“He kept the murder weapon for thirty years?” Stark shook his head, baffled. “He tore up the printout, but didn’t destroy it. The shoes we found in his cottage match the prints outside the window at Meadowlands. And now we find out he never disposed of the bloody murder weapon. How could someone so incredibly stupid get away with anything for so long?”
“Sergeant, stupidity is no barrier to success.”
The door to the room opened and Superintendent Heln entered.
“Yes, Doctor,” Stark said. “I know that very well.”
“Am I interrupting?” Heln asked.
“No, not at all, Mr Heln,” Penworthy said. “I’ve finished the post mortems on the bodies from Knight’s Crossing. I’m briefing DS Stark on the results.”
Heln looked around as if just noticing where he was. His gaze slid over the sheet-covered forms without pausing.
“I don’t see Inspector Ravyn.”
“He delegated me to attend.”
Heln looked about again. “Where is Inspector Ravyn?”
“Chief Inspector Ravyn is occupied with the search for Vogt.”
“And how near are we to taking Peter Vogt into custody?”
“It shouldn’t be long,” Stark said. “Since we made a public appeal for information, we’ve received many tips. We’re running down each one. It’s only a matter of time.”
“This hue and cry would not have been necessary if a WPC had not been sent to interview him,” Heln pointed out. “And I heard she was almost killed. Is that correct?”
“Not entirely, sir,” Stark said.
“What is the entire truth then?” Heln asked.
“Well, she was in some danger, but at the time…”
“Ah, here you are, Superintendent Heln.” ACC Karen Ramsey pushed though the door. “Checking on the post mortem personally? Very good.” She looked at the others. “Dr Penworthy. DS Stark.”
“Evening, ma’am.”
“Sergeant, I’m glad you’re here,” the ACC said. “How certain are we that Vogt is culpable for the historical murders?”
“One hundred percent,” Stark said. “The modern ones as well. Forensic evidence ties him to the Link and Knox murders, and to the Highchurch murder at Meadowlands in Yew’s Reach.”
“I understand there were three in Knight’s Crossing?”
“Henry Winsell,” Penworthy said. “He died due to a coronary. The attack by Vogt on Knox might have been a contributing factor, but it would be very difficult to prove.”
“Well, if we have evidence for three…” The ACC frowned. “But I don’t see how he connects to the original case.”
Penworthy went over the results of the original post mortems, then the finding of the knife-point embedded in Dale Stryker’s spine. Lastly, she explained the significance of the marks found on Knox’s ulna and elsewhere.
Ramsey shook her head. “Kept it hidden for thirty years. Where would we be without stupid villains?”
“I think we need to await the results from SOCO before making any sort of announcement,” Penworthy said. “But I have no doubt they will confirm all the conjectures.”
“Neither do I,” Ramsey said. “The Chief Constable will be very pleased. Sir Geoffrey likes it when cases are wrapped up, ‘nice and tight,’ as he says. We owe much to you two and to DCI Ravyn.”
“And to Constable Ware,” Stark added. “Her familiarity with Knight’s Crossing and the villagers was invaluable.”
“The new resident constable?” Ramsey smiled. “At the time of her interview, I thought she was the best candidate for the post. It appears your reservations were…”
She had turned toward Heln, but he was gone.
“Where did the superintendent go?”
Both Penworthy and Stark shrugged.
“Sometimes that man is as slippery as a conger.” She uttered a small chuckle, but did not elaborate on the source of her amusement. “I suppose the only question left unanswered is why he killed that family all those years ago.”
“He was one three blokes learning magic from the old man, the one called Wizard Ezekiel, patriarch of the Stryker Clan,” Stark said. “The other two, Knox and Winsell, were having an affair with Martha Stryker, but she didn’t want nothing to do with Vogt. Also, those two were being given the old man’s granddaughters so they could be brought into the family and learn more magic, but poor old Vogt was getting the boot.”
“So, it all boils downs to sex?”
Stark considered how magic flowed in and out and around all aspects of the case. He thought about magic potions and oils, about protection stones and magic circles, and about elementals, hanging men and gwiddons in the deep darkness of the forest. He considered the power of belief and how it twisted the lives of generations. In his mind, though, was a single thought: I do not believe.
“Yes,” he said. “It was all about sex.”
“Good.” Ramsey bestowed upon them a well-done-my-good-and-faithful-servants smile. “The tabloids have already published too much sensationalist rubbish. Human sacrifice, demons, dark rituals – stuff and nonsense! Anyone reading such bizarre and outré accounts would think Hammershire the heart of darkness and its villages bastions of evil. Our county is as normal as any other.”
“Of course,” Stark agreed, but without conviction.
“A good old-fashioned sex crime,” Ramsey said. “Page two news the first day and out of the public mind the next.”
“And the world keeps turning,” Stark quipped.
“If you mean, it will be ignored by the outside world,” Ramsey said, “then, yes. And that’s exactly what we want. You must excuse me. I need to talk to Mr Heln regarding overtime before he slips out of the building. He’s a conger sometimes.”
Just before the Assistant Chief Constable passed through the door, she turned and said: “Good work, and please tell Arthur…tell DCI Ravyn how pleased the Chief Constable and I are.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve tried to call him, but his mobile seems switched off,” she said. “Mention that to him when you see him, please.”
Ramsey left in pursuit of the elusive Mr Heln.
“Do you know where Arthur is?” Penworthy asked.
“I don’t know,” Stark said. “But I think I know, unfortunately.”
* * *
Above the wasteland, a falcon soared against cold and crystalline stars. It settled into a slow gyre as a shadow emerged from between two buildings. Not a food animal, but large and dangerous. The bird of prey broke off and glided westward, putting distance between itself and the ruined farmstead.
DCI Arthur Ravyn peered out the window toward the old barn, a squatting black hulk in the immensity of the night. After searching the farmhouse, he settled down to a long wait.
It could be a waste of time, he knew. The odds were that Stark was right, that Peter Vogt had but a single purpose in mind, to put as much distance between him and the scene of the crime before all the resources of an empire in twilight were brought to bear against him. A rationalist would look for his abandoned car, would check reports of stolen vehicles, would have men watching the crowds at railway stations, airports and seaports, photo in hand, looking for one desperate man.
But all those things were being done, Ravyn reminded himself. With a few telephone calls and facsimile transmittals, Stark had set in motion the largest manhunt in recent Hammershire history. It was certainly greater than the effort mounted to find Dale Stryker all those many years ago. The difference: the goal now was to close the case, not just make it conveniently go away.
If Peter Vogt reacted to the situation as would any normal man, desiring nothing more than avoiding capture and seeking safe haven, he would eventually be taken. In a ticket queue or while walking a quiet bystreet, a strong hand would clamp his meaty shoulder and a voice would announce his arrest.
But there was another possibility, that Vogt was not a normal man, that his reactions might be dictated by considerations not of thi
s world. Ravyn believed his goal was not to run and hide, to abandon the power he thought he had gained so long ago. In this moment, when all seemed slipping away, nothing was more important than preserving his place in a cosmos of his imagining. He could not accomplish that by running. Vogt could only regain his power by returning to the centre, to where it all started more than thirty years earlier.
Here, Ravyn thought. At Stryker Farm.
To divert resources to this longest of long shots would not be sanctioned by minds incapable of seeing beyond flight or fight, so Ravyn did as he often did and shouldered the responsibility. When word came that Vogt had been run to ground in Stafford or London or Liverpool, no explanations would be demanded.
Ravyn tensed as a shadow moved from behind the two farthest buildings. It kept low, running in spurts, stopping now and then to glance furtively about, a hunted animal wary of pursuers. Its goal was the barn. By starlight, Ravyn followed the intruder’s progress.
Ravyn eased into the night with the stealth of an experienced hunter. He overlayed the nightland with a memory from his earlier visit, noting every rock and dip that might impede him.
He kept off the rutted path, where darker earth offered better cover. Halfway to the barn, Ravyn froze. His memories fled at a sound behind him. He sank low and turned, but saw nothing. He let several breathless moments pass, then moved forward.
Ravyn heard Vogt inside the barn, chanting softly in a language harsh and guttural. He eased the door open, and the words came to him clearer, though still unintelligible.
“Zo agyi asa elhoim o vassag ya dhrizai, o firaz ya athyir ost ni uhr nedzhet. A small LED lantern on the floor cast brutal light upon him and threw his gigantic shadow upon the wall. Raised above his head was a large carving knife splattered with old stains and lacking a tip. “Nae dhrazato mlor saervati offast mazas viat-vassag.”
“It won’t work, you know.” For all its softness, Ravyn’s voice cut through the night like a shout.
Vogt whirled around. At first, he did not see Ravyn lost in his own shadow. He stepped aside so the light fell on the detective.
“You haven’t a chance, Vogt.”
“The gods of the void will not desert me,” Vogt said. “I’ve fed them so much blood over the years.”
“Beginning with the Stryker family?”
“Beginning with Wizard Ezekiel, the most powerful of them,” Vogt said. “He was so filled with magical energy it should have been impossible for me to kill him, but it was easy. He died as if he was nothing but an old man.”
“Perhaps because he was just an old man.”
“No, he was the most powerful magician in the village, but he was nothing to me.” Vogt made stabbing motions with the knife. “I took his life and his power. After him came all the others, weak in comparison, but I had to kill all of them.”
“Even Martha Stryker?” Ravyn said. “I thought you liked her.”
“Slut! Whore!” Spittle flew from his lips. “She gave favours to Henry and Franklin, but rejected me.”
“A disappointed suitor. Nothing but a frustrated Lothario.”
“Sex had nothing to do with it. I needed their magic.”
“Even the boy’s?” Ravyn asked. “He got away from you. There was no need to chase him down. He thought Ezekiel’s working had got out of hand, that they were under attack by malevolent entities.”
“Is that what he wrote in his Black Book?”
“Was he in his room when you broke down the door?”
Vogt shook his head. “No. Gone. Out the window and across the fields. I had to chase him.”
“He never would have known,” Ravyn said. “But he did know at the end, didn’t he? No magical creature, just a pathetic man.”
“A powerful magician!” Vogt shouted. “He saw the blood of his family on me, knew that I was an even greater magician than his grandfather. As he fell into the void he saw fires of destruction in my eyes, knew I was his master.”
“Killing the boy doomed you,” Ravyn said. “Had he survived, he would have been arrested. No one would have believed in his rampaging elementals. You’d have been safe then…and now.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s taken awhile, but once his remains were discovered your downfall was certain. The centre could not hold.”
“You’re a fool, Ravyn,” Vogt said. “The Strykers were only the first. Over the years, I’ve spilled the blood of others and gathered unto me more magical power. The Crone became my herald.”
“You killed Mabel?” Ravyn asked.
Vogt nodded. “I killed the mad bitch who appointed herself the bane of my life.”
“But not before she cursed you.”
Vogt’s eyes widened. “What?’
“When I interviewed her, she cursed you, put a geas on you.”
“She couldn’t know it was me,” Vogt said. “She didn’t know anything till she snooped in my office and found out about the car I hired. Even then, she didn’t know what I had done, no more than she knew the powers at my command.”
“Mabel told me: ‘He killed no one, and now everyone knows it. I curse all his accusers! Pox and pestilence! Destruction and doom! But worse still upon the hand that killed the poor boy.’ She didn’t need to know who had done it, did she?”
“That’s no proper curse.”
“Woman’s magic, Vogt,” Ravyn said. “You can’t understand it and you can’t stop it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know only the magic men know,” Ravyn said. “But even that is a sham. Father to son – that’s the path to deep magic, but you have no father, and Ezekiel knew you were not worthy as a son. Just a silly sod who fancied himself a magician. No aptitude for the art, but good for a few pieces of silver each month.”
“I can call forth elementals,” Vogt said. “I can shake the earth.”
“No father to teach you the arts,” Ravyn said. “No mother to help you avoid the wiles that women weave.”
“Magic is in the blood.” Vogt again stabbed the air. “I take the blood, I take the magic.”
“No true magician would ever say a load of rubbish like that.” Ravyn hook his head. “Magic is learned, not stolen.”
“I have the power.”
“You have nothing but delusions.” Ravyn moved closer. “You can fool a yob like Lebbie Rodgers into thinking you have power, make him believe he is a secret acolyte, but I know better.”
“You’re just another plodding policeman,” Vogt spat.
“Mabel didn’t think so.”
Vogt licked his lips nervously. Mabel was mad as a badger, but what was he to make of her assertions that Ravyn was some kind of hidden adept? She had spread it around the village that he was more than he seemed. People never paid any heed to her blatherings and accusations, the reason he had allowed her to live as long as she had, but her new rantings were different. Even Lebbie, who had railed and raged at the mild-mannered Ravyn in the beginning, had backed off from any confrontation with him. If the fool had not made the mistake of coveting the protection stone for himself, he would be here to help him kill Ravyn.
“Mabel was a mad bitch,” Vogt said. “Everyone knew that. No one listened to her.”
“No one human perhaps.” Ravyn lifted a cupped hand to his ear. “Do I hear the Crone whispering your name? I think I do.”
Instinctively, Vogt listened to the night breezes passing through chinks in the old building’s timbers. Disgusted at his own response, he started to sneer at Ravyn.
“Vogt,” the soft winds whispered. “Peter Vogt.”
All colour drained from Vogt’s face.
“I have come for you, Peter Vogt.”
“It’s a trick.” Vogt’s cry was weak, lacking fire. “A dirty trick.”
“Give me the knife, Vogt,” Ravyn said. “It’s over.”
Vogt looked at the knife in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He raised his right arm, holding it straig
ht across his chest, blade at an angle. His left arm was down, slightly behind him. Obviously, the years had given Vogt dexterity with a knife.
“Drop the weapon,” Ravyn said.
“Not a weapon.” The lights in the blade glinted into eyes that were mere pinpricks of black in a sea of white. “It carries the power of all whose blood it has tasted. It will taste yours.”
“You cannot fight the geas Mabel placed on you.”
“My cousin was nothing,” Vogt said. “She had no power. Her own father taught her very little and she had no mother.”
“She had sisterhood,” Ravyn said. “She was not alone.”
Vogt frowned in confusion.
“Men covet magic, fight over power and hoard secrets,” Ravyn said. “Women share. That is their advantage. You are not only alone, but are a poser and a fraud who must hide in shadow. Mabel drew strength from every woman in Knight’s Crossing. Surrender and you shall live; challenge Mabel’s curse and you shall surely die. The proof of Mabel’s curse is me confronting you, an abandoned man without power, known to all as a murderer.”
Ravyn took a half-step toward Vogt.
Vogt flexed his legs, lowered his body and raised the knife a bit higher. His brow furrowed till his eyes were points of light.
Ravyn stretched out his hand. “Give me the knife.”
Vogt screamed like a beast and leaped the distance between them. Ravyn knocked aside the knife, but a long furrow was opened in his coat sleeve. Blood spattered on the ground. Without pause, Vogt drew the knife back, then thrust it forward, driving it hard into Ravyn’s chest.
Ravyn staggered under the force of the blow, but retained his balance. He grabbed Vogt’s arm with both hands.
Shock and surprise twisted Vogt’s face when the knife did not bury itself in Ravyn’s chest. Even lacking a tip, the finely honed blade should have penetrated Ravyn’s heart, which was the seat of magic. Instead, his blow met resistance, and the blade seemed to skitter across Ravyn’s chest, ripping cloth but not entering.
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