The Demon Club

by Scott Mariani

  ‘Well then, please tell your employer what I thought my associate had already explained to him, that our agency is most definitely not interested in witches, demons, hobgoblins, bloodsuckers or lycanthropes or anything else he might have cooked up in his fevered imagination, and that he should look elsewhere for literary representation. I hope I’m making myself clear. Goodbye, and please do not call this number again.’

  Ben said, ‘Wait—’ But Seaward had already slammed down the phone.

  ‘That was a good start,’ Wolf said.

  ‘He’ll deliver what we want. If I have to put a gun to his head.’

  Wolf shrugged. ‘That might work. Be fun to watch, even if it doesn’t.’

  It was pushing three in the afternoon by the time they parked the Alpina in Leonard Street, found the address and walked inside the fine Victorian building. A sign in the entrance lobby gave a listing of the various firms whose offices occupied its four floors. The agency was on the uppermost floor, at the top of a winding, creaky stairway. Ben pushed through a doorway and into an old-world reception area with potted plants and stacks of books everywhere, a large desk and a closed office door to each side. The door on the right had a plaque with the name R. SEAWARD and the one on the left said A. LAVERACK. Behind the desk sat a plump woman in her late forties with silvering hair primly tied in a bun. She was tapping on a computer and looked up with a smile as Ben stepped into the reception area, Wolf right behind him.

  Ben smiled back. ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she said cheerily. Ben noticed the little gold crucifix hanging from a slender chain around her neck. ‘I’m Georgie Seaward, the administrator. Did you have an appointment, Mr—?’

  ‘My name’s Paul Harris,’ Ben said. ‘This is my associate, Mr Cullen. We’ve come to see Mr Laverack.’

  ‘It would have been better to call first,’ she said, still smiling. ‘But I’ll see what I can do to help. Are you two gentlemen co-authors making a submission?’

  ‘No, we’re here regarding a book manuscript called “The Pandemonium Club”.’

  Ben thought he saw a tightening in her expression at the mention of the name. But before she could reply, the left-hand office door swung open and a tall, thin man appeared. He was wearing a sleeveless cardigan over an open-necked shirt and held a coffee mug. Ben said, ‘Mr Laverack?’

  ‘I’m Andrew Laverack.’

  Ben gave him his and Wolf’s false names. ‘Might it be possible to step into your office a moment, please? We have something important to discuss.’

  ‘It’s about Anthony Abbott,’ Georgie Seaward said, frowning.

  Laverack looked suddenly concerned. ‘Anthony Abbott? But …’

  ‘Please,’ Ben said firmly, motioning towards the office door.

  Laverack sighed. ‘Very well. But I’m not sure that I can be of any help, Mr—’

  ‘Harris.’

  Ben ushered Laverack into his office.

  Chapter 40

  Wolf followed them inside, closed the door and stood with his back to it and his hands clasped in front of him. It was an intimidating posture, intentionally so. Laverack sat in his desk chair. Ben remained standing.

  Laverack was nervous but trying to cover it. ‘So, gentlemen. If I’m to assume that Abbott sent you here, then what is this exactly? The strong-arm routine, to force us to represent his book? I’m afraid that won’t work. We’ve already declined. I might add that if the final decision had been up to me—’

  ‘That’s of no concern to us,’ Ben cut in. ‘We don’t care about your agency and we don’t work for Abbott. We’re here because we want to see a copy of the manuscript. I know you’ve read it.’

  Laverack suddenly looked more worried. ‘Who did you say you were again?’

  ‘Relax, Mr Laverack. We don’t work for the people he planned to blow the whistle on, either.’

  ‘I … I don’t understand. If you don’t work for either side, then who do you work for?’

  ‘We’re freelance,’ Wolf said.

  Laverack was pale and had started sweating as he glanced nervously from Ben to Wolf and back again. ‘And why do you want to see the book?’

  ‘Because of what we believe it contains,’ Ben replied. ‘Certain inflammatory revelations, the details of which we’re keen to obtain for our own purposes.’

  ‘What purposes?’ Laverack asked in bewilderment.

  Just then, there were voices outside in the reception area. One was Georgie Seaward’s, and the other belonged to an angry man who yelled out, ‘What? Why did you let them in?’

  A second later, the voice’s owner thrust open the door of Laverack’s office. Wolf stepped aside to let him in. He was shorter and more portly than his colleague. Ben decided this was Roland Seaward, the senior partner, with whom he’d had the pleasure of speaking on the phone earlier.

  Seaward’s face was mottled with rage, cheeks glowing bright purple. He glowered at Laverack, then at Ben and Wolf. ‘It’s you again, isn’t it? What part of “we’re not interested” isn’t clear to you people? Go and tell Abbott to find another agency.’

  Laverack was about to speak, but Seaward interrupted him. ‘Let me handle this, Andrew.’

  Ben looked at Seaward and decided this was the right moment to tell him the truth. He glanced at Wolf. Wolf nodded. Ben said, ‘We’re no longer in a position to tell Mr Abbott anything. He’s dead. That’s why we need to know what he was mixed up in, and with whom. This is extremely urgent and lives are at stake. We have to see the manuscript.’

  Andrew Laverack’s mouth dropped open. Roland Seaward’s face turned from purple to white. He regained his composure enough to bluster, ‘He’s dead? When the hell did that happen?’

  ‘Keep watching the news,’ Ben said. ‘The official version will be that he died in a burglary gone nasty. That’s if you trust official versions. The real story is that he was murdered over what he was writing about. Personally, I think someone should have put a bullet in his head a long time ago. But better late than never, even though the timing was a little inconvenient for us.’

  Laverack looked ready to bolt from the room. Wolf motioned for him to remain seated. Seaward gasped, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘At this moment, we’re your best friends,’ Ben said. ‘Because trust me, once certain people find out that Abbott sent you a copy of the book, your lives are over too. And they will find out, unless someone stops them. Which is what I and Mr Cullen here intend to do. That’s why we need names, information, everything you’ve got.’

  Seaward asked, ‘If you haven’t seen the book, then how do you know these people are even real? According to Abbott, their very existence was supposed to be a secret.’

  ‘We have our own sources,’ Ben said. ‘Hard evidence that Abbott was telling the truth. This isn’t some crazy fantasy he cooked up in his fevered imagination, as you claimed. This is absolutely real.’

  ‘What kind of hard evidence?’ Laverack asked.

  ‘How about video footage of a human sacrifice?’ Wolf replied. ‘Hard enough for you?’

  Seaward closed his eyes. ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I knew we should have never got into this bloody mess,’ Seaward raged. ‘This is all your fault, Andrew.’

  ‘So what about the book?’ Ben asked.

  ‘We don’t have it any longer,’ Laverack protested. ‘I mean, technically, we never did, because he only sent us part of it. About a quarter, to be precise.’

  ‘What bloody good’s quarter of a book?’ Wolf asked, scowling.

  ‘It’s called a partial submission,’ Laverack said. ‘You know, you can generally tell after just a few pages whether a book proposal has any chance of getting published. For that reason, we requested just a hundred-page sample. In any case, I’ve now deleted the file from our database and disposed of the flash drive it was sent on. So we couldn’t show you it, even if we wanted to.’

  Ben said, ‘In your message to Abbott you talked abou
t allegations and slander. That means you have to know the names of the people he was denouncing.’

  ‘He used pseudonyms,’ Seaward said. ‘No real names were mentioned. So, you understand, we really can’t help you. Nor can we possibly be held liable in any way by any of the people mentioned in the book, for the simple reason that their identities were already a secret.’

  Ben noticed the way that Seaward’s eyes were darting nervously as he spoke, and suspected the man was lying. The expression on Wolf’s face told Ben that he was thinking the same thing.

  But what to do about it? One option was to put a gun to Seaward’s head and make him spill the truth. It was generally an effective technique, except when dealing with a red-faced, portly little man who’d probably drop dead of a heart attack if pressed too hard. Ben didn’t really need a manslaughter charge hanging over him right now.

  The second option was to leave now, come back later, break into the agency office and find out for himself whether they still had the manuscript and what it contained. That approach carried its own risks, but Ben opted for it anyway.

  ‘Fine. Then if you don’t have the book and it’s no use to us anyway, we’re wasting our time here.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Seaward agreed, breathing hard and positively melting with relief.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Ben said to Wolf.

  They left the office. The reception area was empty. Ben and Wolf headed down the creaky stairway and back outside into the afternoon sunlight.

  ‘You do realise,’ Wolf said, ‘that if they’re lying to us and still have that book, they’re gonna delete it the moment we’re gone.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘No, I think they’ll want to keep it. Nobody’s going to accept at face value that they don’t have it. They’ll want a bargaining chip to get themselves out of trouble with whoever comes looking for it.’

  ‘If that happens, they’re dead anyway.’

  ‘But the likes of Seaward and Laverack don’t realise that,’ Ben said. ‘They don’t live in the same world as us.’

  ‘You might be right,’ Wolf grunted. ‘Only one way to find out.’

  ‘So we find a place to hole up, get some rest and some food and wait until nightfall,’ Ben said.

  They were halfway back to the car when the sound of clattering footsteps chasing down the street after them and the sound of a woman’s voice calling, ‘Mr Harris! Mr Cullen! Wait!’ made them turn.

  Georgie Seaward had emerged from the entrance of the building and was lumbering towards them as well as her out-of-shape physique and clunky shoes would allow. She was out of breath as she reached them. ‘Please don’t go yet,’ she puffed.

  ‘Something we can help you with, Mrs Seaward?’ Ben asked.

  ‘No, but I may be able to help you.’

  Chapter 41

  Ben was all ears, but at the same time he was noticing how furtively Georgie Seaward was acting, glancing up at the building’s top-floor windows as though she was anxious about being seen talking to them. She said, ‘But before I agree to help you, I have to know what your involvement is in this.’

  Ben could see the sincerity in her eyes. He replied, ‘How we’re involved with this is simple, Mrs Seaward. There’s a whole group of these people and we mean to find them. You’ve read the manuscript, haven’t you?’

  Something dark clouded her expression. She reached a hand to her throat and fingered her little gold crucifix, as though craving its spiritual comfort. ‘I have,’ she replied with a shudder, ‘and there are no words to describe how horrific it is. Most people have no idea these things go on, you know, in real life. But they do. Andrew and Roland, my husband … I’m afraid they don’t really understand what this is really about. To them it’s just another book.’

  ‘Is it true that they deleted it from their files?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s gone. That is to say, at least, the agency doesn’t have it any longer.’ She seemed to be hinting at something.

  ‘What is the Pandemonium Club?’ Ben asked.

  ‘A secret society. A cult. An order.’

  ‘And you believe it exists, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. God help us, there’s no doubt about that.’ She paused, thinking. ‘Your names aren’t really Harris and Cullen, are they?’

  ‘I’m Ben Hope. This is Jaden Wolf.’

  ‘Are you detectives?’

  ‘We’re ex-military,’ Ben said.

  She gave a grim smile of satisfaction. ‘I knew. Saw it the moment you walked in.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘My late father, Company Sergeant-Major Neville Shelton, served with the Parachute Regiment, Third Battalion,’ Georgie Seaward explained with great pride. ‘When I was a girl he always said that nobody in the world comports themselves with the bearing of a British soldier. I have an eye for these things.’

  If old Georgie got any more stirred up with patriotic fervour she’d soon be whipping out a Union Jack to wave around. But if that was what it took to gain her trust, so much the better.

  ‘We were SAS,’ Wolf said.

  ‘I heard you tell my husband that you have video evidence of the awful things these people do. Is that really true?’

  ‘I saw it happening myself,’ Wolf told her. ‘Caught the whole thing on camera.’

  Again, she fingered the gold crucifix around her neck, and seemed to utter a silent prayer. ‘What do you plan to do, if you find them?’

  ‘What evil people deserve,’ Ben said.

  She nodded. Cast another upward glance at the building, still worried that her husband and Laverack might be watching from above.

  Ben asked, ‘Perhaps you’d like to talk privately? Maybe there’s a café or something nearby?’

  ‘I can’t. I have to get back before I’m missed. In any case I’m not the one you need to speak to. But I can pass you on to someone who definitely might be interested.’

  ‘Who is this person? Can you give me their number?’

  She shook her head again. ‘You can’t make the first approach. You give me your number, and if he agrees, he’ll call to arrange a meeting. But there’s another thing. He won’t come to you. You’ll have to travel.’

  ‘Mrs Seaward, we don’t have a lot of time to waste here.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I understand there’s danger. That’s the same reason this person doesn’t trust anyone. He’s very careful.’

  ‘But he trusts you?’

  ‘And I trust him,’ she said. ‘There isn’t anyone more knowledgeable about these awful, terrible practices that have been going on for centuries, hidden from public view. He can tell you things that will make you understand how deep the root of this goes. Once you realise how this affects us all, there’s no going back.’

  ‘I’m already there, Mrs Seaward. But I’d like to hear whatever it is he knows.’ Ben gave her his burner number and she pulled out a pencil and a scrap of paper to scribble it down.

  ‘He’ll call,’ she promised.

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’ll talk to him.’ And with a last anxious glance up at the top-floor windows, Georgie Seaward went hurrying back to the building and disappeared.

  ‘Well,’ Wolf said. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We have some time to kill. Hungry?’

  ‘I could eat a roasted Satanist.’

  Killing time, they drove around the neighbourhood until they found a Turkish kebab house that was open all day and had an eating-in area. The place was quiet at this time of the afternoon. They grabbed a corner table in the back and sat eating their late lunch, a lamb kebab with some floppy fries for Ben and grilled chicken in pitta bread with salad for Wolf. The place was unlicensed so it was soft drinks or nothing, but Ben had had enough alcohol already that day.

  ‘What do you reckon on her?’ Wolf asked, spreading mayonnaise on his chicken. ‘Think she really knows someone, or is she jerking our chain?’

  ‘She looked anxious,’ Ben said. ‘She’s hiding something from her husband a
nd Laverack. She knows what’s in the book, and she seems to have cause to be much more afraid of it than they are. They’re only worried about protecting their own skins. With her, it’s different.’

  ‘You believe she’d have stood by and watched them scrub Abbott’s book?’

  ‘No, I got the impression that she’s secretly kept a copy for herself. It’s too important to destroy.’

  ‘Then why didn’t we press her more?’

  ‘Because I think she sent it to her mystery contact,’ Ben said. ‘The man we’re about to hear from.’

  ‘If he calls.’

  ‘He’ll call.’

  Seventeen minutes later, Ben’s phone went. He put the call on speaker so Wolf could listen in, and set the phone on the table between them. The other side of the room one guy in a white apron was cleaning a kebab machine and another was refilling plastic containers with chopped onions and salad. Neither of them appeared remotely interested in their customers’ business.

  ‘Am I talking to Mr Hope?’ said the male caller’s voice on the line. It was a gentler voice than Roland Seaward’s, edged with trepidation.

  ‘I’m Ben Hope. Who are you?’

  ‘Vincent Eritas.’ Which had to be a fake name, Ben thought, wondering what the guy’s connection was to Georgie Seaward. He was certainly as cagey as she’d made him out to be.

  The caller went on: ‘I’m told you have an interest in the organisation calling itself the Pandemonium Club. If that’s the case, then I have information. A great deal of information.’

  ‘I most definitely am interested,’ Ben said. ‘Is this information for sale?’

  ‘I don’t want money. My mission is spreading the truth.’

  That was when Ben got the name. V. Eritas. Veritas. It sounded pretty cranky, but the guy might be a well-informed crank. In Ben’s experience wisdom could sometimes be found in the most unlikely places.

  ‘Then what do you want in return?’ Ben asked.