by Will Carver
I pray to the Dark Mother.
‘Day turns to night and life turns to death, and the Dark Mother teaches us to dance.’ I bounce up and down, turning around and around in a pseudo-trampoline dance, adrenalin masking the agony of having been tethered in the same constricted position for so long.
A knock at the front door shocks him and he looks back over his shoulder, yet still leaves the door open.
I incant louder. ‘Hecate, Demeter, Kali.’ I pierce him straight through the eyes as I shout, ‘Nemesis!’ He is stalwart in the doorway. Unflinching.
I raise my hands out to the sides as if summoning something up from beneath the floorboards. ‘Morrighan, Tiamet, bringers of destruction, you who embody the Crone. I honour you as Earth goes dark and as the world slowly dies.’
This prompts him inside the room.
Closer to me.
I sense him being drawn in.
Closer. Closer.
I feel strong. Stronger than he is.
As he stands on the threshold of the ring that contains me I look him up and down, eventually returning to his eyes. At this moment I realise that he has to die tonight.
He cannot leave this room alive.
January
THIS IS THE end.
The final Sabbat.
Tomorrow is 21 September and Celeste will want to complete her year with another murder. Tonight, I expect to be visited by The Two; tomorrow, I expect to catch her before she kills, and put an end to this pantomime spree.
We still do not know her name to be Celeste Varrick. Nobody has come forward with a positive identification; there have been several false and misleading identifications including one woman of a different race, one who was thirty years too old and one who had died several years before. The frustration is that we know what the killer looks like and when she intends to strike again. We just don’t know where she is.
Because she has been captured.
Because I have been so wrong the entire time.
We are chasing a ghost.
Paulson found the tin containing the pictures in a bin a few metres from the spot that we found Aldous’s frail, burnt body on the Embankment at Lughnasadh. It takes our collection to seven boxes, fourteen photographs and thirty-five pence. This all adds up to no-idea-where-the-next-death-will-occur.
I had an idea, albeit unconfident, that Totty would be taken at Trafalgar Square. I worked out, from the visions and the evidence collected, that Laura Noviss would die on Hampstead Heath, but didn’t quite make it. This is the time to gather everything. To get that one flash of inspiration.
All of the information that we have gathered so far is now spread across two walls in the office – and replicated on two walls of my living room. Each victim’s name is printed in bold letters; below is the Sabbat and date they were killed. A picture of the victim and several photos of the crime scene are tacked up below this, and their corresponding tin is placed on a table in front of their details.
This is how we always set out our information on serial cases.
This is what works.
‘There is no way of policing all of the hospitals and churches or places of worship in London. We don’t have the manpower.’ I stand in front of the display of death and preach to the room: an attentive Paulson; a handful of junior officers who are excited to be thrust onto such a high-profile case, and Murphy, who has somehow wangled his way into staying on my team despite the fact that I have strangled him and pinned him to the wall of this very office. We almost came to blows again after finding a deceased, kneeling Aldous Harman seven weeks ago.
‘You don’t think it will happen somewhere within this triangle?’ a junior officer pipes up, his finger drawing three connected lines in the air as he traces a shape from Hampstead Heath, down to Parsons Green and across to St George’s Cathedral.
Beltane to Samhain to Ostara.
Everybody’s eyes flit over to the map on the wall that is stuck with green drawing pins stabbed into the spots where Celeste’s victims have perished.
The young constable continues, ‘It just looks as though everything is contained within this area.’ I feel the anticipation in the room as the group awaits my response, Murphy hoping I slip up somewhere along the line.
‘Thank you …’ I stand, looking at him, my hand held out in front of me, waiting.
‘Higgs, sir. Constable Higgs,’ he finally chips in.
‘Ah, yes, Constable Higgs,’ I repeat. ‘Thank you, Constable Higgs, great work with the CCTV footage. If we concentrate only on the area within this triangle, that is still a hefty chunk of land to monitor. It is important to look for patterns but not force a pattern if there isn’t one there. The next attempt may be in Highbury, which does fall outside the triangle, but would form a rather nice square to contain all of the other murders within. Also, we could make a triangle from the Beltane killing, down to Lughnasadh and across to Ostara, but that would leave Lily Kane outside the shape in Parsons Green.’ I draw imaginary shapes with my finger along the contours of the map.
‘So it could be anywhere on that map?’ Another junior presents himself as Barnes.
‘I’m saying that it could very well be within this triangle but that we should not discount the area outside the triangle without a strong idea of why we should stick within this shape. She,’ I point at the sketch of Celeste, ‘is a contradiction. On one hand she falls into the category of a visionary murderer, probably hearing voices in her head, she picks these victims at random from a variety of locations. Yet she also falls easily into the mission-oriented type. She targets her victims; the infirm, the faithful, the desperate. These killings are planned. They should be in a concentrated location. But they are not. If we remain within the area of the pins we need to be certain of the reason to do so. To venture outside we also need some solid evidence.’ I see Murphy gazing in my direction, seemingly resigned to my new-found clarity of thought, my restored deductive lucidity.
I look away, giving him nothing.
‘So, somewhere in London,’ Murphy utters, trying to undermine me. His immunity is obviously directly proportional to his level of bravery.
‘All crimes that we investigate happen somewhere in London, Detective Sergeant Murphy. We know when she will strike next; we are trying to determine the whereabouts. So if you feel you have something to offer like young Higgs here, then please help us pinpoint a location.’ My retort leaves him silent, uncomfortable and fumbling for words.
Despite my outward confidence, everything still feels upside down. My intuitions have, so far, been an extra dimension to my detective work; they would back up the tangible evidence I had collected doing my job in the conventional sense.
Where I once used my visions to add confidence to my detective work, I now use my work to help justify the visions. They just won’t quite tessellate.
And I haven’t had a clear sense of the location since I failed to save Totty Fahey or Laura Noviss; it’s as though I am being punished and The Two are becoming more and more cryptic with each victim’s location. I feel I can decipher other meanings from their clues, especially with Alison’s help, but the whereabouts of the next attempted murder is still proving elusive.
The contradiction in personality traits either leads to someone who is being deliberately psychologically ambivalent or, as Alison keeps reiterating, there may, in fact, be two personalities, a team of murderers. I feel close to the killer now and my gut tells me these crimes were committed by one person.
Then Higgs nervously offers another query. ‘But, sir, could you, I mean, er, do you have, maybe, er, a …’ He stalls a little while looking for the right word – ‘better’ – then he leans his head in my direction as if letting me know this is not the word he really means. ‘… a better idea than anyone of where the next attempt will be.’ He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand when he finishes. I know what he is hinting at.
‘Well, of course, myself, DS Paulson and DS Murphy have all been on the case
since the beginning.’ I don’t give in to his line of questioning, but he is persistent if nothing else.
‘I mean, with your, um, extra insight.’ He delivers the words extra insight in the same way he uttered the word better only a few moments ago. The room falls quieter than silent.
‘By that you mean …?’ I trail off, wondering how he will phrase his next sentence or whether, in fact, he will shy away. This is a test.
‘I think we’ve all heard that you have some kind of …’ He pauses for a second, ready to put on his extra insight voice. ‘… psychic ability.’ Murphy lets out a snort and several pairs of eyes jump over to him.
I strain a laugh myself. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear in training, lads.’
‘So, you’re not psychic, then?’ Higgs persists. While it is slightly irritating that he won’t let things go and he has a seemingly endless amount of questions, I feel myself warming to him, and wonder whether he would be an interesting addition to the team one day.
‘I’ve been very lucky with a couple of hunches in the past that have helped me crack some high-profile cases.’ I feign modesty. ‘This has developed into rumour of supernatural abilities, but it is nothing of the sort,’ I lie. ‘Some detectives are rather procedural and fastidious’ – I look at Murphy and his entire body sighs back at me – ‘whereas I use a certain amount of intuition and risk. It is different but it’s not psychic or spooky or anything other than an alternative way of looking at things. That is what we need to do for this case.’ I brush it off and the whole room buys into my yarn. All except Higgs, who cannot conceal the suspicion in his eyes.
I like that.
But then I start to wonder whether he too has been placed here to try and trip me up. To make me proclaim that I am led by dreams of smiling men or dancing children.
‘Anyway, enough talk about that. What do we know for certain?’ I dismiss the talk of my ability because I don’t want to encourage speculation; this case requires the conventional now. If my intuitions are telling me anything it is that I need to be more proactive and not sit around waiting for the answer to somehow make its way into my mind while I sleep.
Yet still a part of me is yearning to get home, to speed up time to The Two’s final visit.
Ideas are bandied around the group for hours; marks are made on the map; conclusions are drawn about where the next attempt definitely won’t be and where it possibly may occur. Some points are intriguing and insightful; others are ludicrous and heavy-handed.
And none of it really matters because we are trying to get into the murderous mind of Celeste Varrick, a woman who has never committed such a crime, whose only real offence is the neglect of the people she is trying to save spiritually when she could be rescuing them physically. A selfless woman whose faith drives her to do good.
A woman who may herself be the final victim at Mabon.
I send them out of the office once I sense their grey matter dehydrate, telling them to be back in here for 6.30 tomorrow morning. That they all need more ideas because it will be going down tomorrow at some point and I will be issuing our plan of attack for the day.
I’m left with Paulson and Murphy.
‘That was productive, Jan,’ Murphy says sincerely. ‘If we’d have done this a little earlier you never know what might have happened,’ he adds, eroding his attempt at being genuine.
‘There have been a few obstacles on the way, but we’re back on track now.’
Naturally, I’m alluding to his treachery and covert operations, but the main obstruction to this case isn’t Murphy’s ambition or even the fact that we are searching for the wrong person entirely; it has been my own ego. But I’ll never admit that.
Murphy grabs his jacket and heads towards the door to leave. ‘So, back here in the morning for a final brainstorm, unless you dream something up in the meantime?’ He says dream something up in the same voice that Higgs said better and extra insight.
I just look at him, my eyelids hanging as if on the verge of sleep. He opens the door and takes a step out, swinging the left side of his jacket around and slotting his arm in coolly.
‘See you in the morning, then.’ His voice fades out as he walks off, feeling pleased with his insubordination.
‘That fucking guy …’ Paulson stops himself short, speaking through gritted teeth, shaking his head in frustration.
‘Ignore him. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Thinks he can get away with anything all of a sudden,’ he continues under his breath.
‘Just forget about Murphy, we’ve got a job to do now and it’s more important than his annoying self-interest. OK?’ I rein him in.
‘You’re right,’ he says resignedly. ‘Back to yours, then, I guess.’
I’ve pulled myself out of the slump that Audrey so effortlessly left me drowning in, but I still want Paulson there when I snap out of the vision, for no other reason than logistics. I don’t want to waste a second. I can’t wait twenty minutes for everybody to reconvene at the station. I don’t want to squander even a second on the phone calling it in.
I just need to start my journey towards Celeste the moment I awake.
The evening drags. Paulson and I stare at the information covering two of the walls in the living room for most of the night; sometimes in discussion, often in silence. We eat a take-out curry; he drinks coffee, I limit myself to four glasses of Scotch.
Paulson is on alert.
I need to sleep.
By 22.30 I have rescinded the cap on my drinking and polished off another two large glasses, hoping it will help. I try to sleep in the leather chair, not wanting to waste the time it would take to walk down the stairs from the bedroom.
By 23.20 I’m worried, and anguish over sleep is the worst thing for anyone who has suffered with insomnia.
‘Half an hour left of the day,’ I slur in the direction of a pensive Paulson, who is rubbing his excess chin fat as he tries to piece the pictures and words together.
‘Stay calm, Jan. You don’t have to be asleep, remember. It’ll come,’ he reassures me. This has become a habit of his recently.
‘You’re right.’
And I take a deep breath, slumping further into the sofa cushion.
But he’s not right.
Midnight passes, which officially makes it Friday.
The twenty-first of September.
Mabon.
I am still awake at the time when TV channels stop airing programmes with sign language in the corner. Paulson is sweating profusely.
‘Maybe nothing is going to happen today,’ Paulson suggests half-heartedly. ‘Maybe we have more time.’
But he’s wrong.
I feel abandoned. Like I am being punished for allowing this to continue for so long. As if I abused my powers when I didn’t stop Celeste at Trafalgar Square or Hampstead Heath.
Does this mean that my ability has vanished?
How will I ever find Cathy?
I hold on to the hope that The Two will visit at some point today, whether this is during a short power nap or they decide to cripple my eyesight behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. I need them. But until that moment arrives I will have to locate Celeste the orthodox way.
But The Two are never going to visit me again. They have given me every clue that I need to solve this case. I should know that Celeste is not the killer. I should have stopped this already.
In a few hours I will be back at the station, working on a way to unearth the innocent woman who has not killed anybody. The one only she knows as V, who I will know as Sammael Abbadon, will be receiving his final instructions; he will finally understand why he has kept Celeste Varrick alive in his room for the last three months.
The Two will not help me with any of this because the fate of Celeste Varrick has already been decided.
There is nothing I can do to save her.
She is long gone.
V
I NEED TO fill my day with activity.
To make th
e time pass.
To distract my thoughts temporarily. For today is the day I have been working towards. I will be reunited.
I awake early. Again my cheek is embedded into the sofa cushion where I spent the night, the pattern from the fabric imprinted into the side of my face. It is 6.33 a.m. and I want to ask the Lord what he has in store for me today; what my final challenge will be. But I don’t want to seem desperate, even though that is the only emotion I can muster.
In the corner of the room are my trainers and a mound of sweat-drenched clothes from yesterday’s run. I pick up the tracksuit bottoms, sniff at them and snap them like a whip to straighten the legs out. They are still a little acrid and damp because I left them scrunched together but I don’t want to waste any time looking for clean clothes; I just want to get outside, run, and kill some time.
Delaying my despair.
I jog lightly to the end of the road to warm the muscles in my legs and stop at the corner where I use the railing at the junction to aid with my isometric stretching. All the time trying to think of nothing, but all the while picturing my wife, my son, wondering what the Lord has in store for Celeste, how I have used Gail. Not once does the taking of seven lives enter into my consciousness.
As though they were expendable.
Necessary. Each one a stepping-stone.
A matter of self-interest.
Looking down at the stopwatch on my wrist, I see the screen has only just ticked over into its sixth minute. Silently, I ask the Lord why he has slowed time today. Should I be using this deceleration for some final contemplation?
I turn left and forget everything I see, smell, taste and hear for the next forty minutes. I don’t recall whether I kept a constant pace or sprinted between certain lampposts. I don’t know whether I sped up at the final straight back to my building or if the journey up the stairs to my landing was walked or bounded two steps at a time. I don’t even remember what I thought about the entire time. I only slip back into humanity when Gail’s front door slams shut and the realisation that I have to deal with the situation I have created for myself punches me in the gut.