‘Well, I tried all the conventional channels, yes. Libraries, bookshops, internet searches… But there are the more unconventional channels to consider. Look how Knut found out about that Messiah concert. Perhaps he can look on the Dark Web.’
‘I can’t spend any police time on this. Would you look into it for me?’
‘I’d love to, Darren. I’d love to help.’
He pulled up at the kerb outside Hall Road train station.
‘It feels a bit ridiculous. Even talking about this book.’
‘I know what you mean. Ridiculous. Abstract. Ephemeral. But I’m an academic, Darren, I deal in the abstract. There’s nothing I love more than a good literary wormhole. And also, abstractions can kill. There’s something very dangerous about ephemerality. It’s a lack of acknowledgement. And there’s something about this that feels more real than anything else. Hyperreal, almost. I don’t want to deal in abstractions. I want to deal with the real world, and for the first time in years I am back in the real world.’
Twenty-Two
Darren and Colette faced Dr Colvin across the covered body of Professor Neilson. Colvin looked excited; there was an element of glee leavening his usual severity. He had found something.
‘Well, Detectives, I’m very pleased with my decision to re-examine the Neilson body. It’s lucky this happened before the funeral, as I said before, so no need for an exhumation order.’
‘You found something?’
‘Yes. I did.’
‘So he didn’t die of a heart attack.’
‘Yes. He did.’
Darren tried not to show his impatience. Colvin loved to play this game.
‘He did indeed die of a heart attack, Detective. But it’s the reason for the heart attack that concerns us here. The reason is cavitation. Or to be more accurate, inertial cavitation.’
‘Cavitation? What’s that?’
‘Essentially it means the formation of cavities, usually in reference to a liquid. Cavitation can occur in various body parts and is generally a bad thing – it’s a sign of tissue death. Our Professor Neilson shows signs of having suffered a rapid onset of cavitation in the blood vessels.’
Darren and Colette looked on expectantly.
‘Bubbles forming in the blood,’ Colvin went on.
‘And that’s what killed him?’
‘I believe it’s the inertial cavitation that finished him off. Inertial cavitation is the process where a bubble in a liquid rapidly collapses, causing a shock wave, which would have resulted in a massive heart attack.’
‘What could have caused this?’
‘Only an enormous external pressure, like being deep underwater, or on a planet with a different gravitational force. Although it was the heart attack that killed him, it was in fact his kidneys and liver that went first. That’s what I didn’t notice first time around. They’re less easily compressible than the heart, you see, which is used to changing shape.’
‘So both Neilson and Springer both had some form of this… what did you call it? Vibro-acoustic syndrome,’ said Colette. ‘But what happened to Springer was so much more extreme. His head literally exploded.’
‘Their bodies were subjected to different pressures. Body parts resonate at different frequencies. I took the liberty of looking this up for you. As an example, the eyeball resonates at 19 Hz. The dry human skull at about 10 Hz. But to cause destructive damage to the head, you would need 240dB. There are certainly far easier ways to kill people.’
‘But more detectable ways,’ said Darren. ‘So there’s no evidence at all of Springer being shot in the head?’
‘There’s so little head matter left it’s impossible to say for certain what happened. But there’s certainly no trace of shrapnel. Far be it from me to do your jobs for you, Detectives. But it can’t be a coincidence that two acoustics experts die in… acoustic circumstances. Perhaps you should try and find out what on earth they were working on behind the scenes at that University.’
Darren and Colette looked at each other. ‘We need to get this back to McGregor.’
On Theomachy and The Certainty of Adramelech’s Reign on Earth
The scriptures have told, in error, that the Devil shall one day return to establish His Kingdom on Earth. But the Devil shall ne’er reign on Earth. For there shall be one greater than He.
It has also been told how our Lord Adramelech raised himself to become powerful beyond God, and also beyond Satan. And therefore his reign on Earth cannot be denied, for how can a being more powerful than God or Satan be destroyed?
Since Satan’s fall at the Genesis of time, when he and his angels rebelled against God, and were cast out of Heaven by the Archangel Gabriel, his enmity with Heaven has been eternal. This theomachy can never be broken. For how could God renounce His blessed dignity by conversing with the Evil One? And how could Satan submit to speak with He who once banished him from his angelic throne?
While the war between Heaven and Hell rages eternally, our Lord Adramelech, who is from Beyond Hell, shall return to Earth; in stealth at first, his followers spread far and wide. And after the ages of Fire and Noise he shall take his rightful place.
Only a pact between God and Satan himself could challenge Adramelech. For the powers of these two deities combined would be undeniably great. But since God would never stoop to such a deal with the Devil, such a power is beyond blasphemy.
13 Ars Adramelechum, 6.1
Twenty-Three
Standing in front of the incident board at the team meeting, DCI McGregor was in a foul mood again.
‘Forensics have come up with nothing from Springer’s house. Bloody useless. No traces of entry by anyone other than him, no fingerprints, no unexpected fibres, nothing. Whoever did this was a pro. And with Dave suspended, we’re a man down on the door-to-door and CCTV. Colette, anything more on sightings of that shooter?’
‘Unfortunately it was a really quiet time of day. It’s a commuter area and most people were out. Two witnesses, the ones who called it in, said they saw a masked figure with a large dark-coloured gun on their shoulder, walking purposefully down Delaware Road. It’s so residential around there there’s not much CCTV. We’ve not caught them on any traffic cams yet. We’ll keep looking. The hope is that someone had a home security system with a camera, and we might get a visual that way.’
McGregor paced up and down. ‘Forensics have estimated from the position of the body that it fell from the eighth or ninth stair. At the very least, from the top half of the staircase. Given the size of the letterbox, there’s no way a gun, of any barrel length, could have got the angle to shoot his head off up there. And that means someone was in the house. There was no sign of forced entry, which points to someone he knew.’
‘Someone he knew, but who did what, exactly?’ said Darren. ‘We don’t know how he died. What kind of gun did that to his head?’ But he was drowned out because others had suggestions.
‘Unless he opened the front door to someone, who then barged his way in.’
‘It’s possible. But there’s no sign of a struggle. And he wouldn’t have made it that far up the stairs.’
‘But wait, all this is assuming he was shot.’ Darren spoke up again, and now every pair of eyes in the room turned to him.
‘Well, how else do you suggest his head was blown off?’ McGregor said dismissively and continued. ‘What about Springer’s background? Enemies? Affairs? DS Quinn – what have you dredged up?’
‘Actually, Guv, DI Swift and I have some new information pertaining to the case, you might want to—'
McGregor put out a hand to interrupt her. ‘Just give me his background first like I asked, DS Quinn.’
Colette raised her eyebrows slightly, took a breath then read from her notes. Darren had his faults, but she much preferred it when he was in charge.
‘Springer had an apparently good relationship with his wife. She said he’d been very stressed at work recently, that’s all, and working very late. What she didn
’t know was that he was in debt to the tune of tens of thousands, on a secret credit card account. She also didn’t know, or so she claims, about the hundred grand stashed in their bedroom and airing cupboard. We’re still looking into his work relationships.’
‘Right, go on then, you two. Now tell us what you’ve found,’ conceded McGregor.
Darren stepped forward to explain, outlining that pathology suggested the deaths of Neilson and Springer were connected. That they had died from forms of vibroacoustic syndrome. That Neilson was investigating something on the Napier housing estate, and that he had been seen arguing with Springer at the university. That Springer had been a recent visitor to an acoustics shop, whose owner had behaved cagily when they had visited.
‘So what’s your theory? Did they kill themselves, with something they were working on?’
‘My theory is… well, I’m still working it out, but I think Springer was working on something secret, perhaps something criminal, hence the cash, and Neilson found out. I think they were both killed because they knew too much.’
‘About what?’
‘I think it has something to do with the Napier housing estate.’
‘And how were they killed, then?’
Darren took a deep breath. This was a risk, but he was going to take it.
‘What would you say if I told you that I thought they were murdered… by sound?’
There was an ominous silence, then a sharp intake of breath, before McGregor exploded.
‘What the fuck? I knew Canter was making a mistake, putting you on this. Sound? This is pie in the sky, Darren. The realms of science fiction. I used to work on crowd control, you know. I do know about sonic weapons. They’re non-lethal. That’s the whole point. You can’t kill someone with a sound! You can burst their eardrums if – and I mean if – you’ve got the decibels of a fucking aeroplane. But if you wanted to kill someone, there are about a million easier ways to do it.’
It was pointless. And Darren didn’t care, because he was no longer operating under normal police rules. But he did need some time to work on his theory, though. ‘Ok, fine. But what about the Napier message? If there’s a possibility that Neilson was murdered, or even that the deaths are connected, surely we owe it to him to find out what he was worried about?’
‘Fill your boots, Darren. The rest of us will carry on with proper police work.’
Twenty-Four
Having received a green light, albeit a grudging one, to look further into the Napier housing estate, Darren set to work. What had Neilson found there? Even if he had discovered the methane, surely that wasn’t enough to have him killed? Especially because the presence of methane had now been publicly announced to the residents. And in any case, methane had nothing to do with sound. What if he had found something else?
While Colette went back to the university to continue interviewing Springer’s colleagues and students, Darren drove back towards Crosby, to the council offices which were just around the corner from where he lived. This sprawl of ugly Seventies office buildings lay half-vacant now, since austerity cuts had decimated local government departments. To Let signs were plastered across white-washed windows, advertising temporary office space. But the Merseyside Environmental Health Department was still clinging on there, occupying the first floor of Wordsworth House. Darren went through the revolving doors and up the stairs to the reception desk.
‘Detective Inspector Darren Swift, Merseyside Police Major Incident Team. Can I speak to Vanessa Scott, please?’
‘One moment please.’ The receptionist made a call. ‘Vanessa, I’ve got a detective here to see you. Can I send him in?’ She looked at Darren as she listened to the reply before putting the phone down.
‘Sorry, she’s in a meeting at the moment. She asked if you can make an appointment for another time?’
‘It’s all right, I’ll wait. While I’m here, what about Jonathan Dunn? Is he around today?’
The receptionist looked confused. ‘Jonathan Dunn, you say?’ She typed something into her monitor, and said, ‘I can’t find anyone of that name here on our system.’
‘Are you sure? I’m pretty certain I’ve got the name right. Environmental Health. He must be on the Contaminated Land Team. Young fella.’
‘No, there’s only two people on the Contaminated Land Team, and he’s not one of them.’
‘Strange. I must have it wrong. While I’m waiting, then, can I have a look at the public register of Contaminated Land?’
He stayed put at the reception desk for a long time while people muttered and whispered and rifled through filing cabinets. Eventually a large black ringbinder was produced, and he took it to sit down in the waiting area. He sifted through records going back to the 1970s. There was no mention of the Napier Estate, or anywhere within five miles of it. And certainly no mention of methane anywhere nearby. The nearest reference to methane detection was the Rimrose Valley brownfield site, which was well known as a former rubbish dump and had been designated as parkland for another thirty years. So, no record of this new ruling on Napier. However, the last entry in the ringbinder was from six months earlier, so it was possible that the folder was simply not up to date.
‘When was this last updated?’ he called over to the desk.
‘Not sure, to be honest.’
‘So there might be new entries still to be filed?’
‘I suppose so.’ There was a hint of irritation now in the receptionist’s voice. Five o’clock was approaching and she didn’t want anyone delaying the end of her working day.
While he was waiting, Darren took out his tablet and looked up the register of planning permission applications. Fortunately this was all online, so he didn’t have to request another file. There were almost a hundred open applications relating to the Napier estate, even when he narrowed down the search to the exact postcode. But they were mostly trivial and domestic – requests to build extensions, fix roofs, new garden sheds – nothing to do with the Napier estate as a whole, and certainly nothing on a grand scale. If the land was contaminated, it was unlikely that anyone would be wanting to build. But then, someone had bought it. What did they want? Could someone really be that altruistic? To Darren, this had Forrest written all over it. Benevolence masking corporate greed. So why hadn’t he announced himself, with his usual flamboyance?
By now it was after five o’clock, and the secretaries behind the reception desk were packing up to go home. Vanessa Scott’s office was down the corridor and the waiting area where Darren was seated was blocking the only exit. There were a couple of phone calls to the front desk and, from the receptionist’s response, Darren could tell it was this Vanessa Scott checking if he was still there. But he wasn’t moving. If she wanted to go home that evening, she was going to have to face him. Because he had nothing to go home to. Sure enough, at twenty past five, a door opened and high heels clicked emphatically along the corridor.
‘Hello there, so sorry to keep you waiting. Today was our annual budget meeting, so it’s been very busy, you know how it is.’ She rolled her eyes conspiratorially as he stood up to shake her hand.
Vanessa Scott was impeccably dressed in a red skirt suit and black patent court shoes. Darren estimated she was in her early forties. Her shiny black hair matched her shiny shoes, and her bright red lipstick matched her suit. When she put out a hand to shake his, her wrist jangled with trinkets from a lavish charm bracelet. In any other municipal council offices she might have stood out as overdressed, but in Liverpool, everyday glamour was the norm.
‘Detective Inspector Darren Swift, Merseyside Police. Sorry to keep you at the end of the day. Do you mind if we have a quick word?’
‘Yes, of course, come into my office.’ Her expression of earnestness betrayed a slight impatience, but, thought Darren, that could easily just be her wanting to get home. He sat across from her desk.
‘So, what’s this all about?’ she asked.
‘We’re just making some inquiries regarding the
Napier Estate in Aintree. I believe you are involved in the process of relocating residents, following the discovery of methane?’
‘Oh, the Napier Estate, yes. It’s been very stressful for the residents, and I have to say very stressful for us as well. But fortunately we have a solution in progress.’
‘Yeah, before we get to that solution, I just wanted to check – there’s no record of the methane in the register of Contaminated Land, why is that?’
‘Oh, that’s simply a filing backlog. You know how it is, permanently understaffed! We’re usually a few months behind on the paperwork.’
‘Can I see the report, then?’
‘The report?’
‘Yes, the one conducted by – what was his name - Jonathan Dunn?’
‘Oh, yes of course. I’ll get it for you. There’s probably a copy on my desk somewhere.’ She began rooting through piles of paper in her inbox.
‘Ok great, that will clear things up. But there’s something else bothering me. This environmental health official, Jonathan Dunn, the one who was at the residents’ meeting last week, the one who conducted the measurements.’
‘Oh yes?’ Was that a slight flicker of worry in her eye?
‘Well, there’s no-one of that name working here.’
The moment of concern turned to relief. ‘Oh yes, well, he’s an independent contractor. Nowadays with budget cuts we don’t have the expertise to do these things in-house. The company name is Envirosafe. Look, here it is.’
She fished out a clear plastic folder containing a report headed with an Envirosafe logo, and the title Napier Housing Estate Methane Contamination Levels. He glanced at it briefly and it all looked above board.
‘Ok brilliant, well, that clears all that up nicely.’
Vanessa Scott began to rise from her chair as if the meeting was over. But Darren was not finished.
‘There’s just one more thing, though.’ He opened his rucksack and took out a document of his own, and placed it in front of her. It was the relocation agreement that had been handed out to residents. That flicker of panic appeared across her face again.
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