by David Blake
Having bought all the gear over the weekend, at some considerable expense, and taking advice as to the best location, and the most suitable time, here he was, just after four o’clock in the morning, trudging his way towards the ancient gatehouse of St. Benet’s Abbey, still blinking the sleep from his eyes.
His intended destination was the river bank level with where the abbey’s high altar had stood, now marked by a tall wooden cross. That was where he’d been told the best fishing could be found.
According to the map, from the small parking area that served for abbey visitors, it hadn’t looked too far to walk. But now he was actually there, on the ground, laden with all his newly acquired fishing gear, it was beginning to seem considerably further than he’d thought.
He could just about make out the cross, silhouetted against the expanding blue light from the not yet risen sun. His plan was to bypass the ruins by following the bank of the River Bure. He knew there was no footpath down there, but he felt more comfortable walking along the river than through the ruins themselves.
The abbey itself was thought to date as far back as the 9th Century, when it was a monastery of the Order of Saint Benedict, hence the name. Like most ancient sites, its history was marked by brutality, disease and death. The very first historical account told of a religious hermit being slaughtered by a group of Danes as they rampaged through East Anglia in 865. Other stories included the summary execution of the site’s holy inhabitants after they refused to give up their treasures during the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the reign of Henry VIII. Then there was the tale of a young girl, back in the 17th Century, who’d used the abbey’s high altar to sacrifice her baby, before being caught and burned at the stake for the illegal practice of witchcraft. Tradition had it that, on the darkest and most blustery of nights, her screams could still be heard echoing out over the flat unbroken landscape, as her soul burned forever in the flames of hell.
As far as Stanley was concerned, whether or not any of this was true was neither here nor there. He’d always been easily spooked; even the old Hammer Horror productions of the 1960s, which his friends had enjoyed, and laughed off, had been enough to have him checking behind doors on his way up to bed. It was for that reason, along with the many stories he’d been told about the abbey over a pint down his local pub, that he was keen to avoid going anywhere near its crumbling remains. He didn’t mind the ruined gatehouse so much, slap bang in the middle of which some 18th Century farmer had, for some unknown and frankly bizarre reason, decided to build a drainage mill. It was a little spooky, but nothing more than that. It was the ruined remains of the abbey itself he had issues with, especially up near where the cross stood, and especially during what was still, to all intents and purposes, the dead of night.
He looked over towards where he could hear the River Bure flowing majestically down towards the village of Thurne, but it was still too dark, and he couldn’t even make out where the field ended and the river began. The only thing he could see with any certainty was the cross, and the narrow footpath that led towards it.
Not confident that he could successfully cross a muddy field towards the river without stumbling straight into it, he realised that his only sensible option was to head through the abbey. From there, another footpath was marked on the map, one that should take him safely down to the river’s edge, near to the location he’d been advised to try.
Putting tall tales behind him, he hitched up the khaki green carryall he had slung over his shoulder, stood up straight, and with his shoulders back, began to whistle as he march down the footpath towards the abbey at the end, making a mental effort to look neither left nor right, whilst doing his best to keep his over-active imagination under control.
Within a few minutes he was able to make out the first jagged clumps of time-aged rock where the abbey’s walls had stood over a thousand years before.
Reaching the first of the ruined remains he stopped. That was where the entrance used to be, with the high altar at the far end. His tuneless whistling fell silent. It was silly, but he knew that if he took just one more step, he’d be entering the abbey itself. It may have once been consecrated ground, but the local population now considered it to be a godless place, known more for its links to the occult than as a home of divine spirituality.
He stared ahead, towards the cross. The sky was perceptibly lighter now. The translucent line of blue had been replaced by a wide band of crimson red, and the mist that remained suspended in the air now glowed orange, as if it were smoke, lit by a distant fire.
As he searched for the courage to take a step forward, something caught his eye. Lying on top of what remained of the abbey’s altar, directly underneath the cross, was a crumpled pile of discarded black bin liners, spewing out waste from their open ends.
Some moronic boat owner has dumped their rubbish here! he thought, feeling his temper rise. Probably some stupid bloody tourist. He’d never liked the fact that every year literally millions of holidaymakers would pour into the Broads, half of them taking out boats, most without a single clue as to how to drive them, and many showing little respect for the waterways’ fragile ecosystem.
Fuming with indignation, he marched forward, straight down the middle of the ruined abbey, to take a closer look. Hopefully he’d be able to find something that would tell him who’d left it there.
So sure of what he thought he’d seen, it was only when he was standing virtually on top of it, staring down, that he realised what it actually was.
Sprawled out on its back was a man’s body clad all in black. From one end jutted a pair of bony white feet; from the other hung a head. But where the man’s neck should have been was instead a horrific gash. From there oozed a slow but steady stream of dark coagulating blood, which had soaked his face, and was now clinging to the top of a shaven grey head, waiting to drip into the darkness of the ground below.
Unable to take his eyes off the gaping wound, Stanley took a faltering step back, away from the butchered body, dropping the heavy holdall as he did.
The face twitched.
Stanley’s breath caught in his throat.
Wrenching his gaze away, he spun around, hoping to run; but his feet had caught around the bag at his feet. Losing his footing, he began stumbling backwards, realising to his horror that he was falling onto the corpse itself.
It was only when the nearest of the body’s arms raised itself up to offer him a cold embrace that he began to scream.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SUN HAD only just cleared the horizon when the call came: a body, throat cut, lying within the ancient ruins of St. Benet’s Abbey.
Bleary-eyed, Tanner and Jenny emerged from their floating mahogany cocoon to shower, dress and prepare themselves for a long day ahead. And they did so just as quickly as the circumstances of their living environment would allow, that being a wooden boat that was only twenty-four foot long, one which had none of the most basic of modern day conveniences, like hot and cold running water, or even electricity.
Since she’d been released from hospital a couple of months earlier, Jenny had been spending an increasing amount of time with Tanner on board his yacht. What began as the occasional overnight stay soon drifted into Friday night through to Monday morning, giving them the entire weekend together. The rest of the week Jenny stayed at her flat, offering them a degree of independence. They’d decided fairly early on that some social separation was important, especially as they worked together as well; more often than not, side by side.
They were keen to keep knowledge of their relationship away from work, as best they could. So far, they’d been successful. The only person who seemed to have cottoned on to the idea that something was going on between them was DS Vicky Gilbert, but apart from her dropping the occasional hint that she was aware of their secret, she’d only done so when the three of them were alone together, never in front of anyone else. Assuming she did know, she’d been surprisingly discreet about it, and thankfully hadn’t go
ne around announcing the fact to all and sundry. Most people wouldn’t have been able to keep their mouths shut, even if their knowledge was based on nothing more than intuition.
Despite it being cramped, impractical, and not even particularly comfortable, Jenny found life on board Tanner’s boat to be the perfect place to help her recuperate from her recent physical trauma. The psychologist she’d met with afterwards had even encouraged it. She so enjoyed her time there that when Tanner floated the idea of offering to buy it, she’d backed him all the way. After all, compared to a flat, it was as cheap as chips. Thinking ahead, if they were to end up living together in more sensible accommodation, then Seascape would make the perfect summer weekend retreat.
As they became increasingly at ease with each other, it didn’t take long for cramped to become cosy. Although there were no soft armchairs or luxurious settees to recline on, the wooden bench seats in the cockpit area were comfortable enough, at least they were once she’d brought some cushions along from her flat.
After they showered, dressed and had coffee, along with something to eat, for appearances sake they took their own cars. This had become their post-weekend routine; if they arrived at work in the same car on Monday morning, they may as well send an email around, announcing the fact that they were an item.
Although the call had been to attend the scene of a possible murder at the ruins of St. Benet’s Abbey, Ranworth, where they were moored, was on the wrong side of the river. The quickest way there, by car at least, was to cross the bridge at Wroxham, and continue on, straight past the police station. In such circumstances they felt it unlikely that Tanner would have driven past Jenny’s flat in Horning to pick her up, especially at such an ungodly hour.
What they weren’t able to avoid doing was to arrive at the same time, with Jenny’s silver VW Golf driving into the already busy carpark near to the abbey’s gatehouse, and Tanner’s sleek black XJS purring in behind.
Despite the early hour, it was clear that they were among the last to arrive. Apart from an ambulance and two squad cars, a forensics van was also parked up, along with DCI Forrester’s black BMW and the more nondescript vehicles belonging to DS Cooper and DS Gilbert.
Stepping out, Tanner took in his first view of St. Benet’s Abbey, or at least its most well-known part.
The ancient Benedictine monastery’s gatehouse was a giant stone structure which had formed the entrance to the monastic community via a defensive wall, most of which had long since disappeared. If the gatehouse was impressive, it was dwarfed in comparison to the conical brick base of what used to be a drainage mill, constructed in the 18th Century.
Surrounding the site, as far as the eye could see, was nothing but flat land, shrouded by tendrils of early morning mist glowing yellow in the light from a steadily rising sun. Above and beyond was a wide open blue sky, streaked by long lines of clouds, their soft edges burnished by rich hues of orange and scarlet.
Catching up with Jenny, together they approached a uniformed constable. He was standing in front of a line of blue and white Police Do Not Cross tape, strung loosely between the end of a steel fence and a wooden gate post. In the morning chill he stood with his hands buried deep inside the pockets of a fluorescent yellow jacket, which had been zipped all the way up to his nose.
‘Morning sir, ma’am,’ said the officer, lifting his head just enough for his mouth to clear the jacket’s collar.
Replying with nothing more than a nod and a brief smile, Tanner asked, ‘Where’s the body?’
‘Down by the main abbey’s ruins, just under the cross. If you follow the footpath, you can’t miss it.’
Ducking under the tape, Tanner led the way along the path as directed. The constable was right; now that they knew where to look, the scene was impossible to miss. Even from where they were, they could see the all too familiar sight of a forensics unit in full swing, busily working in amongst a series of misshapen lumps of weathered rock which presumably marked what was left of the ancient abbey, but now only seemed to scar what would have otherwise been an ordinary field of unkempt grass.
With Jenny just two steps behind him, Tanner followed the narrow footpath, pulling his black overcoat around him as he did.
‘I see DCI Forrester is there,’ Jenny said, peering over Tanner’s hunched-over shoulders.
‘As I said - more hands-on than Barrington,’ he replied, before lapsing into silence.
Reaching the edge of the ruins a few minutes later, they could clearly make out the shiny bald head of DCI Forrester, who seemed to be deep in conversation with their medical examiner, Dr Johnstone.
As they approached, Forrester looked up briefly before checking the time on his watch to say, ‘Ah, DI Tanner, DC Evans. I was wondering when you two were going to make an appearance.’
Although it wouldn’t have been possible for them to have arrived any earlier, Tanner thought it prudent to apologise. ‘Excuse our tardiness, sir. We both live the other side of the river.’
‘As do I, Tanner, but I still managed to get here a good ten minutes before either of you.’
Tempting as it was to point out that Forrester probably had a shower directly opposite his bedroom, could dress himself without feeling like he was playing a game of Twister, and had a kettle that didn’t need to spend at least five minutes resting over a gas hob in order for its contents to boil, it was unlikely such remarks would be appreciated. They would also do little to explain why Jenny was also late. So instead, he said, simply, ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,’ and glanced behind him at Jenny, to give her a stern frown of feigned rebuke, mimicking the look DCI Forrester was giving him.
It took a degree of mental fortitude for Jenny to prevent herself from laughing. She’d always had a problem with taking authority seriously, especially when it was in the hands of a bald fat middle-aged man whose jowls wobbled like a seal’s every time he spoke.
Although it was glaringly obvious to Tanner that she was doing her best not to laugh, fortunately, for both their sakes, Forrester seemed oblivious.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘now that you’re finally here, you’d better come over and take a look.’ Turning to face the man clad in white overalls who he’d been talking to when they’d first arrived, Forrester said, ‘He was found by a fisherman in the early hours, but maybe Dr Johnstone can explain the rest.’
‘Of course,’ the doctor said, nodding first at Jenny, then over at Tanner.
As the doctor turned to lead them down to where the cross stood, Tanner had his first look at the body. It was lying on its back, on top of what would have been an impressive altar, sandaled feet facing them with long white toes sticking out from the ends, like a row of gravestones clinging to the edge of a cliff.
Approaching the body, Tanner found himself staring at the man’s feet; the skin of which was paper thin, covered over by ugly brown liver spots, and the toenails were almost yellow, each lined with thick ridges that curled inwards at the ends.
‘We have an elderly male,’ Johnstone reported, ‘white, obviously; probably in his late seventies.’
‘Time of death?’ asked Tanner, considering the long black robe that enveloped the body.
‘I’d say somewhere between eleven o’clock last night and two o’clock this morning.’
‘And the cause?’
‘At the moment, I’m going with the obvious.’
Only half listening, Tanner began inching his way down the length of the body, making sure to tread on the raised platforms that had been positioned around the altar to preserve any evidence left lying on the surrounding ground.
As he noticed the way the man’s arm protruded from the side of the altar, he eventually asked, ‘And the obvious is...?’
Johnstone gestured towards the head. ‘See for yourself.’
At first glance, Tanner thought the body’s head had been completely severed. But when he saw the curvature of a cleanly shaved chin pointing up towards the sky, he realised that the head was there all right, but wa
s hanging off the edge of the altar at an almost ninety-degree angle. It was only then that he realised what the doctor had meant. The man’s throat had been opened to such an extent that the weight of the head was pulling the wound open, presenting them with a macabre view of cut tendons and sliced flesh.
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Tanner, momentarily forced to look away. Despite his many years’ experience working for London Metropolitan CID, he’d never seen anything quite like it before.
‘Not a pretty sight, I’d have to admit.’
Regaining his professional composure, Tanner said, ‘At least we know it was murder.’
‘Not so fast!’ warned the doctor.
Moving from platform to platform, Johnstone led Tanner around to the other side, where he crouched down and pointed.
There, resting in the fingers of an open palm that brushed against the blood-soaked grass, was a knife; its handle carved in elaborate golden scales, and its blade a polished silver which glistened with a deep red sheen.
‘Suicide?’ asked Tanner, trying to understand what the medical examiner seemed to be proposing.
Joining them on the ground, DCI Forrester said, ‘We’re thinking more along the lines of some sort of self-sacrifice.’
‘You’re not being serious, surely?’
‘As bizarre as it may sound, Tanner, it’s a possibility. These ruins have long been a favoured location for satanic-cult types. If you look around, you’ll see where candles have been burned to the wick, marking out a five-pointed star.’
Glancing over his shoulder, Tanner asked, ‘Isn’t there a law against that sort of thing?’
‘Only if the land was privately owned and they were trespassing.’
‘If that is what happened here,’ interjected Johnstone, ever cautious, ‘he wouldn’t be the first. A few years back, we found the body of a teenage boy in similar circumstances.’