Mary Kirkman was our high priestess. She removed her robes and stood dressed in a black leotard and mask. The woman who’d hammered the nails presented Mary with an axe. It was like an ancient weapon, a huge shining blade. Everyone cheered, rising to a crescendo as Mary raised the axe above her head. It only took one blow and Simeon’s head came off. With Alastair it took three. It was viewed as failure because with sacrifice the head is supposed to be removed with a single blow. There was blood everywhere.’
The image, shown to her by Philip, of the goddess Baphomet holding a human head, flashed into Tara’s mind. She felt strange. Cold. And yet, horrifying as it was, all she wanted was to know what happened next.
‘A fire had already been lit and Simeon’s body, still nailed to the wheel, was set on top of the flames. Some of the guys brought a van into the yard and Alastair’s body was lifted inside. Charles told us that he wanted to send a message to members of the Crystal Water of what would happen if they ever again tried to disrupt Vera Deitate. They drove away.
That night I slept with Charles and Mary. I never heard anything more of Alastair until the police told me they had found his body in Croxteth Woods. A few months later, at one of our meetings, Charles concocted a ceremony of placing the heads of Alastair and Simeon, already in glass jars, onto our altar. I threw up when I saw them.’
Tara could do little but stare into the eyes of this woman. She was always shocked to hear the details of a murder retold by a witness or by the killer, but this tale had plumbed the depths of depravity. It was the stuff of horror movies designed to thrill and excite. Surely such a story could not be true. This could not have happened in this country, never mind on Merseyside. How could this woman have kept it hidden for so long? She was talking about a man she’d been married to, a man whom she’d loved, had borne his children, and yet she’d looked on as he was gruesomely put to death in the name of some bizarre and fiendish belief. Tara tried her best to hold her anger, and her disgust, at the woman sitting before her.
‘But you continued to attend the meetings at Vera Deitate?’
‘Yes. Charles and Mary kept their promise and looked after me. Despite what you must think, Inspector, they were very loving people.’
Tara had dropped her gaze momentarily but looked again in horror as Malcroft continued to sanctify the actions of her friends. The glare from Tara was enough to stop the woman from saying more. But Tara wanted to hear it all. Maybe the link to the recent killings was still to be found in Janet Malcroft.
‘Please continue, Janet.’
‘Things are different nowadays. When Charles, then Mary, passed, their heads were removed and placed beside the others. At least their souls remain with us. Carl is not so keen on having them there, but the older members insist upon it.’
Tara fought the urge to slap this bitch. How could she now speak so callously, so lacking in guilt of her association with this group of people?
Murray had remained unusually quiet during the telling of the story. Tara supposed as with her that he had never heard anything like it before. They now had their killers identified for the murder of Alastair Bailey, but they had no further clues as to who was responsible for the deaths of Greasby, Young and Kirkman. Someone, perhaps, who may hold a grudge against this mystifying church. But Murray had an insightful question to ask of Janet Malcroft.
‘You mentioned a woman who hammered nails into the hands and feet of the victims and who gave the axe to Mary Kirkman. Is she still connected to your church?’
Malcroft bit down on her lip.
‘No.’
‘Her name, please?’
Malcroft glanced sideways at Michael Coombes. His expression remained passive. Tara doubted if he, too, had ever heard such a debauched tale, although she had begun to suspect that he may also be a member of this group. Janet Malcroft dropped her gaze as she, reluctantly it seemed, answered Murray’s question.
‘Angela Sanders,’ she muttered.
Chapter 57
I’ve already sussed out my next wee girl. Just have to organise a new van. Might have to wait until payday. All I can do for the time being is keep tabs on her. I’m telling you, without this delivery job I’d be bloody stuck at the moment. And I’d be horny too, a pressure cooker about to blow. Dropping off groceries really gets me to the centre of things, right where I want to be. I’ve got my eye on this yummy mummy or what’s the modern term again? MILF. Definitely a MILF. Lives in a big house in a quiet cul-de-sac in Woolton. I know that’s not really so far from where I found Vicki in Tarbock Green, but this will be the last for a while in Liverpool. After I’ve finally taken the sultry cop Tara, I’ll probably move on. London I think. You can lose yourself there; it’s like a country all of its own. Too many people. No one is going to notice the likes of me. I’m too quiet, too careful in what I do.
Anyway, this MILF in Woolton, my name for her is Ella, has three kids, teenagers I’d say. In fact, give them a couple more years and Ella’s daughters might be worth a look. For now though, the ever youthful looking Ella, forty-something, friendly, neat wee body, nice pins, reddish brown hair flowing down her back and wears the style of clothes her daughters would wear is the woman for me. I’ve delivered groceries to the house every week since I’ve been in the job. I’ve walked through her hallway into her spacious kitchen, all mod cons, a big conservatory stretching into a lovely garden, beautiful lawn and flower beds. It’s dead nice, I think. The sort of place I once dreamed of having but, of course, my life turned out differently.
‘Where’s Dale today?’ she asked the first time I called. She was texting on her phone and trying to check her delivery at the same time.
‘On holiday for two weeks. Sunny Lanzarote, lucky for some.’
‘Mmm, I’d love to get away at this time of year.’ Suddenly, I pictured her lithe body sprawled on a sun lounger.
‘And why not?’ I said.
‘You must be joking. Too much to do round here. Sonia has tennis three days a week after school. Cherie has piano and Becky has a social life that I have to drive her to and from. Then there’s evenings with Guides, homework, and refereeing all the arguments between my lovely daughters.’
‘What about your husband? He could do all that and let you have a break.’
She laughed out loud. LOL.
‘Have you got time for a coffee?’
‘Sure, thank you,’ I replied, and on we went chatting. A very friendly lady. After that first meeting I decided she was chosen, and I gave her one of my names. Next time it almost seemed like she had been waiting for me, but I suppose it was her shopping she was actually waiting for. We still had time for a chat and a bit of a flirt. She was dressed for going out, I reckoned, and so I commented on it.
‘You clean up well.’
‘Thank you for noticing.’ She did a bit of a twirl. ‘Not too bad for a mother of three teenagers.’ She wore a black dress, off her shoulders with a lace trim and a pair of black stiletto shoe boots with gold studs and buckles. Plenty of makeup, eyeshadow and eye liner. ‘Out with the girls from the office this evening.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Dinner in town and then we might let our hair down at a club.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Clubbing’s not really for me. I’m getting on a bit. Most of the girls are in their twenties.’
‘You can’t be much older,’ I mischievously suggested.
‘Aw bless! I’m forty-three.’
‘Never. And what about the winter break?’
‘Huh, no chance.’
‘You could always come along with me.’
Her eyes looked on me in a reproachful manner.
‘Thanks for the offer,’ she replied, shaking her left hand and wedding ring at me.
I told myself that if Ella didn’t have a hubby I would be well in there. I reckoned she sort of fancied me. I reckoned she needed more than what her husband was giving her. So I decided it would be my job to give her the time of her life.<
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Chapter 58
Tara was convinced that each and every member of Carl Sloan’s church had been tipped off through the solicitor Michael Coombes that the police were intending to speak with them. Janet Malcroft certainly had made a run for it, and when they went to speak with Angela Sanders, she also had fled. If Malcroft was telling the truth then Sanders had been an accessory to murder. But what Tara needed now from these people was information that would lead her to find the person responsible for the present murderous campaign. Was there someone within that group, perhaps associated with Sanders or Malcroft, going around crucifying then decapitating their victims? She needed the truth; she needed information before someone else met the same fate.
Tara was saddened by the reaction of Harold Tweedy when he listened to the recorded account of what had happened to Alastair Bailey. He looked crestfallen. Devastated by the revelation that Janet Malcroft was closely involved with her husband’s murder and equally shocked to learn that Alastair, rather than succumbing to a church of the occult, had actually been fighting against it. When the recording had finished Tweedy asked Tara for some privacy. As she left his office she saw him reaching for the Bible at the corner of his desk.
*
She went to her fridge for a second glass of wine. Tonight, she thought, she could be well into a second bottle. Having turned down Aisling and Kate for a night at the cinema, she felt that her loneliness was the best therapy to deal with the memory of a harrowing day. She may have become accustomed, or at least desensitised, to gruesome discoveries of what one human being can do to another, but this case had raised the bar. She hoped she would never reach the point where she wasn’t shocked by the reasons for some people to commit murder. If that day ever came it was surely time to get out of this way of life.
She’d scarcely noticed drinking her third glass and was making for the fridge once again, when her mobile rang.
‘Hello, you,’ she said, thrills and smiles coursing through her. Couldn’t help herself, despite what happened last time they were together.
‘How’ve you been?’
‘Fine.’
‘Just been talking with the old man. He said you’d cracked the case of Alastair Bailey’s murder. I thought I’d give you a call, see how you are. Can’t have been easy dealing with the horrors you found.’
‘It isn’t. I’m just about to start into my second bottle of wine. You can come over and join me, if you like.’
‘Sorry, Tara, I’m not at my parents; I’m in Cambridge.’
Tara couldn’t summon a reply, and after an awkward pause Philip spoke again.
‘I was wondering though if you fancied getting away for a few days. We could drive up to the Lake District or maybe Edinburgh, have some fun?’
‘That would be nice.’ Already her mind was in a heady swirl picturing her lover’s idea of fun. ‘When do you intend to have this fun?’
‘Next weekend? I can pick you up on Friday. I’ll make all the arrangements. All you have to do is bring that delightful body along.’
‘And you the same.’
‘I have to go now, but thanks for looking after the old man. He’s very lucky to have you working for him.’
Her elation at his call didn’t stop her opening the second bottle of Chardonnay. Now she needed it to help her deal with her misgivings over Philip. Still, it was nice of him to have called.
Next morning, with no Angela Sanders to interview for the time being, she and Murray drove out to the supposed Church of the Vera Deitate. Still designated a crime scene, she stood outside the house gazing around her at the fields on every side, except at one corner where a lane disappeared into the woods. She noticed that from where she stood there were no other houses or farms within sight. Quite an isolated place, well chosen to accommodate the activities that occurred here.
Although they now had a story from Janet Malcroft to explain the murder of her husband, Tara hoped to find something which would indicate that the recent victims of this horrific method of killing were also connected to this place. She took the ground floor, while Murray went through the upstairs of the house. But there was little of interest beyond the books that she leafed through. Strange symbols, descriptions of rituals and rites, but nothing to give a clue to murder. It was surprising also, Tara thought, that there were so few personal belongings of Elsie Greenwood in the house. She’d lived here for twelve years yet, apart from her clothing and the books, there was nothing to indicate any person called the place home. Murray, to his childish delight, had opened a drawer in a bedroom to find a selection of sex toys. He’d also discovered a drawer containing paperwork, utility bills and personal finances, but he was less interested in those.
Without the knowledge of the macabre discovery in the outbuildings, it would be hard to find anything sinister about Vera Deitate. Together with Murray, she paid another visit to the basement room where the heads had been discovered. They’d been removed now for forensic examination, and hopefully she would soon have the identities for all the remains they’d found. At present she knew, though not confirmed, of the Kirkmans, Charles and Mary, of Alastair Bailey and, according to Janet Malcroft, Alastair’s friend Simeon Jones. Of the others to be identified she hoped that one of the females was Kelly Pritchard, and one of the males, she guessed, would turn out to be the actor Dale Hargreaves, if this was the place he had attended. If that were so then she reckoned another chat with the alluring Trudy Mitchell would be appropriate. Something about the woman rankled with Tara. She didn’t like her much, but that wasn’t the reason. Was there a possibility that she also was present when Alastair Bailey had been killed? Her name did not appear on Sloan’s list of current church members, but having stated that she didn’t like what she saw when she attended gatherings with Hargreaves, was she a candidate for holding a grievance against these people? Did she have motive to kill? Tara recalled the expression on the woman’s face when she heard that Dinsdale Kirkman was dead. And what of the Kirkmans? They seemed to have wallowed in such decadent behaviour and revelled in sadistic killings. Tara found it difficult to imagine either person with any endearing qualities, and yet they’d been the leaders of a church with a sizeable congregation. She could never relate to a belief system that condoned such barbaric activities.
‘Creepy place, even with those heads gone,’ said Murray.
‘I know. It’s hard to believe there are people who enjoy these kind of surroundings. I wonder what they get from their worship.’
‘A one way ticket to hell? What do all these symbols mean, anyway?’
Suddenly, a loud bang as a door slammed. Murray bolted for the stairs. At the top he found the door to the upper room closed. Tara quickly joined him as he tried the handle.
‘Not locked.’ They stepped outside, looking around the farmyard.
‘Do you think someone deliberately slammed it?’
‘Maybe.’ A shiver passed through her. Murray left the door ajar to examine whether it moved freely on its hinges. There was little movement at all. ‘Let’s take a look through the rest of the place,’ he said.
She left Murray to poke around in the other sheds, opened a gate and strolled into the lane that led into the woods. A stiff gust of wind lifted her hair, and she thought immediately of the slammed door, thinking now that it had merely been caught in a brief draft. She didn’t breathe any easier. She couldn’t help wondering about the supernatural. She’d always maintained a belief in God, the Christian God, and if one believed in such a deity then it followed that the opposite must also exist. Was it possible that a supernatural evil had taken hold in this place? A shiver ran through her.
There were a couple of pieces of old farm machinery discarded on the grass verge, a plough and a roller, rusted and probably beyond use. In a few minutes, walking slowly, she was in amongst the trees firstly, a border of pine, then birch and ash, and further along much older trees, oak, beech, horse chestnut and sycamore dominated. The laneway appeared seldom used, becoming les
s defined the further she walked. Glancing behind, she’d lost sight of the farmhouse. All was quiet but for some bird calls, crows high up in the branches increasingly bare of leaves. Something caught her eye. Something to her right, off the lane, in among the trees. At first she thought it was someone moving, and she called out a hello. Stepping off the lane onto the carpet of dead leaves, she peered into the depths of the woods, trying hard to distinguish between tree trunks and perhaps a human form. Finally, she focussed on something. She watched for movement, hardly daring to breathe. A few more paces forward and she realised. She recognised a shape, the image before her. She took several more paces, her feet making no sound upon the damp earth. Close enough now to be certain, she pulled her phone from her pocket and called Murray.
Chapter 59
A team of police and forensics were once again required at Vera Deitate and were soon at work on the site where another headless body, fixed to a circular frame by nails at the hands and feet, had been placed upside down against the trunk of an oak tree. Tara had already seen all that she needed to see. She hoped she was right in that she had stumbled upon the body of Maurice Young. If not, then they had yet another victim. This time, of course, the body had been placed on the doorstep of this satanic organisation known as de Ecclesia in Vera Divinitate, Church of the True Deity. She was keen to hear what Philip Tweedy may know of this particular group.
Before the forensic team arrived, and once Murray had joined her, she’d stepped close enough to the decaying body, awash with insect life, to read and note the sign posted between the open legs of the victim. Another piece of scripture.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 43