‘Yes, mam.’
Left alone with only the torch, she examined the room. The walls seemed black and as with the basement flat at the Kirkman house there was a display of various symbols painted in gold. Many of them now familiar to her, some not. In particular, she was drawn to one that Philip Tweedy had failed to recognise. The image took up most of the wall at the back of the room, some twenty feet from the fireplace. Three stars over a black sun as Philip had described it. But he hadn’t known the significance of it. When she lowered the torch the beam lit up a portion of the concrete floor. There, too, was the same image, three stars over a black sun painted in black and gold. Had she now found the place where Greasby, Young and Kirkman had been murdered? If so, why had their heads and bodies been placed where they could be discovered?
She heard footsteps on the stairs, and in a few seconds she had Tweedy and Murray for company. Once again, she illuminated the row of jars with the torch.
‘Oh my God,’ said Murray when he saw the first one. Tweedy wasn’t quite so vocal.
‘Eight of them, sir,’ said Tara, panning the beam of light along the shelf. No one spoke for a few moments then Tweedy stepped forward and stood before the fourth jar from the left. It stood directly above the wide fireplace. He peered closely at the head immersed in a fluid, while Tara kept the torch fixed in one place.
‘What is it, sir? Have you noticed something?’
‘I’m fairly sure I’m looking at the head of Alastair Bailey.’
Chapter 51
Dr Carl Sloan sat uneasily on the plastic chair in a ground floor interview room at St Anne Street Station. He didn’t seem happy at having first been arrested and then kept waiting for Tara to arrive to conduct the interview. Murray had been assigned the task of interviewing a nervy Elsie Greenwood in the room next door.
Tara had deliberately taken her time in getting to work, and she’d instructed Murray to do the same. Superintendent Tweedy had suggested they took some time to relax and gather their thoughts before resuming work on this case. At times they needed to draw breath and find a way to deal with the traumatic aspects of their jobs. The discovery of a collection of human heads would not be an easy image to erase from one’s mind. So Tara had spent the latter part of her evening in the company of her friends Kate and Aisling, drinking wine, having a chat and watching telly. Both friends knew how to behave around her when Tara had mentioned having a horrific day. In her situation horrific didn’t simply mean busy, hectic, things not going to plan. No, Kate and Aisling were used now to horrific meaning a death, a grisly murder, a disturbing crime scene. The three girls had a laugh, relaxing in each other’s company.
Waking alone, Tara couldn’t stop herself from thinking of Philip Tweedy, wondering where he was and what he was doing. No contact from him since they’d last shared her bed. At least he had given her his phone number. She’d sent him several texts, nothing heavy, just asking how things were. No reply. She was supposed to trust him. But his words had deepened her confusion. Why hint at something then state that he couldn’t tell her what it was about? And what the hell did her murder investigation have to do with it? She had more or less decided that their relationship wasn’t going anywhere. That’s when she had been thinking rationally. Something inside, however, couldn’t help her from wanting him again. For now she would try to do as he’d asked. She would trust him.
She’d taken her time over breakfast, a rarity most days, a long shower and a leisurely pace at getting dressed. By the time she arrived at the station, gathered her files and entered the interview room, Carl Sloan looked ready to explode.
Once the preliminaries had been carried out, she wasted no further time in getting straight to the point.
‘Dr Sloan, why was there a collection of human heads in glass jars on your property?’
‘They’ve been there for years,’ he said dryly.
‘Why is that?’
Sloan had requested his solicitor be present. A burly man, late-forties with little hair and in a grey suit, nodded once to indicate that Sloan should reply to the question.
‘They were left there by the previous owner.’
Despite the interview being recorded, Tara was making her own notes.
‘How long have you been the owner of the house?’
‘Thirteen years.’
‘And in that time you have never thought it necessary to deal with this collection?’
‘No. They weren’t doing any harm down there. I have done nothing wrong, Inspector, and I would like to go now.’ When Tara didn’t respond or even look up from her note-taking, Sloan turned to his solicitor.
‘Really, Inspector,’ said Michael Coombes, ‘My client has answered your questions and can offer nothing further. I think it’s time he was released.’
Tara raised her head, trying her damndest not to fume.
‘Gentlemen, we’re not dealing with a find of naughty pictures, or even a stash of drugs. We’re talking about the discovery of human remains on your property, Dr Sloan. You will not be going anywhere for a while.’ Coombes pulled a face that showed his distaste at being admonished by a girl who looked little more than a teenager, but he made no reply.
‘The name of the previous owner of the house, please?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Was it Kirkman?’ Tara already knew the answer. They’d established such details immediately after the gruesome discovery, but she wanted to be sure she was getting Sloan’s co-operation.
‘Yes, that was the name. Mary Kirkman.’
‘Do you know why the previous owner had these remains on her property?’ Sloan looked at Coombes for guidance. The solicitor intimated that his client should respond.
‘As far as I know the farm was used for the practice of satanic rituals.’
‘And were these remains used in such rituals?’
‘I really don’t know. I was never there. It was before my time.’
‘Yet you continued to maintain the room with the jars in place and symbols of the occult on the walls and floor? Do you practice satanic rituals in this room?’
‘I don’t live there, Inspector.’
‘I didn’t ask you if you lived there, I asked if you practice satanic rituals in that room. I will be asking Ms Greenwood the same question.’
Sloan rubbed his face with both hands and sighed deeply.
‘There are certain pagan rituals performed there. Not satanic as you suggest.’
‘Do you use the human heads in your rituals?’
‘No. We left them in place in response to a request from some of our members. They do not comprise any part of our worship.’
‘And what exactly do you worship?’
‘We embrace the rituals of our pagan ancestors, Inspector. Some of these practices are druidic in nature. We celebrate ancient festivals such as Samhain and Beltane, we dance the Maypole, we investigate ancient teachings such as Cerridwen’s Cauldron of Wisdom.’
‘Human sacrifice?’ Tara interrupted.
Sloan took his time in answering, and he did so with a smirk.
‘Not in recent times, Inspector.’
‘How about twenty-five years ago and the murder of Alastair Bailey?’
‘As I have said, that’s before my time.’
‘Do you know the names of the people whose heads you have stored on your property?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I will need a list of the names of members of your church.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that either.’
‘Can’t or won’t, Dr Sloan?’
Chapter 52
Murray had a more abrupt interviewing technique. He had less patience than Tara in trying to extract information. Didn’t matter if the suspect was male or female, nervous or confident, frightened or bold.
‘Ms Greenwood, what were the heads of eight people doing on a shelf in your home?’
‘They’ve been there longer than I have lived in that house.’
> ‘Who put them there?’
‘I believe it was done by members of the church who met there at one time?
‘The Church of the Crystal Water?’
Elsie Greenwood’s face widened in surprise at the question. She almost smiled, something she hadn’t managed since her arrest.
‘I would hardly think so, Sergeant.’
‘Why is that?’
‘The people who used to meet there would not have been associated with the Church of the Crystal Water.’
‘Can you identify any of the heads that were found?’
‘I know only two of them. Charles and Mary Kirkman.’
‘The parents of Dinsdale Kirkman?’
‘Yes. They were the high priest and priestess of the group who used my house before I lived there. The Kirkmans owned the place before Carl bought it for our group. The reason for my living there is to look after the place and to prepare for our meetings.’
‘So, you are a member of the Church of the Crystal Water?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I thought it a sensible question, Ms Greenwood. But tell me why the heads of the Kirkmans are preserved in jars in your home?’
‘Both Kirkmans died of natural causes, I believe. It was supposedly part of their belief that the soul remains within the mind after death and not in the body. While the remainder of the body can be discarded the head should be saved.’
‘Strange.’
‘Unconventional, perhaps.’
‘Where did the bodies end up?’
‘Hard to say. Usually the remainder of the body is cremated and the ashes scattered.’
*
Tara and Murray met over coffee in the canteen. Neither one was pleased with the information they had so far drawn from Sloan and Greenwood.
‘Do you believe what you’re hearing, Alan?’ He was halfway through a fruit scone, dropping crumbs on his trousers and trying to sweep them onto the floor.
‘I’m surprised at how blasé they are in talking about this stuff. They don’t seem to understand how bad it looks. It’s like we’ve found a couple of stuffed animals in a cupboard. They’re behaving as if they’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Makes me wonder how much they’re covering up.’
‘It won’t be hard to confirm how long Sloan has owned the house and how long Greenwood has lived there. The trouble comes in trying to find out exactly what goes on in the place. What the hell do they do with eight human heads in glass jars?’
‘My problem with the whole situation is why do they keep such secrets regarding their rituals and at the same time go public with these brutal murders?’
‘You really think they are killers?’
‘Someone in their group must be. My guess is that it’s one of their so-called older members. And so far Sloan is reluctant to identify any of them. Somebody put those heads on that shelf. If one of the heads is confirmed as Alastair Bailey and another as Kelly Pritchard then I’d say the murderer lies within this group.’
‘So far, mam, there has been no evidence found in the place to suggest a link to any of the recent deaths.’
‘I know. We need to get names out of Sloan or Greenwood. What happened twenty-five years ago at that farm is connected to the deaths of Greasby, Young and Kirkman. I’m certain of it.’
Chapter 53
When Tara entered the room she found Elsie Greenwood sipping tea and chatting quietly with her solicitor. Carol Sherman, a woman in her mid-thirties, slim, well-groomed but not such a friendly face, was first to speak.
‘Detective Inspector Grogan, my client feels that she can be of no further help in this situation and would like to go now.’
Tara smiled weakly at both women. She sat down opposite them, setting some files upon the table. She usually preferred to address the person being questioned and not the accompanying brief.
‘Ms Greenwood, I appreciate that you have willingly answered our questions thus far, but I have some more questions to ask you.’
‘I really don’t think my client can offer anything more, Inspector.’
‘Let’s see shall we?’ said Tara with a curt smile. ‘How did you come to be living at the farmhouse, Ms Greenwood?’
‘I moved up north from Essex and opened my shop. I already knew Carl from years back; I was looking for somewhere to rent and he offered me the farmhouse. He had just taken it on as somewhere to hold our gatherings, and I was happy to look after preparations for our meetings.’
‘So it was very convenient for you both?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘What was your reaction on finding those heads in the outbuilding?’
‘It was a shock at first, but then both Carl and I have an interest in the occult, the macabre, so I got used to them being there.’
‘Who insisted that they remain in place?’
‘Carl did.’
‘Didn’t you wonder why they should be there? Weren’t you curious as to who those people had been?’
‘Sometimes, Inspector, in our circles it is better not to ask such questions.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘There are many secrets within the circles of the modern order. Depends upon your status what you are entitled to know.’ Tara began to feel that she might be getting somewhere with Elsie Greenwood, that hopefully she could tease out of her the information she really needed. The names of those involved in the activities of twenty-five years ago.
‘But you did know about the Kirkmans. Tell me what you know of them. How did they die?’
Greenwood shrugged.
‘Natural causes, I believe.’
‘Did you ever meet their son, Dinsdale?’
‘No.’
‘Did he not attend your meetings?’
‘No.’
‘Are there any of your present members who would have been members of the Kirkman’s group?’ Greenwood looked sideways at her solicitor. Sherman whispered something.
‘I can’t answer that, Inspector.’ Here they go again, thought Tara.
‘Can’t or won’t, Ms Greenwood?’ The woman did not reply and did a good job of looking determinedly at Tara. But the young detective was not about to be put off by some middle-aged woman claiming to live and be ruled by a secret code of ethics. People had died at the hands of brutal killers. The quest for justice surely must outweigh the need for the protection of a religious secret.
‘Ms Greenwood, we found the remains of eight people at your home, three men have also been murdered in this city recently and I believe there is a connection. We could be looking at eleven murders. Do you understand the seriousness of the situation? Are you aware that I can charge you right now, along with Sloan, with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice? That is not a slap on the wrist offence; you will go to prison if you are found guilty.’
‘I don’t appreciate you trying to intimidate my client,’ said Sherman harshly.
‘I’m stating the situation as I see it, Ms Sherman. What jury will not convict when they hear that human remains were kept at your client’s home and yet she refuses to discuss the matter?’
Pushing back her auburn hair from her ear, Sherman whispered to Greenwood. A discussion ensued between the pair, Greenwood looking increasingly worried. Eventually, Sherman spoke.
‘Please put your question to my client once again.’
At last, thought Tara.
‘Ms Greenwood, can you please give me the names of those members of your church who may have been associated with the group led by the Kirkmans?’
‘I can’t do that, Inspector. The names of our members remains a private matter. Only Carl Sloan can take the decision to reveal that information.’
Tara could do little else but glare at the two women. Snatching her files from the table she rose from her chair.
‘Depending on what Sloan has to say, you will be charged with perverting the course of justice, if not murder.’ She walked from the room and went next door to Carl Sloan.
Murray had got nowhere with the history academic. But Tara was not prepared to circle the issues any longer. She barged into the room and issued the same warning to Sloan that she’d delivered to Elsie Greenwood. Sloan’s brief took it in the same manner as Carol Sherman had.
‘That’s intimidation, Inspector Grogan,’ said Coombes.
‘Call it what you like, Mr Coombes, but if I don’t get a list of names associated with Dr Sloan’s organisation he will be charged. I have enough evidence to get a conviction, but his assistance in finding whoever killed these people may just help with a reduced sentence. I’ll leave you to consider your options.’ Tara and Murray left them alone.
While the two detectives drank coffee in the corridor nearby, Coombes left the interview room in a hurry. Not long after, Carol Sherman followed suit, and Tara ordered that both suspects be returned to their holding cells. If she was right, Tara guessed that Coombes had been instructed by Sloan to contact all members of his flock to make them aware of the situation and to prepare them that very soon their names would be given over to the police.
Chapter 54
She arrived home and flopped gratefully into her sofa without removing her coat or dropping her handbag. For a while she lay still, hearing only the odd creak as her heating came on, or a thud as a door slammed further along her floor of the building. Eventually, she kicked off her shoes, but continued to clutch her bag across her tummy. Her mind wondered, and soon she was gazing at cheerful scenes of her childhood with her parents and brothers holidaying in France, of outings to town with Kate and Aisling and her boyfriends, one shy and trying desperately to summon the courage to kiss her and another quite the opposite, wanting so much more than a kiss and cuddle, and he only fourteen years old. She thought then of Simon, her first real love, and of their time spent at Oxford and inevitably to the pain of their break-up. And this pain led to thoughts of the next, the death of Callum, she pregnant with his child. Tears filled her eyes at the vision of her cradling her tiny son for a few brief moments before they took his lifeless body from her. Then fear at what may have happened at the hands of James Guy when he bundled her into his van and drove away. She had no memory of this, just a gnawing within that made her nervous of men, of getting close to any man. And yet here she was mulling over her life and coming now to wonder about Philip Tweedy. Did they have any future? She fell asleep with swirling thoughts of Philip making love to her, his father reading his Bible, and Murray stuffing a sandwich in his mouth.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 41