For Stark, that tore it. Who else, but young Dale Stryker? He glanced at Ravyn, looking for some sign of agreement, but the chief inspector’s expression did not change. He was surprised Ravyn was in attendance at all. In the months he had worked with the man, Stark always attended post mortems alone. At first, he surmised it might be squeamishness, but he quickly learned that no corpse, no matter its condition, phased Ravyn in the least. Then, as he came to know the man, he wondered if perhaps the final indignation of what had once been a living person was simply something he chose not to commit to his pigeonhole memory. But he was here now, not at an ignominious end, but a beginning that might lead to a vindication, the righting of a wrong. And, he thought, looking at the bone puzzle arrayed on the metal table, it could hardly be considered visceral.
“The question of whether the remains are those of Dale Stryker cannot be unequivocally answered at this time,” she said. “Sex, age and other indicators strongly suggest this is indeed the case, but I cannot officially certify that result without corroborating evidence.” She noted a slight gesture from Ravyn and added: “Villagers from Knight’s Crossing are known regionally for avoiding conventional medical treatments when possible, and it does not appear any family member was registered with a doctor, neither with the one in the village nor any in nearby Denby Marsh or elsewhere. However, the individual appears to have had minor oral surgery to relieve a slight impaction of the left lower second molar, which is the last of the adult teeth to erupt. If dental records are produced, then identity can be determined.” She paused. “If no records are forthcoming, then, while I cannot definitely certify the remains as being those of the missing Dale Stryker, I would feel confident stating they could not be the remains of any other.”
Stark heard Penworthy’s comment, saw Ravyn’s satisfied look, and decided he did not understand either of them. That, however, was not a startling revelation, merely a confirmation of observations. Whatever the two of them had had going in the past, if anything at all, Stark reminded himself, remembering Ravyn’s earlier warning, he had never before seen any other two people who so richly and wholeheartedly deserved each other.
For several long minutes, Penworthy droned on about the bones, imparting information Stark considered deadly dull and unimportant to the investigation. Despite the bleak and antiseptic coolness of the morgue, Stark felt himself drifting off. Before fully surrendering to utter ennui, losing consciousness and collapsing to the tiled floor, which would have been an embarrassment to all, Dr Penworthy said something interesting.
“…cause of death,” Penworthy said, a bit louder than necessary, causing Stark’s eyelids to snap up like window shades and him to realize he had missed part of her statement, “is primarily due to a single thrust between the fifth and sixth ribs by a single-edged blade, made with such force as to impact the vertebrae. The tip of the weapon was recovered from the bone and forwarded to Forensics for analysis.
“Although, as I said earlier,” she continued, glancing at Stark, “the victim suffered massive trauma falling into the sinkhole, I feel it was the knife wound that primarily precipitated death. Without it, he could have survived the fall, at least for a while.
“The blade was eight inches long, two-and-a-quarter inches at the heel, tapering to a point.” She consulted her notes. “The spine was straight, the edge curved – essentially, a common carving knife. The thrust was underhand, blade uppermost, angled slightly upward. The lack of defensive wounds on phalanges, humerus and radius suggests a degree of familiarity. The attacker was left handed.”
Then Dr Penworthy droned on, or so it seemed to Stark.
* * *
Henry Winsell could not sleep. He stood in the unlit parlour staring into the black night. Since moving house to Knight’s Crossing he had felt the presence of the past, crouching as a dark beast might, ever ready to pounce. A thousand such beasts lurked in the village’s byways and alleys, some as recent as a day or a generation, others older than human memory. He had encountered a familiar beast at Stryker Farm, as he knew he would.
Entering the old farmhouse to search had made the beast aware of him, but he had had no choice. At least he had avoided the barn. There, haunted by screams and old blood, his resolve might have broken; fear and guilt might have propelled him out under the vast and malevolent sky.
Winsell doubted Knox had seen him. Eventually, Knox would learn of his visit, even if only in talk bandied about in the pub, but he would not know whether it had been his doing or Ravyn’s. Nor would he find enlightenment, not by any working, not by any sight, whether he gazed into crystal, mirror or standing water. By wards and watchings, by sigils and signs, Winsell had taken steps to protect himself from all dangers.
Yes, from everything. He scowled at the night. From everything except a fool with a rock in his hand. His time will come too.
Chapter 7
Cold Case Heats Up
Superintendent Giles Heln read again the memorandum reopening the Stryker Farm murders investigation. The routing slip had been initialled by the Chief Constable, Ramsey and Henderson. They all agreed DI Ward Richards should be assigned the case. The reasons given were staffing, work load and the need to bring “a fresh, new perspective,” but it was all merely eyewash. They might protest otherwise, but Heln knew better.
None wanted the old botched case assigned to their favourite son. They feared he would fail, as had Highchurch. Better to have newly promoted Ward Richards fall on his face, then get on with his career. Were Ravyn to crash and burn, even on a case so frigid, it could be a career ender, especially if presented to the public in just the right way. The higher the hopes, the greater the fall.
Heln remembered the case well, him on the eve of entering the police service. He had followed the sparse and fantastical stories in newspapers, had eavesdropped on Catherine and her intended in a fruitless quest for crumbs. With six people slaughtered and all the tabloids going on about magicians and demon worship, he expected a long diversion from his summer doldrums and the foolishness of his older cousin getting married, but it ended too soon. All of it. A clamour of rumours, then a profound silence. The vultures of Fleet Street moved on and a detective inspector was sacked. And later that summer Heln’s world was shattered.
History might repeat, he thought. Let Ravyn drink gall.
They could suggest, but this was his division. The final choice was his alone. A missing child case involving public image was one thing, but this was murder. They could push it, he knew, but their interference might entail consequences. Secrets might slip out. No one wanted that. Secrets were meant to be kept.
He smiled as he crossed Richards’ name from the routing slip and pencilled in Ravyn’s.
There would be questions, of course, but only in passing or behind closed doors. And he would have answers. He always did. He never let himself get flanked. Almost never. He thought of the unexpected action from Stark. The pencil in his hand snapped, and he reached for another.
It was an important case, he would say when asked. It was very complex. The police had got it wrong – all very deniable to the present administration of course – and there would be heavy interest from both press and public. They dare not let it go awry again. DI Richards was a fine detective, but a senior officer was required, an experienced hand, the CID detective with the highest resolution rate in the constabulary.
A detective, he thought, whose cases were used as training models in police college.
It had to be DCI Arthur Ravyn.
Surely they would agree.
Yes, they surely would, he thought. What choice had they?
He added his own initials to the routing slip, smiled, and tossed the file into the outgoing.
* * *
“I told you, laddie, the wee man would see this case went to no one but you.” Again, Angus Powell-Mavins ensured no ear was close, no small uniformed shape lurked near the doorway. “But I did hear a whisper that Richards was first in for it.”
Ravyn nodded. “Quite a feather in his cap, if he had solved it.”
Powell-Mavins snorted. “And no harm if he didn’t.”
He thought of the altered routing slip. “It’s mine, good or ill.”
“No good about it, if you don’t mind me saying so, Arthur, and no good if you do mind.” Powell-Mavins breathed a sigh. “Did you know Mr Heln was going go on the telly?”
“No. I suspect no one else did either.”
“A chance to right an old wrong, he said, clearly not the fault of the present administration, but it was all really a stitch up,” Powell-Mavins said. “He made you sound like Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot and Inspector Morse, all rolled into one, and anyone not in the know might think the wee man your biggest fan.” He looked at Ravyn oddly. “Is it true? Some of your cases are used as teaching modules at Hendon?”
“Sadly true.”
“If this case is ever used, it will be a cautionary one.”
“You may be right.”
Powell-Mavins snorted. “I know I’m right. Thirty-three years makes it a deep-freeze cold case, and you know as well as I do that everything is set against you. Your victim is a sack of bones, all the witnesses once interviewed are either dead or senile, and old Morris Highchurch, if he’s still kicking around, likely does nothing more strenuous than stare out a window and hold his drool cup.
“Former DI Highchurch is still with us indeed,” Ravyn said.
“Is he really?”
“Currently a resident of Meadowlands.”
“The facility out by Yew’s Reach?”
Ravyn nodded. “Still very keen.”
“And how would you know that?” Powell-Mavins asked. “No one cares what happens to coppers once they’re sent to pasture, not even other coppers. Exchange Christmas cards, do you?”
“Just something I heard.”
“You seem to hear a lot.”
Ravyn shrugged. There was no point mentioning a three-inch story published at the bottom of the local sports page in the Stafford Guardian two years ago, a filler inserted for an advert pulled at the last minute. Most subscribers skipped it – no one cared if a rag-tag team of pensioners defeated the Yew’s Reach cricketeers in an exhibition match – or forgot it immediately. Ravyn re-read the story as soon as he knew the case was to be his, even though the paper itself had been binned the same day he had received it.
“I’m heading over to Meadowlands later today.”
“Should please the poor old bugger no end, being made to feel useful. Unless he wants to leave it in the past. Wouldn’t blame him if he did. Before my time, but I read about it then, know how it was closed, him falling on his sword…pushed more likely. I’d be bitter were I him.” Powell-Mavins shook his head. “Especially now we know it was a complete cock-up.”
“What can you tell me about the murder weapon?”
“Not a lot, I fear.” He handed the evidence bag to Ravyn. “The tip is from an ordinary kitchen carving knife from a cheap set. Made in China by the millions and exported worldwide. Sold everywhere and bought by everyone. No joy there.”
“Dr Penworthy postulates an underhand thrust, blade up.”
Powell-Mavins nodded. “With a shove and a vicious little twist at the end. Sent the lad over the edge and caused the tip to snap. It was no sang-froid murder. The knife was driven deep into the spine, the tip broken when the boy was shoved off and the knife wrenched out. There was some heat behind this murder, real rage.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“After slaughtering the Strykers, he would have been excited, even frenzied, but not necessarily motivated by anger at that point,” Ravyn said. “If anything, catching and killing the last of the family might have precipitated an emotional crash.”
Usually Powell-Mavins stayed well behind a wall of evidence and avoided the murkiness of emotions and motivations. But even his clinical mind could not evade the poignancy. A young boy had carried the blame for a heinous crime merely because the people of Knight’s Crossing believed him guilty and the county government wanted an awkward case closed swiftly. Had Dale Stryker lived, he would now be the same age as Powell-Mavins’ eldest son, a Harley Street specialist. Dale Stryker’s future would have been much different from his son’s, he thought, but at least the lad would have had one. Instead, his body had remained at the bottom of that sinkhole, decomposing and unremembered.
“Something the matter, Angus?”
“Do you figure you have any real chance of getting to the truth of it all? I mean – really?”
“Perhaps.” Ravyn brought up from memory all the reports read at the time of the murders, all the many more interviews and witness statements read this day. “I don’t know.”
“After Heln’s build-up, a failure will fix you like Highchurch.”
“I think that’s rather the idea,” Ravyn said. “I can only try.”
“And if, miracle of miracles, you do find your way to the centre of the labyrinth,” Powell-Mavins said, “what then? What real hope is there of seeing anyone brought before a jury for the crimes? The murderer might be as dead as poor Dale Stryker, or moved far from Knight’s Crossing, even out of England.”
“Dead, perhaps, but I don’t think so, if only because evil has a propensity for surviving,” Ravyn said. “Moved house from Knight’s Crossing?” He shook his head. “Not a chance.”
The forensics chief’s bushy eyebrows shot upward. “Had I just murdered seven people, I wouldn’t stay in a village where everyone is in everyone else’s pocket. I might not scarper right away – might look suspicious – but as soon as people started laying the blame on young Dale I would have made myself right scarce.”
“Not our murderer,” Ravyn said. “He killed the Strykers for a reason inherent to Knight’s Crossing’s nature. Moving out of the village would negate the reason behind the murders.”
“What reason? Only madness could account for the murders.”
“True madness is rare, despite the modern tendency to label all eccentricities or manias as signs of mental illness.” Ravyn said. “If the murderer were in fact a lunatic, he would reveal himself sooner or later. Even in a village of secrets some secrets can only be hid for so long. He killed the Strykers for a reason, and a logical one, even if the logic was unique to his nature and beliefs.”
“What reason then?”
“Magic.”
Powell-Mavins snorted in disgust.
“To acquire magical secrets held by the Strykers or to protect himself from being attacked. Either way – magic.”
“Nonsense.”
“If you read the newspaper accounts of the day, you know how much the journalists…”
“Hacks and fabulists!”
“…how the authors of those accounts raked up village lore to portray Knight’s Crossing as a hotbed of magic and sorcery,” Ravyn said. “Witches, warlocks, pagans, demon worshipers – they all had their turn in the spotlight of journalistic irresponsibility.”
“Aye, according to them, Knight’s Crossing made Sodom and Gomorrah look like Bourton-on-the-Water.”
“The reputation was exaggerated, of course.”
“Well, it is an odd place at that,” Powell-Mavins admitted, “but I never saw any sins greater than you find in any other village. Or Stafford, for that matter.”
“Yet the village has been, and is now, home to people who call themselves magicians and sorcerers,” Ravyn said.
“Arthur, you don’t really hold with any of that, do you?”
“Reality is as subjective as belief.”
A sharper retort was bit off, then: “Reality is what you have left, when you take away everything that doesn’t exist.”
“Then you begin to understand magic,” Ravyn said.
“Sex, revenge, money or hate – those are real motives.”
“Traditionally, yes,” Ravyn said. “But in Knight’s Crossing all emotions are affected by magical traditions. They are the foundation of daily
life. The villagers have no choice. A man cannot deny his nature; neither can a village.”
Powell-Mavins breathed a melancholy sigh. Ravyn’s skill as a detective was undeniable, even to such a prat as Giles Heln, but he was also the most singularly odd man he had ever met. He had always considered himself intelligent, but speaking with Ravyn he felt as if a shadow fell across him, the same sense that overcame him whenever he spoke to the county pathologist. Now, there were two people who deserved each other, and he had no idea why they seemed to be the only ones not to see it.
“Well, here’s the full report, along with the photo series.” He gave Ravyn a slim binder and a thicker envelope. “I hope you get something out of them, but I don’t see how.”
“Thank you, Angus.”
“Do you really think the killer is still in Knight’s Crossing?”
“He never left or could not stay away,” Ravyn said. “Either way, he’s there now, hiding, a murderer in the shadows.”
“I hope you’re right,” Powell-Mavins said. “But the case is so cold, I don’t see how you can do what everyone now expects you to do. People forget. People die. Clues vanish or lose all context.”
“Men make the mistake of believing that sins vanish with the passage of time,” Ravyn said. “The truth is, with sins such as these they do not die, but only slumber. When they awaken, they scream at the guilty. Good day, Angus.”
He watched Ravyn’s exit. I pray you’re right, Arthur. For your own sake. And, maybe, that poor restless spirit in darkness.
* * *
“What I saw on the telly, the missing boy from that weird village, that was your case?” Aeronwy Stark asked. “The policeman who jumped into that bottomless pit? That was you?”
“DCI Ravyn and I were ordered to help the resident constable,” Stark said. “It was more a public relations thing than anything else. Because of the boy, you know.”
“And you decided to help by jumping into a bottomless pit?”
Murderer in Shadow Page 11