Tara sat with Molly and endured several daytime programmes, from air-sea rescue to a show on cowboy builders. She was relieved when the lunchtime news came on. An hour and a half later, her phone burst to life with its pop tune. It was Murray.
‘Found the place, mam, no problem. Norman brought us to it straightaway.’
‘That’s good. Where are you exactly?’
‘Lovely spot close to Delamere Country Park. Between Chester and Northwich. It’s a big old farmhouse. The outbuildings don’t look to be in use, and no one is answering at the house.’
‘Okay, take a note of the address and have someone at the station check it out for the owner, then get back here.’
‘Hold on, there’s a car coming up the lane. I’ll call you back, mam.’
Less than a minute elapsed before Tara’s phone rang again.
‘Well?’
‘They did a quick about turn when they saw us.’
‘Did you get a note of the car reg?’
‘Better than that I saw the driver.’
‘Anyone we know?’
‘Oh yes. That woman from the Goth clothes shop.’
‘Elsie Greenwood?’
Chapter 47
She drove fast down the lane. Didn’t bother to stop at the junction with the road, fortunately clear of traffic. So much faster than she was used to doing. Eventually, close to Birkenhead, she pulled into a layby, stopped the engine and reached for her mobile. With hands shaking and breathing heavily she managed to select the name from her contacts.
‘It’s me,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘They were at the house, waiting for me. I don’t know how they found it.’
‘Calm down, Elsie. Who was at the house?’
‘The police, the detectives who came to the shop asking questions.’
‘What did they want this time?’
‘I don’t know. Didn’t stay around to speak with them.’
‘Did they see you?’
‘I’m sure they saw the car, but I don’t know if they recognised me. It was that big guy, the Detective Sergeant, but I didn’t see the young girl. There was an old man standing with him. What do I do? I can’t go back there.’
‘It’s all right, Elsie. You haven’t done anything wrong. Just relax, take a few deep breaths.’
‘But what if they start tearing the place apart?’
‘I’ve told you, you haven’t done anything wrong. Stay calm. Where are you now?’
‘On my way back to the shop. I left Katrina in charge. I have to close up.’
‘That’s fine. Just behave normally. If the police recognised you or got your car registration they’ll come calling. But you need to stay calm. Don’t tell them anything, don’t agree to anything. I’ll get a solicitor, if you need one.’
‘Oh my god. What about our things? We need to move them, get them out of the house. You need to help me. Get some of the others to help me.’
‘Elsie, listen to me. The police may not be interested in the house or what’s inside there. They may have simply wanted to speak with you again.’
‘Then why didn’t they come to the shop? I shouldn’t have run off, but I panicked; I didn’t know what to do. And how do they know I’m connected with the house? We should have done something after they first came to see me. How are we going to explain? We’ll have to tell them what goes on there.’
‘Don’t worry, just go back to the shop and carry on as normal. I will contact the others and cancel our next gathering.’
‘But I live there. Where am I supposed to go now?’
‘I told you, go about things as if nothing has happened. Relax, Elsie, we’ll get through this.’ She ended the call. Couldn’t relax. Her head was pounding, her temples pulsing. She lit a cigarette and took several long drags. Suddenly, she had the feeling that everyone was looking for her, everyone was after her. She locked her doors, checked the mirror. The urge to keep running was holding sway over staying to face them. But she knew she’d done nothing wrong. There were things at the house she didn’t want them to see, but they didn’t belong to her. It wasn’t her choice to have them there. After smoking another cigarette, she felt a little more relaxed about facing them. She started the car and headed to her shop.
Chapter 48
Elsie Greenwood didn’t have long to wait before the police came to see her. An hour after returning to her shop, Tara and Murray’s car stopped outside.
‘Afternoon, Ms Greenwood,’ said Murray with a glib smile as he came into the shop. ‘Sorry we didn’t have time for a chat earlier. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right?’
She looked nervous, flitting about, tidying a rack of dresses then retreating behind her counter.
‘Katrina, can you leave us for now?’ Her young assistant scanned the faces of the visitors but obediently retired to the back room of the shop.
Tara got straight to the point.
‘Can you tell us what you were doing earlier today at that house?’
‘I live there, Inspector. It’s my home, and I don’t take kindly to seeing police officers standing in my drive without invitation.’
‘Just doing my job, Ms Greenwood,’ said Murray.
‘What is it you think I can help you with?’
‘How long have you lived there?’ Tara asked.
‘About twelve years.’
‘Are you the owner?’
‘No, just a tenant. What is this about, Inspector? Have I done something wrong?’
‘We have recently learned that your house was associated with a cult community about twenty-five years ago.’
‘Before my time. I am the only one who lives there now.’
‘A girl went missing; she was a member of this cult, and it is thought she died at the house. Her body has never been found.’
‘The man you saw with me,’ said Murray. ‘He was the father of the girl. Her name was Kelly Pritchard.’
Greenwood shook her head and seemed to relax.
‘I don’t know that name, and I’m not aware of anyone dying at the house.’
‘We believe also that a man named Alastair Bailey may have been murdered there.’
‘I can’t help you, Inspector. I know very little of the history of the place. As far as I knew it was a working farm before I moved in.’
‘You’ve never heard of Alastair Bailey?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘What about Charles Kirkman?’ Murray asked.
Tara didn’t think the woman’s face could become any paler, but somehow she turned white.
‘No,’ she replied hesitantly.
‘If you don’t mind we would like to take a look around your home. We’d prefer to do so with your co-operation, but if not we can get a warrant?’
‘Then you’ll have to get a warrant. I’ve done nothing wrong, Inspector, and I don’t see why you are harassing me. I’ve answered your questions, none of which have any relevance to me.’
‘Let’s hope that is the case, Ms Greenwood. We’ll be in touch.’
Their next call was to Abercromby Square. Wilson had already come through with details on the landlord of the house near Delamere Park where Elsie Greenwood lived. It was Doctor Carl Sloan.
Chapter 49
She pulled into a side street, off Picton Road, did a three point turn and parked so that she was looking across the road facing a mini-market. He lived in the flat above, his entrance just to the right of the shop. There were no lights showing in the first floor windows. It was late, past ten o’clock already. Where could he be? What was he up to? Already she had decided that he was responsible for the disappearance of the legal secretary who’d gone missing from her home in Tarbock Green. It was all over the news. James Guy, she’d decided, was the kind of man who would have no qualms about doing such a thing. Snatching a girl off the street, or from her own home, doing as he pleased with her and dumping her when he’d finished. And yesterday he’d had the nerve to turn up at The Swallow�
�s Tail in the hope of seeing her. Given the chance, he would claim her as his next victim. She’d watched him sidle into the pub, not a care in the world. She enjoyed the effect she’d had on him. She’d just string him along for a few more days.
Five young lads strolled by her car but not without taking a good look at the woman seated behind the wheel. Her heart raced as she prayed they would walk on by. One of them, a boy of around sixteen, short hair, and dressed in baggy jeans and a dark zip-up sweatshirt, thumbed the keys as he texted on his mobile. His mates stopped to wait for him. Two of them plonked their bottoms against the bonnet of her car, unconcerned about the owner within. What should she do? Couldn’t afford to rile these youths, nor did she want to draw attention to herself, not when James Guy could return home at any minute. The youths didn’t seem particularly threatening, but she should drive away now, to hell with James Guy. She didn’t want to confront these kids. Then suddenly there he was on the other side of the road striding along toward the door of his flat and dressed in dark trousers and a combat-style jacket. As he pulled his key from his pocket he glanced around him. She lost sight of him, her view obscured through the windscreen by the two lads leaning on the bonnet. The next thing she saw was the light going on in the room on the first floor. An agonising wait for very little. The irony of her situation hit home when the boys, as quickly as they had arrived, hurried on down the road. She remained for several minutes, watching the light behind a pale curtain in the flat. She didn’t like James Guy, of that she was certain. But he did look handsome. She would continue to keep an eye on him. Find out what he got up to when not working. Something evil, she was sure of it. She was certain also that James Guy must soon come to an end.
Chapter 50
Cheshire police were responsible for conducting a search of the house near Delamere Park. Tara, Murray and Tweedy were in attendance along with Carl Sloan and Elsie Greenwood. Both house-owner and tenant remained passive as six uniformed officers went through each room of the stone building. They had been briefed by Tara on what to look out for: evidence to suggest that occult worship or practices took place on the premises, anything to suggest a connection to one or more of the recent murder victims, Greasby, Young and Kirkman, or clues relating to the events of twenty-five years ago when Alastair Bailey and Kelly Pritchard both died.
It was early morning, damp and cold, but Sloan and Greenwood remained outside with Harold Tweedy. No one spoke. A police guard had been placed at the entrance to the lane the night before in order to prevent anything from being removed from the property before the search took place. When Tara and Murray had arrived at the house Carl Sloan was already present. Neither he nor Greenwood made any protest. Both had said little, and complied with each request made of them.
Indoors Tara and Murray moved through the house watching the uniforms searching cupboards, drawers, cabinets and bookcases. The house was tidy, suffered from a lack of daylight through small windows, and was furnished with a jumble of dated rather than genuine antique furniture. A sitting room at the front of the house was clearly well-used by Greenwood. It contained a television, a 60s style teak drinks cabinet and sideboard, a self-assembly-type desk littered with paperwork and a green and cream striped cushioned sofa rife with cat hair. The kitchen to the rear was mostly clean and tidy save for the morning’s breakfast dishes, a meal for two abandoned when the police had arrived. Two further rooms on the ground floor were laid out, it seemed, as meeting rooms, a variety of chairs set around the walls of the front room and a table set with eight chairs in what was presumably a dining room. As with the Kirkman house, Tara noted the many books on the subject of the occult, the mystic and also several political and religious writings, including a copy of Mein Kampf, and several on Islam. There were, however, just as many paperbacks of popular fiction: Jilly Cooper, Agatha Christie, Jackie Collins and Maeve Binchy.
A book collection was not enough to prove any connection to recent or historic murders; Greenwood had already admitted being a witch. Whatever that meant, Tara thought. There were five bedrooms upstairs, two appeared to have been used the night before, so presumably Carl Sloan had stayed over. The white veneered wardrobes, in what was clearly Elsie’s room, held a peculiar variety of clothing, mostly in black, in leather, latex and PVC. Folded jeans, t-shirts and jumpers sat neatly in a chest of drawers. Shoes, mainly black, were arranged on a stand at the bottom of the wardrobe. Tara noticed, on a dressing table, a collection of jewellery, neatly placed in a box with necklaces hanging from a brass stand. Some of the necklace fobs were peculiar looking objects, symbols she assumed to be associated with the occult or pagan in origin. The walls in the room were decorated in what Tara guessed were astrological symbols, stencilled onto a painted background. Beyond the clothes, décor and books that displayed an interest in the occult, they found nothing in the house to suggest any connections to murders. Tara reported back to Harold Tweedy.
‘Nothing of any real significance, sir.’
Tweedy nodded his understanding, but Tara glimpsed Sloan looking sombrely at Greenwood.
‘We’re starting on the buildings out the back. Ms Greenwood, can you provide keys to any of the sheds?’ The woman opened her handbag and produced a lanyard that held at least a dozen keys of varying shapes and sizes. Without a word she handed them to Tara.
To the rear of the house was a farmyard measuring approximately forty yards by thirty and enclosed by outbuildings, sheds, stables and a hay barn. At the farthest end from the house there were gated openings on both sides to the left and right. These gave on to laneways, largely overgrown through lack of use. Beyond the lane to the south were open fields and pastures although there were no animals grazing. To the north, the lane disappeared into woodland. The yard had a concrete base, and outside one of the sheds sat three wooden picnic tables. Tara passed the bunch of keys to Murray who went off to supervise the uniforms already waiting by the first of the sheds.
While the search was taking place Tara ambled to the centre of the yard. Here there was a circle marked into the ground and, judging by the black patches on the concrete, it was a place where fires had been lit. Set around the circle were heavy logs laid out for seating. Tara noted familiar symbols roughly carved into the bark, and through the blackened patches on the ground she noticed that a large pentacle, a five-pointed star within a circle, had been etched into the concrete. She didn’t need much more to tell her that this place had been and still was used for gatherings of some kind. If there had been a place, a church of the occult, in existence twenty-five years ago where people may have been murdered or sacrificed then surely they had found it. Before leaving the station for home the night before, Wilson had established that the previous owner of the house prior to Carl Sloan had been none other than Mary Kirkman. Had they now found the base for the Church of the Crystal Water?
She turned around to see Murray and a couple of uniforms emerge from the first single-storey shed.
‘A workshop, mam,’ he called. ‘Old tools, wooden boards and planks, a few logs and a couple of axes.’ She acknowledged his report and watched as he proceeded to the next doorway, one leading into a two storey building. She wandered across to the opposite side of the yard, where two other uniforms had undone a heavy padlock and were sliding open a sturdy wooden door. When she reached the entrance she saw a bare room inside, concrete walls and floor, a cold damp smell but nothing to see. To the right hand side, however, she noticed that the two officers had unlocked and passed through another doorway that led to a flight of steps. There were no obvious lights or switches to be found, but she followed them down the thirteen concrete steps into the darkness of yet another empty room without windows. The light from a torch illuminated the entrance to a second room, where both constables where standing, frozen, it seemed, to the spot. Neither dared move. Only their heavy intake of breath showed they were still alive. Guided by the dim light, she stepped into the room and stood beside them. In less than a second she wished she hadn’t.
A wooden shelf, about six feet off the floor, ran the entire way around the walls of the room. There were various objects and shapes set upon this shelf: wooden models of pyramids, oddly-shaped crystals, ugly stone sculptures of cherubs and angels, demons and gargoyles. But on the wall, above an open fireplace, where the torchlight had come to rest, sat a row of large glass jars. Cylinders. In each was contained a head, a human head.
She counted eight jars, eight heads. Then she grabbed the torch from the constable and scanned the room. There were no more. Forcing herself to do it, she drew close to the jars and shone the light. Nothing to identify each one, but they seemed well preserved. The first on the left was a male, the surrounding liquid was discoloured, but she could make out what had once been a heavy face, strong features, large nose, thick ears and dark hair. The second looked female, smaller, with long dark hair having settled around the bottom of the jar. The next two were males, younger than the first, then another female, two males and finally a female. Tara shuddered. What was she looking at? A set of trophies? A laboratory?
‘Go fetch Superintendent Tweedy,’ she barked at one of the uniforms. ‘And get a forensic team out here.’ The young constable bolted for the door, his footsteps echoing off the walls of the adjacent room.
‘What is this, mam?’ the other uniform asked.
‘I wish I knew, constable. Go upstairs and make sure we don’t get everyone stampeding down here to have a look. Superintendent Tweedy and DS Murray only.’
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 40