by Mark Morris
“The Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, as well as being the oldest theater in London, also has a reputation as one of the most haunted in the world. Several murders have been committed there over the years, and interestingly, one of the earlier theater buildings to stand on the spot was designed by Sir Christopher Wren, who also designed St. Clement Danes Church in the Strand.”
“And what’s so special about that place?” asked Liz.
“Well, for one thing, it’s ancient. A Christian church has stood on that particular site for over a thousand years. Secondly,Wren had Masonic and Rosicrucian connections, and was said to be conversant with the ley system. St. Clement Danes reputedly stands on a spot where at least two ley lines cross.”
“And did Wren design the Bloomsbury Church, too?” said Liz.
“No,” said Abe, “but one of his students, Nicholas Hawksmoor, did. He was known by some as the ‘devil’s architect.’ “
Liz raised her eyebrows.
“Some people believed him to be a Satanist,” continued Abe, “although Kate thinks that’s probably nonsense. She says he was certainly interested in pagan symbology, though, and wove much of it into his architectural designs. Conspiracy theorists claim that his six London churches form an invisible geometry of power lines in the city, which correspond to an Egyptian hieroglyph. Others say that his churches are positioned to form a pentagram — though Kate does make the point that it was unlikely Hawksmoor actually selected the sites for his churches, which pretty much negates that theory.”
“Basically, though, you’re saying that all the places where bodies have been found have some kind of mystical or macabre connection?” said Liz.
Abe nodded.
“I still don’t get it, though,” admitted Hellboy. “I mean, London’s old. Really old. Like you say, some sites have had buildings standing on them for a thousand years or more. So there can’t be many places where something bad hasn’t happened at some time or another.”
“True,” conceded Abe, “though Kate’s research seems to suggest that the answer lies not in what has happened in those buildings, but in why particular events occurred in them.”
“Go on,” said Hellboy.
Abe flicked through the latter part of the notes again. “Kate makes the point that numerous occult texts dating back hundreds of years make reference to an ancient and malevolent source of power beneath the city of London. She speculates that the crust that contains the power source has worn thin in places, allowing the power to leak through, and that our enemies, whoever they may be, are now attempting to access it.”
“And so this leakage ... what? Attracts bad people? Or affects those who live and work on the sites, which then sometimes causes them to do bad things?” Liz asked.
“Perhaps a bit of both,” said Abe, “depending on how thin the crust is in each location, and on how susceptible certain people are to its influence.” He spread his webbed hands expressively. “I’ll take a shot in the dark here and suggest that maybe the leakage causes the veil between various planes of existence to wear thin in places too. That could account for the increasing number of supernatural incidents across the city these past few days. It could be that our enemies are using ritual sacrifice to break the crust down, which is why its effects are becoming more widespread.”
“So, bottom line is that London’s a great, big, crumbling dam on the verge of collapse?” said Hellboy.
“That’s about the size of it,” Abe replied.
Hellboy rolled his eyes. “Great,” he said. “Guess there won’t be time to do much sightseeing while we’re here then?”
Abe shrugged apologetically. “Guess not.”
They all turned as a willowy, nervous-looking woman in a gray business suit entered the room and approached the table. Liz recognized her as the hotel’s personnel manager, and noticed how she glanced from Hellboy’s golden eyes to Abe’s matte-black ones, like a bird confronted by a pair of snakes.
Hellboy noticed it too. Gently, he said, “Relax, lady, we don’t bite.”
The woman’s answering smile was a flimsy, fluttering thing. “There’s a Dr. Varley here to see Miss Sherman, sir. I wondered whether I should let him in?”
Hellboy winked at Liz. “Hey, Liz, looks like your date’s arrived.”
Liz made a point of not reacting to his comment and said, “Sure. Tell him to come through.”
A minute later Richard entered, carrying a newspaper. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept too well.
“Hey,” Liz said by way of greeting. “You okay?”
He nodded. “I’ve had better nights, but ... yes, I’m fine.” He thrust the paper at Hellboy. “Erm ... I thought you should see this.”
Hellboy took the newspaper from Richard and unfolded it. It was a copy of that morning’s Star. He stared at the lead story and his face crunched into a frown.
“That little creep,” he muttered.
Liz and Abe leaned across to take a look. The paper’s front page was dominated by a large close-up of Hellboy snarling into the camera, hand held up as though to reach out and grab the photographer by the throat. Inset photos down the left-hand side depicted Abe, Liz, and Richard Varley. The headline screamed: A MONSTER TO CATCH A MONSTER? Beneath this was a subheading: What are we not being told?
Hellboy slammed the paper down on the table hard enough to make the crockery rattle. “If I ever see that little bastard again ...” he said.
Abe picked the paper up and read the story quickly, his face composed. “So our secret’s out?” he said mildly. “So what? It had to happen eventually.”
“It’s not that,” said Hellboy.”It’s the tone of the piece that bugs me. It describes me as a ‘surly, fanged demon, threatening bystanders with physical violence.’ And it describes you as my ‘cold fishy friend.’ “
“Hmm,”Abe said.
“What does it say about me?” asked Liz, reaching for the paper.
“I haven’t got fangs,” Hellboy grumbled. “I’ve never had fangs.”
“Hey, I’m a ‘dark beauty with even darker secrets,’ “ said Liz. She pursed her lips. “I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.”
“Where did this guy get his information from? That’s what I’d like to know,” Hellboy said. “He even says we flew in to a secret airfield in Kent and were met by ... what was it? Oh yeah, ‘an alarming array of high-ranking government officials.’ The way he tells it, it’s like there’s some big conspiracy going on. Like we’ve been smuggled into the country to start a revolution or somethin’.”
“Well, we were flown in secretly,” Abe conceded.
“Yeah, but only to avoid a media circus,” said Hellboy. “Now that this guy’s blown our cover, it’ll make our job twice as hard.”
Liz shrugged. “Like Abe says, it had to happen sooner or later. Don’t sweat the small stuff, HB. This guy’s nothing but a pinprick compared to what else we got to deal with, and a tiny one at that.”
Abe had taken the paper back from Liz and was scanning through the rest of it. “The torso murders fill the first five pages,” he told them. “Apart from the lovely young woman on page three.”
“What about the other stuff?” Liz asked. “The ghosts and poltergeists and walking dead?”
“That’s written up as a separate, pretty joky story on page ten. Though there’s an editorial on page fourteen, again written by our friend, Colin Proctor, in which he posits a link between the murders and the so-called ‘spook fest.’ His theory is that our presence in the country is proof that the link exists. He says we’re the ‘glue that bonds these seemingly separate incidents together.’ “
Liz raised an eyebrow. “You can say what you like about him, HB, but one thing he isn’t is stupid.”
“I guess,” Hellboy said grudgingly, then he sat up straight, his neck muscles crackling. “And like you say, Liz, we got stuff we need to be dealing with. So let’s deal with it.”
Ten minutes later, Hellboy was squashed into t
he passenger seat of a car driven by DCI Reynolds. Reynolds had turned up looking mighty pleased with himself. He told Hellboy that thanks to Abe’s discoveries the night before, the murder investigation was now continuing apace. The remains of the man who had thrown himself under the tube train had been scraped up and bagged and were now undergoing forensic examination in the hope of establishing his identity. He also let Hellboy know that a team of officers were currently swarming all over the factory in Hammersmith, searching for further evidence.
“You found out who the victims were yet?” Hellboy asked.
“Not yet,” said Reynolds, “but now that the heads and limbs have turned up, it’s only a matter of time.” He rubbed his hands together. “I reckon we’ve got these bastards on the run.”
Hellboy shrugged. “I wouldn’t get too excited. We’re not just dealing with one guy here, Inspector. Indications are we’re up against a pretty big organization. If that’s the case, then you can guarantee these people will be like roaches. Nests all over London.”
“Yeah?” said Reynolds, looking disgruntled. “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”
The metropolitan police’s main mortuary was on Victoria Street. It was here where the remains of the dead — both those from last night, and those that had been discovered this morning — had been taken for forensic examination. As befitting its function, it was a grim building — flat roofed, featureless, and made of dull gray stone. Like a dirty secret, it was tucked away behind the gleaming tower block that was the public face of Scotland Yard. The inside of the place wasn’t any more appealing than the outside — blank, whitewashed walls, strip lighting, and identical corridors bearing evenly spaced doors, most of which bore little gray plaques that Hellboy couldn’t be bothered to read.
There weren’t many people about, which meant that Hellboy’s presence didn’t cause much of a stir. One small, balding man in a lab coat, who was laden down with papers, abruptly halted his headlong rush along one of the building’s corridors to gape at the big red guy with the stone hand and the sawn-off horns, but that was pretty much it.
The pathology labs and storage facilities were situated in the basement. There was a lift, but Hellboy and Reynolds took the stairs, Hellboy’s hooves clacking on the stone steps and echoing in the square shaft of the stairwell. The lighting, with no natural light seeping through from outside, was harsher down here, and the double swing doors of each numbered path lab were more widely spaced.
“Hope you’re not squeamish,” Reynolds said, in a tone which suggested the opposite.
Hellboy regarded him steadily. “Nah. Some of my best friends are rotting corpses.”
Reynolds didn’t knock, but simply shoved open the left-hand door of lab six and strode in as if he owned the place. Hellboy followed, trying not to look like the guy’s bodyguard.
The room they had entered was large, the decor clinical, composed primarily of stainless-steel surfaces and white-tiled walls. A corpse in five pieces lay on an autopsy table in the center. A chubby, bespectacled man with smears of blood on his lab coat was washing up metal implements in a vast sink in the corner, and glanced up as they entered. He blinked when he saw Hellboy, but didn’t appear to be overly shocked. Across the room a woman with her back to them was washing her hands in a smaller sink. Her reddish-blond hair was scraped back and tugged into a ponytail, which swayed from side to side as she scrubbed at her fingernails with a small brush.
“You ought to try wearing gloves, Dr. Saunders,” Reynolds called, smirking at Hellboy. “You’d get fewer guts under your nails.”
The woman turned. She was younger than Hellboy had been expecting, with green eyes and a fine-boned face. She didn’t look particularly pleased to see the policeman.
“It’s the smell of latex I’m trying to get rid of,” she said. “Clings for days if you don’t wash your hands right away.”
It was only after she had delivered the response that she turned her gaze on Hellboy. She appraised him coolly.
“You don’t have to tell me who you are,” she said. “You’re bigger in the flesh than you appear in pictures. Redder too. Altogether more impressive, in fact.”
“Thanks,” Hellboy said, wishing he could think of some pithy response, something to make her laugh. He had never been much good at repartee, and on this occasion he found himself even more tongue tied than usual. Part of the reason was because the woman, Dr. Saunders, reminded him of someone he held very dear. Of course, the English accent helped, but it was mainly her demeanor, coupled with the sharp flash of feisty intelligence and warm humor in her sparkling green eyes, that made him think of Anastasia Bransfield.
Anastasia, archaeologist and explorer, was the love of Hellboy’s life. She was one of the few people he had met who had instantly bypassed his fearsome exterior and sought out the generous soul beneath. The two of them had been an item for a while, had even traveled the world together. And then, for her benefit rather than his, Hellboy had broken it off.
She had been hurt, but she had understood. While she had been with him, she had been a target in all sorts of ways, and he wasn’t prepared to watch her suffer simply because of her association with him. However much his heart tried to tell him otherwise, Hellboy knew that they were better apart.
“I doubt that this uncouth prat will introduce me,” the woman was saying, “so I suppose I’d better do it myself. I’m Cassie Saunders. I’m a specialist advisor with the Forensic Science Service.”
Before Hellboy could say anything, Reynolds said,”Oh, Cassie, is it? How come I never get the first-name treatment?”
“Because you’re a sexist creep with wandering hands,” said Cassie smartly.
Reynolds somehow managed to look both proud and indignant. “Oh yeah? And how do you know he isn’t?”
“Woman’s intuition,” Cassie said, and winked at Hellboy.
Hellboy smiled, aware that if his skin hadn’t already been red, he’d have been blushing. He was also aware that his smile could sometimes be mistaken for a snarl, and that there were occasions when it had reduced small children to instantaneous tears.
Cassie, however, recognized the expression for what it was and smiled back at him. “So what’s so special about this case that they’ve flown you all the way over the pond? Or is that privileged information?”
Deadpan, Hellboy said, “If I told you I’d have to kill you.”
Cassie laughed softly, and Hellboy grinned, pleased to get such a reaction from such an old line.
Snidely Reynolds said, “Much as I hate to break up the start of a beautiful friendship, I’m afraid we’re not here to flirt, sweetheart. Any luck in identifying our stiffs?”
Cassie rolled her eyes and reached for a red cardboard folder.
Flipping it open, she handed it to Reynolds. “You ought to know. I just supply the forensics; it’s your job to do the rest. This report was faxed through from your mob an hour ago. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it already.”
Reynolds rubbed his unshaven chin. “Been out and about, haven’t I? Man of action, me.” He flipped through the file, which contained both Cassie’s forensic reports and subsequent police findings. Eventually he said, “So they were all dossers, were they? No wonder we haven’t had tearful mummies and daddies battering on our doors, worried sick about little Johnny not coming home.”
“Dossers?” queried Hellboy.
“Tramps. Scroungers. Bums, as you Yanks call ‘em.”
“Okay,” Hellboy said, disgusted by Reynolds’s callousness, “I get the picture.”
He held out his hand for the report and skimmed through it quickly. None of the most recent victims had yet been identified, but the four whose heads and limbs Abe had found in the weighted-down sack had now been positively ID’d. They ranged in age from late teens to mid-thirties. They had drifted into London from different towns and cities across the UK — Hull, Ipswich, Cardiff, and Manchester — and had last been seen alive in just as wide a variety of locations s
cattered throughout the city. There appeared to be nothing to link them, aside from the fact that they had been homeless and vulnerable — and were now dead and dismembered.
Hellboy stared at the details of the youngest victim, nineteen-year-old Jennifer (Jenny) Campion. She had originally hailed from Salford in Greater Manchester and had been trying to kick a three-year heroin addiction. Based on Cassie’s findings, it appeared that Jenny and the rest of the victims had died as a result of massive bodily trauma and blood loss. In other words, they had been dismantled while still alive.
Trying to hide his anger at the appalling nature of the crimes, Hellboy said, “This is quick work.”
“We British bobbies don’t piss about, you know,” said Reynolds. “Been working through the night, haven’t we.”
“Well, some of us,” Cassie murmured.
Before Reynolds could retort, Hellboy said, “Nothing on the train suicide yet, though.”
“There wasn’t much to go on,” Cassie said. “The guy was literally delivered to me in buckets. We found two fingers undamaged enough to hopefully lift prints from, plus a row of about six teeth. The rest was just soup. Speaking of which ...” she yawned, stretched, and rotated her head on her neck,”... I’m famished.”
Hellboy heard the click-crunch of her vertebrae — then became suddenly aware that she was staring at him intently.
“What?” he said. “Have I got something on my face?”
“I was just wondering ...” Her cheeks reddened and she shook her head. “No, forget it. You’ve probably got a million and one things to do.”
“What?” Hellboy said again.
Before Cassie could reply, Reynolds barked a laugh.
“I don’t believe this!” he exclaimed. “Bloody hell, I’ve seen it all now!”
Cassie scowled. “Get lost, Reynolds, this has nothing to do with you.”
“You know what she’s doing, don’t you?” Reynolds said, turning to Hellboy. “She’s only bloody asking you out on a date!”
Hellboy scowled at the policeman. Then he and Cassie both started speaking at once.