Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

  ‘Here.’ The man hurried over to a cupboard, opened the doors and took out a large Perspex sack. Inside was a long blue Puma holdall.

  ‘Put it on the table can you?’ Jon asked, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He broke the seal on the sack and dragged the bag out. ‘We need something to tell us where Waters may be.’ He undid the zip and removed a hockey stick that had been jutting out. Next he started rummaging in the side pockets. A bottle of water, a referee’s whistle, a muesli bar, a plastic A4 size file. He opened it up and saw a list of boy’s names, phone numbers to the side. The next sheet was a fixtures list. Nothing else apart from a few photocopied pages on fitness exercises. Turning back to the main compartment, he yanked out a tracksuit, a pair of trainers, a hockey shirt and matching pair of socks. The smell of stale sweat rose into his nostrils. ‘Shit, nothing here.’

  Next to him he saw Nikki lift up the hockey stick. She turned it round in her hands and examined the end. ‘Jon, this could be it.’

  He turned properly to her and saw that look in her eye. The one that said, we’re on to something. It had been too long since he’d seen it and a small smile broke on his lips. ‘Could be what?’ She blinked. ‘The murder weapon we’ve been looking for. A curved, blunt edge, approvimately four inches by two.’ McCloughlin bent forwards. ‘Jesus, she’s right.’

  Jon met her eyes again and saw they were alive with excitement. I know, he wanted to say. isn’t this the best feeling in the world?

  ‘What is happening here?’

  Jon looked over his shoulder. The door to Buchanon’s office was open and their SIO was staring at him.

  ‘Sir, we need to find Father Ben Waters. He wasn’t present at the hospice for the whole of Monday night as he claimed. It appears he left at some point to fetch a prayer book from his church. I think when he got there, he saw movement inside, armed himself with this hockey stick, then let himself in through the vestry door.’

  Buchanon half-looked back into his office, then shut the door.

  ‘Spicer,’ he hissed. ‘You had better be very, very sure of this.’

  A reckless sense of excitement had engulfed Jon and he wanted to laugh. It fitted! The pieces fitted! ‘Inside the church, he surprised Luke Stevens as he was preparing to torch it. Seeing his church wrecked, Waters loses control, chases Stevens to the window and brings the hockey stick down on the back of the boy’s head as he tries to climb back out. Nikki, this making sense?’

  She nodded.

  Jon turned back to his SIO. ‘When he realises what he’s done, he drags the body back to the pyre. Next, he picks up Stevens’ container of petrol and lays a trail back to the vestry, lights it with the matches he probably uses for candles, grabs the prayer book, locks up and returns to the hospice.’

  Buchanon stepped forwards, arms crossed. ‘How the hell did you work all that out?’

  ‘The fire investigation officer reckons that was the sequence of events inside the church. Waters didn’t go to Spain. He’s been here all along. Sir, it works out. I thought the guy was close to cracking that night, but the next morning in the hospital, he was totally calm. I remember, he even said something about it being God’s will that his church went up. A way to free him so he could serve in some other manner. That’s what his new mission has been, hunting down witches.’

  Buchanon’s eyes went to the hocky stick in Nikki’s hands. He took another step forward. ‘I think more haste, less speed. How are you so sure Waters wasn’t at the hospice as he claimed?’

  Jon sucked in air, picturing what might be happening to Skye Booth at that very moment. ‘Sir, we have to to find Waters. Can we not go over the fine details—’

  ‘I can help you.’

  They all looked round. The Bishop was standing in the doorway of Buchanon’s office, a leather attaché case in his hand.

  Chapter 30

  Father Ben Waters looked up at the clock tower on Manchester town hall. Almost four. He still had a good five hours of daylight. That was good: he wanted to have dealt with her before nightfall, otherwise the flames that would purge her soul might attract unwanted attention.

  But first he had to check that she’d been telling the truth. He set off down Brazennose Street, looking with distaste at a poster giving details of the Trafford Centre’s newly extended opening hours. One of his congregation had informed him that its car parks were pretty much full by ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.

  The country had lost its way, spurning the teachings of God for the sin of greed. That was the nation’s new religion and places like the Trafford Centre were where people went to worship.

  He passed a florist’s, the front of the shop bright with exotic blooms. That reminded him. He needed more bougainvillea for the vase on his windowsill. Their purple petals took him back to the time he’d spent at the retreat in Salamanca. It was such a happy time of his life, everything had seemed to be progressing towards his dream of becoming a Franciscan. Until the Order had rejected him. He’d return there soon for a visit, but not before he’d earned it.

  He paused to peer in a shop window. Small bottles with cork stoppers were arranged on racks. He examined the contents and saw some were filled with powders, others with what appeared to be dried flowers, fragments of plant or broken pieces of bark. Gnarled lengths of root lay in an open tray.

  He glanced up at the shop’s name. Hubbard’s Herbal

  Remedies. His lips were taut against his teeth as he began reading the calligraphy-style lettering on each label:

  Aconite, to counter acute infections Belladonna, to combat earache or sore throats Dandelion root, assists with kidney and liver functions Lycopodium, a remedy for digestive problems

  St John’s Wort, combats feelings of depression

  Thuja, heals weak nails

  He looked beyond the window display to the shop’s interior. A couple of middle-aged women were behind the counter. They wore green dresses and beige pinafores, and were chatting away without a care in the world. He stepped into the shop and began to browse a display of pills near the door.

  The two women were discussing last night’s telly and the episode of Most Haunted they’d both seen. A spirit had definitely been trying to make contact, according to the show’s psychic. It had been a wet-nurse from the eighteenth century, falsely accused of smothering the infant who’d been placed in her care.

  Waters stared at the bottles before him, oblivious of their contents. The influence of Satan was everywhere, permeating the high street, infecting the TV schedules. The country was in mortal danger.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He turned to the assistant who had approached, taking in her welcoming smile. Jezebel. The badge said her name was Sally.

  ‘It’s more a case of how I could help you.’

  The corners of her mouth contracted slightly and she took a small step back. ‘I’m sorry?’

  He raised a forefinger to her face. ‘I know what you represent and there will be retribution.’

  The remains of her smile had withered and she looked to her colleague for support. Waters held his finger towards her too, then walked out of the shop. He strode towards Deansgate, glaring at the people he passed. A godless society was a vulnerable society. He saw where the dangers of self-indulgence led, saw it in the afflicted and the addicted who banged on his vicarage doors; saw the lost who turned to places like The Psychic Academy to find direction in their lives. All the while the agents of Satan circled, waiting to lure them from the path. Astrologists, palm readers, fortune-tellers, clairvoyants, herbalists. Witches. That’s what they really were, witches. And they had to be destroyed.

  He raised his eyes heavenward, sensing approval radiating down from the blue above. ‘Thank you Lord, you give me strength.’ He turned on to Deansgate itself. A bus passed him. On its side a picture of an old woman on a broomstick was silhouetted against a giant moon. The lettering said, The Witch Way. Nelson – Burnley – Rawtenstall – Manchester.

  Waters looked up t
he street. There was the pub she’d described straight ahead. He stopped at the chalk board propped on the pavement.

  Psychic Night with Helena Hunt, 8p.m., 2nd of May. Tickets

  £15 including dinner. Have you lost a loved one? Are you curious to know what the future may have in store? Join renowned psychic, Helena, as she answers questions by making contact with the other side this Sunday night.

  Waters bridled at the chosen day of her performance. How dare she use the Sabbath to spread the influence of evil? Sellotaped to the top of the notice board was a photocopied piece of paper. He squinted at its poor quality. A newspaper story, reproduced countless times no doubt, that recounted Helena’s uncanny abilities. At the end was a web address and phone number to contact her for personal consultations.

  Waters tore it free and stuffed it in his pocket. There would be no event this Sunday. She would be receiving a visit tonight and, once he had obtained the name of another coven member from her, she would feel how the power of God dwarfed that of the Master she served.

  He nodded to himself. The Booth girl hadn’t been lying. Helena Hunt really did exist. It was good she’d been honest though, of course, that wouldn’t save her. Nothing could. The shop at the corner of the next side street caught his eye. Hike and Bike. The window display was full of camping equipment. Tents, sleeping bags, foldaway chairs, gas stoves. He walked towards the doors, confident he’d find firelighters for sale inside.

  Chapter 31

  The incident room was silent as everyone stared at the Bishop.

  ‘I can help you,’ he repeated, raising the attaché case up a fraction. ‘I’ve got all the information I could gather on Father Waters here.’

  Buchanon gestured toward the centre table. ‘Thank you, Bishop. If, perhaps we could go through what you have here . . .?’

  ‘We need to know where he’s holding Skye Booth,’ Jon cut in. ‘Has he access to any sort of property in this area?’

  ‘Jon,’ Buchanon said, a hand raised to ward him off. ‘Ease up. The Bishop is doing all he can.’

  ‘No, he’s right,’ Bishop Doyle interjected. ‘There are a couple of places that spring to mind,’ He sat down and took a file from his case. ‘Father Waters has spent his entire career at The Sacred Heart, living in the vicarage, but he also owns a place in Buxton. The cottage his mother used to live in. He once told me he makes it available for holiday bookings but, maybe, there is no one in it at the moment.’

  ‘Have you got the address?’ Buchanon asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s here.’ He held up a piece of paper.

  ‘Good,’ replied Buchanon. ‘That extremely helpful. You said a couple of places?’

  ‘Yes. There’s the Sunday school he runs. I know he has the keys to it – we were discussing how it was going a short while ago.’

  ‘What sort of place is it?’ McCloughlin asked. ‘Do other people ever use it?’

  ‘It’s a hall, located behind Our Lady, the church to which Waters’ congregation was transferred. I can’t see it offering any sort of privacy. Father O’Farrell uses it all the time.’

  ‘It’ll need to be checked out anyway,’ Buchanon said. ‘Right. DCI McCloughlin, I suggest you take a team over to St Mary’s. I’ll take one across to Buxton.’

  McCloughlin looked like he had just bitten on a lemon. ‘The disappearance of Skye Booth is directly linked to the murder of Valerie Evans. It’s my case – I should check out the cottage.’

  Buchanon cleared his throat. ‘We don’t know if the attacks on the churches aren’t connected to her going missing. And as the syndicate assigned to that case—’

  ‘What about his role as a hockey coach?’ Jon asked. ‘He’s in charge of a colts team, isn’t he?’

  Realisation hit the Bishop’s face. ‘Yes! He gave a set of keys to Reverend Kelly for handing on to another of the coaches there.’

  ‘Keys for the clubhouse you mean?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Yes. Now, what was it called? I think the coach’s telephone number is here somewhere.’ He began to leaf through the file.

  Jon had to thrust his hands into his pockets, the urge to snatch the attaché case and empty its contents out on to the table was so strong. Nikki Kington held up the folder from Waters’ kitbag. ‘It’s here, at the top of this print-out. Failsworth Hockey Club.’

  She held it towards Jon, but Buchanon plucked it from her fingers. His eyes scanned down. ‘It says training is on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Skye disappeared late afternoon yesterday.’

  ‘A Thursday,’ McCloughlin nodded. ‘So he can’t be holding her there, the club would have been in use yesterday.’

  ‘Hockey seasons end about the same time as rugby seasons,’ Jon said. ‘The last match at my club was the other week and the place will have been empty since then. Same may be true for Failsworth Hockey Club.’

  Buchanon clicked his fingers. ‘Right, we need to get over there. Gardiner, Murray, Rhea, Ashford, Saville and Spicer, with me. Now.’

  McCloughlin turned to the Bishop. ‘The address for this cottage in Buxton?’

  He handed across the sheet of paper and McCloughlin turned to his team. ‘Let’s go.’

  McCloughlin’s syndicate surged across the room, the DCI’s head reappearing for an instant before the doors swung shut.

  ‘You’ll need someone to visit that Sunday school,’ He disappeared before Buchanon could reply.

  Jon watched his senior officer as he surveyed the team. No, he thought. Do not pick me. Buchanon’s eyes moved across the waiting group, settling on Jon. Fuck!

  ‘DI Spicer, you hold the most senior rank below me. Take

  DS Saville with you.’

  ‘You’re giving us the Sunday school?’

  ‘I am. Keep me informed. The rest of you, let’s be on our way.’ He turned to the Bishop. ‘Would you excuse me? I’ll get someone to—’

  ‘Please, don’t concern yourself. You go.’

  As the group marched from the room, Jon turned to Rick.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  Rick bounced a palm off the top of the chair in front of him.

  Nikki placed a hand on Jon’s arm. ‘The hockey club was your shout. That’s so unfair.’

  Taking a deep breath, Jon flexed his toes inside his shoes, waiting for the adrenalin to drain away. ‘Yup, isn’t life shit?’ he smiled, before glancing at Rick. ‘Let’s get it done. We might be able to catch them up at the hockey club if we hurry.’

  Rick walked over to their desk and grabbed both jackets.

  ‘What a bitch. We should be with them.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jon as they set off towards the doors. ‘Where is this church anyway?’

  ‘I can show you.’

  Jon stopped. The Bishop. Shit, he’d forgotten all about him. The other man was slotting the last sheets of paper back in his attaché case. ‘It’s not far.’

  Jon weighed up the offer. The last person he wanted in his car was that fat bastard, but if it got them to this Sunday school quicker, he’d cope. ‘OK, you’re on.’

  *

  Father Ben Waters took the wilted bougainvillea blooms from the small vase and tossed them from the window. After putting fresh ones in their place he peered down into the overgrown courtyard. The setting sun lit the lopsided dovecote with a beautiful glow. Two pigeons were perched on its roof, contentedly cooing at one another. As he scanned the pile of pallets and packing crates he’d gathered up earlier, he remembered the days when the courtyard was properly tended. The neat rows of vegetables in the kitchen garden, the cluster of fruit trees in the tiny orchard. But everything had been abandoned as the power of Satan grew.

  The monk’s cowl was ready on his bed and he lifted the lower hem to slip it over his head. After adjusting the hood so it hung down his back, he stooped to lift the large book that was placed on his pillow. He knew the page that was required. It set out all the necessary steps for burning a witch. He read the text one last time, picked up a simple cotton nightie and walked from the t
iny room.

  As they drove towards Failsworth, Jon looked at the burning orange ball hanging just above the rooftops. Above it wisps of pinkish cloud hung motionless in the fading sky.

  ‘So Waters runs this Sunday school?’ Rick asked with a backward glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes. He’s done it since first becoming a vicar.’

  Jon’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. ‘What did he do before that?’

  ‘He was in the process of becoming a Franciscan.’

  ‘A monk?’

  ‘That’s right. He got to the stage of novice, but he didn’t progress to being initiated as a brother.’

  ‘A novice is a trainee monk then?’ Rick asked.

  ‘Yes. He’d embarked on the first stages of the process, moving from an enquirant where you approach the Order, wishing to explore your calling. If the Order agrees, you become a postulant for a period of learning. Next you become a novice, at which point a spiritual director is appointed to work with you. Together, you draw up a rule of life prior to taking your vows of chastity, poverty and obedience.’

  Rick had now almost turned in his seat. ‘So why didn’t he become a proper monk?’

  The Bishop brushed a knuckle over the tip of his nose. Jon caught the gesture in his mirror. He knew it from countless interviews when a suspect was hiding something.

  ‘There were certain issues. It was agreed Ben should look at other ways of serving God.’

  ‘What sort of issues?’ Jon asked, his foot easing off the accelerator.

  ‘Spiritual ones,’ the Bishop mumbled. ‘Ones relating to his faith. I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to go into details.’

  Jon pulled up at the side of the road and stared at the Bishop’s reflection. The man looked like he was sitting on a nest of ants.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. What issues?’