Small Mercies
Page 5
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Annie rose from her seat and landed a kiss on Sheena’s pale cheek, taking care to avoid the tangle of wires. ‘I’ll leave you to sleep. See you later on.’
There was a murmured response that Annie couldn’t quite decipher. It seemed as if the sedatives, or perhaps simply the mental exhaustion, were kicking back in. She reached out to squeeze Sheena’s hand one more time, then straightened and left the room.
Chapter Seven
Clive Bamford laboriously tapped out a few more words on his keyboard, then sat back to appraise the quality of what he’d written. He was never sure whether he loved or hated writing. A bit of both, he supposed, with the love usually just about winning out. At times like this, though, it felt as if hate might be gaining the upper hand.
Although he generally felt satisfied with the outcome, the process of writing didn’t come naturally to him. For a start, he lacked the education. He’d always been the cocky one at school, ready to shoot his mouth off at the teachers, playing for the attention and approval of his classmates. When he wasn’t suspended, he was studiously ignored by teachers who had better things to do with their time than waste it on him.
He’d left at sixteen, having failed virtually all his GCSEs, and eventually found himself work in the kitchen of an upmarket country house hotel near Buxton. He’d hated every second of it. The pay had been piss-poor, the conditions awful, and the head chef had fancied himself as the next Gordon Ramsay. He’d been more than a match for Ramsay in generating expletives, but his culinary skills were less impressive. The hotel went bust within a year of Clive joining.
In retrospect, that had proved to be a blessing in a very light disguise. He spent a few weeks on the dole, until the jobcentre found him a temporary job in a junior administrative role with the local authority. And Clive had quickly realised he was much less stupid than he’d always assumed.
By the time he’d lost his job at the hotel, he’d begun to wise up a little, finally realising he wasn’t in much of a position to make a go of life. The administrative job, although not much in itself, had felt like a second chance and for the first time he’d actually found himself looking forward to going to work each morning. He’d applied himself diligently, demonstrated to his manager that he was more capable than his background suggested. The temporary job became permanent, and within six months he secured a promotion to a more responsible and demanding position.
Now in his late twenties, he was a junior manager in the same local authority. He earned a decent living, had a small but comfortable house on the outskirts of Buxton, and was reasonably content with life. The day-to-day work ticked over, satisfying enough if not exactly stimulating, giving him time to pursue his other interests.
He couldn’t remember when he’d first developed his fascination with the arcane material that now dominated his life outside work. Even as that unruly teenager he’d had a mild obsession with the paranormal, always reading supposedly true accounts of ghosts, UFOs and strange phenomena. As he’d grown older his interest had widened and deepened, taking in a wide range of unexplained happenings, and, increasingly, the mechanisms used to conceal what he increasingly saw as the truth.
He’d pitched a few ideas for articles to online specialist magazines and, after several rejections, had finally received a positive response. His first published article had been something about the supposed recurrent UFO sightings in the Longdendale Valley in the north of the county. His own view was that the frequency of sightings could be at least partly explained by the proximity of the flight path into Manchester Airport, but he’d written a balanced piece recounting some of the more interesting experiences and potential theories. The piece now seemed clumsy and amateurish to him, but it had gone down well, and he’d been commissioned to write more.
His reputation was a very niche one, but it was slowly growing. He’d managed to persuade the Fortean Times to take one of his pieces, and he was hopeful they’d take more in due course, including possibly the piece he was currently writing. He’d pulled together a number of his pieces into a book, which he’d self-published online. He hadn’t sold many, but his name was beginning to be recognised in the right places. He’d been invited to speak at a couple of small-scale conventions, and had begun to receive correspondence from readers interested by his work. Best of all, he’d made a couple of contacts in the national tabloids who had used, with credit, some of his material. He hadn’t been entirely pleased with the way the tabloids had sensationalised the content, but it had helped to raise his profile. He felt as if he was finally beginning to atone for his wasted education, slowly gaining respect for his specialist knowledge and expertise.
He was hoping his current work might push him a further rung or two up the reputational ladder. He’d been intrigued that Charlie had mentioned the so-called ‘left-hand path’ religions during his diatribe at the meeting. As it happened, Clive had for a while been interested in the history of various satanist and occult groups in the UK, some of which designated themselves as ‘churches of the left-hand path’, and had been considering the possibility of a series of articles on the topic.
Although there were a number of existing books and articles in the area, Clive hoped that his focus on the more recent history would enable him to uncover some new information and insights. He’d also floated the idea with his tabloid contacts, who’d expressed some initial interest.
In his attempt to get the work started, he’d contacted a number of individuals who claimed either to have been involved in such occult groups or to have been affected by their activities. So far, though, he’d found it hard going. These organisations were notoriously secretive, fearful that their aims and activities would be misrepresented. It wasn’t surprising that current or past members should be reticent about talking to him. Even so, he’d been disappointed that even those who’d initially agreed to his request for an interview had either changed their minds at the last minute or been reluctant to offer anything more than basic facts. At the moment, the expected new information and insights were proving depressingly elusive.
Partly prompted by Charlie’s mention of the subject, he’d decided to have a first shot at drafting an opening to his article. He’d often found that producing those first few paragraphs helped him clarify his thinking and focus his subsequent research and interviews more effectively. He’d booked a day off work and had sat down at his keyboard to write.
So far nothing much was coming. He’d written his first sentence and then deleted it perhaps twenty times so far. He hadn’t yet attempted a second sentence. He usually told himself just to write, not to worry about whether it was any good or not. Just get something down. Today even that approach wasn’t working. He couldn’t manage to make his thoughts cohere into anything even half-sensible.
Eventually, he decided to take a break. Go for a walk to clear his head. Perhaps get himself a coffee. The weather had improved since the previous day, and a weak sun was struggling to force its way through the clouds. His house was on the edge of town, and a walk into the centre might be just what he needed to allow him to mull over the ideas drifting around in his head.
He wondered about calling Greg Wardle to see if he was free to meet. He’d couldn’t afford to waste one of his precious days away from work, but Greg was one of the few people he could bounce his thoughts and ideas off. They didn’t always agree and Greg couldn’t begin to match his own knowledge and erudition, but at least they were broadly on the same wavelength.
As it turned out, Greg’s phone went straight to voicemail. He was presumably tied up in some meeting or other. After a moment’s hesitation, Clive pulled on his coat and stepped out into the grey morning. He’d walk down into town, grab himself a coffee in one of the cafes and see if he could remove the fog from his brain.
He was halfway down the street when his mobile rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, expecting it to be Greg responding to the message he’d left. But it was
a number he didn’t recognise.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, there.’
The voice sounded familiar but he couldn’t immediately place it. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Rowan. Rowan Wiseman.’
It took him another moment to recognise the name. ‘Oh, yes, Rowan. You were at the meeting the other day. What can I do for you?’ He’d given them all his mobile number at the conclusion of the meeting in case any of them wanted to discuss any issues with him. He hadn’t seriously expected any of them to take him up on this offer, least of all Rowan.
‘I was just wondering if we might meet up sometime. Before the next meeting, I mean. I’ve got a couple of things I’d like to discuss with you,’ she said.
Greg had commented after the meeting that he’d found Rowan Wiseman extremely attractive. Clive had offered some non-committal and vaguely disapproving response, because he felt it was patronising to judge women in those terms. Even so, he had to acknowledge that Greg was right. She was a striking-looking woman. ‘When did you have in mind?’
‘As soon as possible, really. I’m completely flexible.’
Clive hesitated ‘I suppose today’s not possible? I’ve got a day off work. Otherwise, one evening—’
‘Today’s fine for me. Do you live in town?’
‘Pretty much. I’m walking into the centre now, as it happens. Was planning to go for a coffee. Been working on an article but hit a bit of writer’s block.’
‘That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Your writing. I’ve read a few of your pieces. They’re excellent.’
‘Really?’ It was rare for Clive to meet anyone who’d actually read his work. ‘I’m just starting out really. But it’s good to feel I’m making some sort of contribution.’
‘That was partly why Charlie and I came to the meeting. We recognised your name and were keen to come along and meet you. Sorry about Charlie, by the way. His heart’s in the right place, but he can be a bit opinionated. He enjoys the debate.’
‘No worries. So do I. That’s the point of doing this kind of thing, isn’t it?’ He’d almost forgotten the obnoxious Charlie. As far as Clive was concerned, opinionated hadn’t been the word. Clive had no idea whether or not Charlie’s heart was in the right place, but his brain seemed to have gone AWOL.
‘If you’re heading into town anyway,’ Rowan said, ‘we could have a coffee together. It’s only a five-minute walk for me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well then, that was easy. Fortune must be smiling on us.’
She spoke the last words as if they were more than a familiar platitude. There was something in her manner Clive found mildly disconcerting, but he decided it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. ‘Looks like it,’ he said.
Chapter Eight
‘You okay, Zoe? You look a bit tired.’ Annie had noticed her colleague stifling recurrent yawns in the morning meeting, though she’d obviously been doing her best to conceal it.
‘Just had a bit of a disturbed night.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Annie had phoned the hospital first thing to check on Sheena. She’d woken in the small hours with a sense that something was wrong, that something further had happened. It had probably been nothing more than the lingering shreds of a bad dream, but the anxiety had felt frighteningly real.
But when she’d called the ward first thing, they’d confirmed that Sheena’s condition hadn’t changed and she’d had a decent night’s sleep. They were still waiting on some of the test results but, all being well, they were likely to release Sheena later in the day. Annie was planning to visit after lunch, in the hope she’d then be able to take Sheena back home.
In the meantime, she was trying to focus on their current major enquiry – the Beeley Moor body, as Stuart Jennings had taken to calling it after the location where it was found. The case troubled her. This wasn’t some spontaneous or accidental killing, but something cold-bloodedly planned. The nature of the killing implied there might be more than one killer and that those responsible might repeat the act. And then there was the whole question of those incisions. Was this some ritualistic killing, as Danny Eccles had suggested, or some more mundane form of brutality?
If the killing did have a ritualistic element, that led inescapably to the conclusion that the death might have been some form of human sacrifice. Was it possible that the pattern of cuts carried some religious or similar significance? She had done a cursory online search for images that might relate to the design, but had been unable to find anything relevant. She’d asked her team to follow up in more detail.
It might also be that Danny was wrong. There was no question that the incisions were hard to explain, but perhaps their meaning was more straightforward. Maybe they were intended simply as some kind of message. A warning to others. She knew of gangland murders where the perpetrators had taken photographs of the victim to forward to their rivals. Perhaps the message was merely that this man, whoever he might be, had been selected as a target.
Until they’d identified the victim, there was little point in speculating. Once they could attach a name to that mutilated face, they were likely to have a much better idea of the potential circumstances of his death. Annie was exasperated that so far they lacked even this basic information.
Even so, the morning’s briefing had gone well. They’d finally got the full team in place and she and Jennings had managed to pull together a well-balanced and effective group of officers to work on the enquiry. Most were people she’d worked with and respected. There were one or two new faces – new to Annie, at least – and a couple she had less time for. But that was always the way, and the team was as strong as she could have hoped.
She and Jennings had agreed that for the moment much of the investigation was simply the application of standard procedure; the activities that should help determine the victim’s identity and identify potential witnesses. Jennings had provided an introduction to the team, giving some background on the nature of the crime, and then handed over to Annie to allocate duties as appropriate. She felt relieved that, for once, Jennings’ ego hadn’t meant he’d felt the need to run the show.
She’d been pleased by the response from the team. There’d been good questions and some intelligent discussion of the approach and potential options. Everyone seemed engaged and focused. The trick would be to sustain that, particularly if they found themselves struggling to make progress.
Afterwards, she’d sat with Zoe Everett working through the details to ensure nothing had been overlooked, and had noted again that her DS seemed untypically distracted. Annie decided that, for the moment, it was better to stick to business, but couldn’t help feeling a nagging concern.
‘The key priority is to identify the victim,’ she said. ‘Until we do that, we’re floundering in the dark.’
Zoe nodded. ‘I’m hoping he’s on the system somewhere. If we’ve had previous dealings with him, that might tell us a lot.’
‘Fingers crossed. And some of those tattoos ought to be distinctive.’ They allocated one officer to talk to some of the local tattoo parlours. If the designs were other than off-the-shelf, someone might recall who’d requested them. It was a long shot – they didn’t even know if the victim was local – but worth trying. If that failed, and the victim wasn’t on the police system, the next step would probably be to release the victim’s description, including a description of the tattoos, to the media.
‘If those tattoos do indicate he was some kind of far-right activist, should we be talking to some of those people?’ Zoe said.
‘That’s next on my list,’ Annie said. ‘We may need to be talking to them anyway. I would prefer if we could find some other way of identifying our man first, so we’d have a better idea where to focus our attention. But it’s another potential route.’ She gave a mock shudder. ‘Mind you, those people give me the creeps. And after what happened to Sheena yesterday…’
‘Who’s taking on that one?’ Zoe said.
Zoe offered no response, clearly recognising that this was territory best avoided.
‘Sorry, Zoe. Shouldn’t be venting my frustrations at you. It’s not been the easiest twenty-four hours.’
‘I can imagine. Poor Sheena – and poor you. Must be a nightmare for you both. Even the thought of it – of what might have happened – scares the hell out of me. It’s like our job. You tell yourself nothing can happen to you, but there’s always the tiniest possibility that one day it might.’
‘Sometimes it feels as if the odds are getting shorter by the day.’ Annie leaned back in her chair, momentarily closing her eyes. ‘Okay, let’s get started. Let’s do our bit to apprehend at least one murderous bastard.’
Chapter Nine
Clive Bamford stopped inside the doorway and peered around. His glasses had steamed up as he’d entered the cafe and for a moment he could see nothing at all. Then he realised someone was waving to him from the far corner of the room.
The place was busy, and he had to push his way between the tables to where she was sitting. ‘Rowan. Good to see you again.’ She looked even more attractive than he remembered, her long bright-red hair set against her black leather jacket. He lowered himself into the seat opposite her, trying to look more relaxed than he was feeling. ‘Not been in here before. Good suggestion of yours.’
‘I sometimes come in for a coffee first thing,’ she said. ‘They’re happy to let me sit and read, but it gets a bit busy at this time. They do decent food, as well.’ She gestured towards the espresso in front of her. ‘And excellent coffee.’ There was a book spreadeagled on the table next to the coffee cup. A paperback with a pentagram on the front cover, and the title Another Path to Enlightenment.