic Academy. My original application was for a commercial premises. It was only when interest reached a certain level that I realised the creation of an educational establishment would be possible.’
Buchanon looked back at the notes. Jon cursed silently: his superior obviously hadn’t had time to read them properly.
‘And as regards your tax payments?’ Buchanon’s voice lacked conviction.
‘My accountant is filing returns. Again, the change in the nature of my business necessitated an alternation of my tax status. I’ve been on an emergency code for a while now. It’s been proving quite prohibitive in fact, but the Revenue seem to take their own time with these things.’
Buchanon breathed in. ‘I’ll need you to provide details of your accountant before you go.’
Jon gritted his teeth. Before you go? Lay into him, man!
‘So what’s your interest in Arkell?’ McCloughlin whispered. Jon kept looking ahead. ‘He’s up to his eyes in this.
Somehow.’
Beyond the glass, Buchanon turned a page. ‘You have how many students at this Academy?’
‘Numbers continually fluctuate, but on average about one hundred and fifty.’
‘Has a Luke Stevens ever been part of that number?’
‘He has not,’ the solicitor answered. ‘My client can provide a list of every student who has signed up for a course. Luke Stevens’ name does not feature on it.’
‘He’s come prepared for this,’ Jon said.
‘Seems so,’ McCloughlin replied. ‘Unlike your boss.’
‘And how many of those are female?’ Gardiner cut in. Buchanon gave her a withering glance and she sank back in her seat. Jon could see Arkell had clocked the exchange. A glint of pleasure in his eye, he directed his answer at Buchanon.
‘There’s a slight female bias.’
‘We’ve received a number of allegations from female exstudents. Many claim you’ve used certain ointments to incapacitate them. Why would you do that?’
‘I’m not sure I understand you. Ointments?’
‘Salves, balms, creams. Substances rubbed into the skin that contain psychoactive ingredients, as I understand.’
‘Many native British plants contain such properties. It’s not illegal to pick them.’
Buchanon turned back to his notes. You’ve rushed into this, Jon thought. Idiot.
‘This guy’s running rings round him,’ McCloughlin murmured.
Jon kept his mouth shut.
Buchanon raised a finger. ‘But is it not illegal to administer those plants without an appropriate licence?’
Next to him, McCloughlin hissed, ‘Only if the herbs have been treated in some way. Didn’t Gardiner say Belladonna can only be harvested late Autumn? If girls were being drugged at other times of year, someone had picked, processed and stored the berries.’
Gardiner shifted uncomfortably in her seat, obviously suppressing questions of her own.
Arkell’s solicitor cocked his head to the side. ‘My client simply supplied students with the recipe for a flying ointment. A recipe, I might add, freely available in numerous books on herbalism. Ingredients were neither supplied nor administered by my client. The students used their own ointments, entirely of their own volition.’
Shit, Jon thought, seeing the prospects of nailing Arkell there and then rapidly vanishing. He wanted to burst in and question him about whether he belonged to any coven, grill him on his role within it. Buchanon’s approach was as effective as bombarding the bloke with balls of cotton wool.
The door half opened, bright light from the corridor reducing Rick to little more than a silhouette. ‘Jon? It’s twenty past ten. We should get going.’
He turned back to the one-way glass. The
solicitor made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Do you have any further questions for my client?’
Buchanon studied the file for a few more moments, face reddening. ‘Until I’ve clarified a few points, no. However, we’ll need to speak to Mr Arkell again.’
‘My client is being released with no further action?’
‘At this time, yes.’
Jon shook his head. NFA. This was pathetic.
The solicitor produced a sheet of paper from his attaché case.
‘All necessary contact details are on this sheet. Now, if you could allow us to be on our way.’
Bollocks, thought Jon, as he stepped out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.
Daniel Humphries stared at the lifesize poster of himself. Serberos Tavovitch, lead singer of Satan’s Inferno. Writer and composer of all their songs. Frontman for the band. Fame, and the resulting financial rewards, were so close. So fucking close.
Where was Padmore with the backing tapes? They could do without Turnbull on support guitar so long as they had those tapes. He couldn’t believe the recording studio was charging to retrieve them from their system. The studio had just blown any further business from Satan’s Inferno, once the band made it big.
He thought about the call from his agent. A talent scout was definitely coming up from London. OK, a two-man band was going to look shit, but he’d explain that hassle from the police was the cause. Shit, the pigs had only finished giving him the full treatment a few hours before. The crowd would love it and the A&R man would see the potential for reams of publicity.
Besides, two-man band or not, let’s be fucking honest, Satan’s Inferno is Serberos Tavovitch. One less person on stage will just make my presence that bit bigger. Bring it on!
He tapped ash from his cigarette, his knees jiggling nervously up and down. It was a shame about Pete. If only the guy could have kept a grip, this situation would never have happened. He dragged sharply on the Marlboro. What if the police finally did find him? Just not before tonight. We get this gig done, a deal signed, then Pete could paint a confession across the front of the town hall for all he cared.
They couldn’t charge him and Ed for talking with Pete about torching a church or two. The three of them might have tried getting into that one in Fairfield, started smashing its windows even, but the vicar had come out and stopped them. It was that headcase Pete, and maybe that little idiot Luke Stevens, who had actually gone ahead and done it for real. Shit, what a pair of losers.