by John Pelan
Throughout the trial, Caleb—a strong, sullen man, whom his neighbors described as “a frightening loner”—admitted that he had abducted all the women in question, but insisted, bewilderingly, that he had not had sex with them… even though the medical experts made it clear that not only had each victim been forcefully and horribly raped: each had also been impregnated, suggesting a careful premeditation on the part of the madman.
“Barrowby, seven miles,” Nick said, interrupting Andy's train of thought.
“Mmm.” The younger detective nodded. “Nick, what did the judge say when Caleb got sent down?”
Nick considered. “I don't know… some drivel about him being the most evil man he'd ever met, et cetera. Gave him a full-term sentence, I know that. Said he should never be released.”
“What did you make of all that weird sturf Caleb came out with—you know, the devil-worship bit?”
Nick shrugged. “Bloody headcase, wasn't he.”
“Didn't he ask if he could take his books to prison with him?”
“Yeah… think so. Why?”
“Well … it just struck me. All this black-magic bit, and him being found in a stone circle…”
Nick glanced at him. “This is the twenty-first century, you know.”
“Hey, pal, shit happens.”
A moment passed, then Nick looked ba;k to the winding country lane. “Yeah.”
3
Barrowby was quaint.
It was centered around a village green with a duck pond in the middle, and consisted almost entirely of eighteenth-century stone cottages, all cleanly whitewashed. In keeping with the style, the Packhorse Hotel was ivy-c ad on the outside, with a medieval shield over its door; on the inside it was all black beams, horse-brasses, and wooden Tudor benching. Its receptionist had long red tresses, buxom curves, and was very pretty, in a freckle-faced country girl sort of way.
“How long we booked in for?” Nick asked, as Andy filled the register.
“One night,” the D.C. replied.
“That's optimistic.”
“Nope,” Andy said. “That's realistic. You know what the chief super's like when it comes to expenses.”
“Any chance we can extend our stay if we need to, love?” Nick asked the receptionist.
“ 'Course,” she replied brightly. “It's early in the season yet.”
The name tag on her smart pink jacket said that she was Miranda, and she seemed as efficient as she was attractive, handing them each a room key and a leaflet on the hotel and its general area, then pointing out the restaurant and the bar. As the cops went upstairs, they arranged to meet in the bar later.
Nick found his bedroom small but cozy. There was a plump quilt on the bed, a tray of tea things on the bureau, and a pleasing view over the green. There was also an en suite shower and toilet, both of which he thankfully used. A quarter of an hour later, he was back downstairs and in the bar, where Andy had a small Scotch and water waiting for him.
“Water!” Nick said, sipping it with a grimace.
“Absolutely… it's not even lunchtime yet,” Andy replied, winking over the counter at Miranda.
She smiled back, then flinched as a bass male voice came crashing across the room: “Cow… shite!”
The two cops turned. At the far end of the bar slumped as surly an individual as either had ever seen, in early middle-age but huge of build, with a mop of graying hair over a tanned, craggy face. He was clad in bulky combat fatigues and a pair of old army boots muddied and scuffed almost to ruin. A big hunting knife was visible in a sheath at his belt, and beside him, propped against the fireplace, there was a narrow leather case, about three feet long and unbuckled at one end, from which the stock of a rifle protruded. A half-empty mug of ale stood on the bar top in front of him. It was clearly not his first; he was glaring drunkenly at the newcomers, and even made an aggressive lurch toward them.
“Jimmy, don't be daft,” Miranda said nervously.
The man ignored her. His fat, hairy hand now stole to the hilt of his knife.
Nick leaned against the bar. “What have we got here, Constable McClaine?”
“Well, Sergeant Brooker, if he doesn't take his hand off that knife right now, I'd say wielding an offensive weapon in a public place.”
Nick nodded. “Not to mention an unsecured firearm, which might, on police inspection, prove to be loaded and therefore unsafe.”
“And of course,” Andy added, “there's drunk and disorderly behavior.”
Nick stared intently at the man. “So what do you reckon?” he asked Andy.
Andy sniffed. “Oh … I'd say a year and a half, maybe two.”
The man gazed back at them, foggy-eyed, but clearly comprehending the error he'd just made. For several taut moments, it seemed he would approach them anyway.
“A whole year and a half,” Nick repeated. “Unless you add to that… assaulting police officers.”
“In which case… three or four years,” said Andy.
“Plus, of course, he gets his fucking lights punched out,” Nick added.
“Come on, Jimmy Kurns,” came a new voice, “let's be having you.”
The detectives glanced round, and saw a uniformed policewoman in the doorway. She was very young, twenty at the most, but had a firm tone. “Come on, Jimmy,” she said again. “I don't want to arrest you this early in the day.”
“Now seems as good a time as any,” Nick interjected.
“I'd thank you to stay out of this, if you don't mind,” the policewoman replied.
A moment passed, the bearlike Jimmy eyeballing them all in angry frustration. He swayed on his feet for a moment, then finished his beer with a swallow, grabbed up his rifle case, and shambled across the room to the door, which banged shut behind him.
Nick glanced again at the policewoman. “You know, if he goes and causes trouble somewhere else now, it's down to you.”
“He won't cause any trouble,” she replied. “He'll do what he usually does, go home to bed. He's been out all night poaching.”
“And that isn't an offense any more?”
She turned to look at him. There was a cool, no-nonsense aura about her that Nick instantly recognized and admired. She might be out in the sticks, but this police officer wasn't to be trifled with. On top of that, she was quite a looker… red-lipped and blue-eyed, with soft blond hair which no doubt fell to lustrous lengths when unfurled. For the moment it was pinned beneath her smart Cumbrian Constabulary hat.
“Barrowby is a nice, quiet place,” she said. “The worst we normally have to deal with out here is kids raiding orchards in September. We don't get tough with the locals, unless it's necessary.” She paused for a moment. “You gentlemen are from the Serious Crime and Response Squad, I take it?”
Nick nodded, offered his hand. “Detective Sergeant Brooker. This is Detective Constable McClaine.”
The girl shook hands with him. “Melanie Toomey. Well, I'm glad you're here, so long as you aren't going to pick a fight with every person you meet.”
“Hey … do we look like the sort of blokes who pick fights?”
“You don't really want me to answer that, do you?” she said, walking outside.
Nick grinned at Andy, then they followed her out into the gravel lot, where a black-and-white cruiser was parked beside Nick's Citroen.
“So … where do you want to start?” Constable Toomey asked.
'Tour station, if you don't mind,” Nick replied. “I'd like to look through the paperwork.”
She unlocked the cruiser. “I've got the paperwork in here. My station's ten miles away, in Lazenby. And it isn't much more than a desk and a coffeepot. Perhaps it'd be more constructive if I showed you the body?”
Nick glanced at Andy, and shrugged. They climbed in, and five minutes later arrived on the village outskirts, next to another house of whitewashed stone, though this one was larger than the rest and freestanding in about an acre of flowering gardens. A plaque over its front door read: HAROLD
CUSANI, M.D.
Dr. Cusani was a squat, pudgy man, with salt-and-pepper side-whiskers and a shabby line in gray tweeds. He also seemed irritable and was far from pleased that his morning appointments had to be cancelled because his surgery had been transformed into a temporary mortuary.
“It's most inconvenient,” he said, leading them in.
Nick wanted to reply that murder usually was, though he didn't know for sure if it was murder yet. Instead, he scanned quickly through the situation reports, then looked down at the body.
It was naked, pale as wax, and lay full-length on a sheet of sterile paper. There was no obvious sign of injury, though Caleb's face had twisted itself into a ghastly cringe. Nick stared down at the legendary Black Goat of the Woods. The criminal didn't look so frightening now, having become emaciated through age, his frenzy of black hair withered to a few strands of silver.
“What did he die from?” Andy asked. “Exposure?”
Cusani shook his head. “I haven't done a full postmortem,
but from what I've seen so far, froze to death.”
Nick glanced round. “Sorry… what?”
“Froze to death,” the doctor repeated.
“In May?”
Cusani looked aggravated again. “Look, I can't explain it, I'm just giving you the facts. When I first saw him, his arm and chest muscles had rigidified, which suggests extreme hypothermia. There was evidence of frostbite in his extremities… namely his fingers and toes. And on top of all that, he was coated in ice crystals. Now, to me, those symptoms are consistent with being frozen to death.”
Nick turned to Andy. “Check with the Meteorological Office… what was the lowest temperature we had last night?”
“I've already done that,” said Toomey. She took a notebook from her pocket. “The lowest temperature recorded in central-north England last night was eleven degrees centigrade.”
“Wind chill?” Nick asked.
She shook her head. “This time of year… negligible.”
“Is this even possible?” Andy wondered.
“I'd have said no,” Cusani replied. “Of course, you can die from exposure anywhere, if your constitution's low enough. Hypothermia can set in at twenty degrees centigrade, if the wind's wet and strong. But it wouldn't explain this.” He indicated the corpse. “I mean … we had to thaw him out.”
“Okay,” Nick said, “so he was murdered.”
Toomey glanced at him. “He was?”
“He didn't freeze to death naturally, so it must have happened unnaturally—i.e., someone did it to him.”
She smirked. “What, like locked him in their fridge for a few hours?”
“More likely hung him in a slaughterhouse somewhere… maybe an industrial freezer.”
“Not around here,” Cusani put in. “If there was such a facility, I'm sure I'd know about it, and he can't have been brought from any great distance away because, as I say, he was still coated in ice.”
“A mobile freezer?” Andy suggested. “Like a butcher's van?”
Nick handed him the situ-report. “No tire tracks. At least, not inside the stone circle.” He gazed at the body for a moment, knowing there had to be a logical explanation. “An airplane? Suppose he'd fallen from an airplane? That would explain the freezing effect, wouldn't it?”
Cusani didn't look convinced. “It might. But there'd also be extensive damage to the body. And, well… there isn't.”
Nick considered. “Whatever, there'll need to be a full autopsy now.” Toomey nodded. “And before you shift him to hospital,” Nick added, “get your forensics lads here. Swab every inch of him.”
4
Outside the surgery, Nick spent five minutes, staring at the hedgerow that stood opposite. It was already deep and luxuriant, and filled with hollyhocks … all the more bewildering of course, in these bizarre circumstances.
“Is Caleb's cottage still standing?” Nick asked.
Toomey shook her head. “It was burned down after he got convicted.”
The detective smiled to himself. “Very convenient … for somebody.” He glanced around at Andy. “Fancy taking the Cit-roen up to Durham?”
The D.C. looked nonplussed. “Why?”
“Go to the prison, bring back Caleb's books. We can have a look through them.”
Andy shrugged. “Well yeah, but… you certain it's worthwhile?”
Nick nodded. “Let's get into the mad bastard's head.”
“Can I help at all?” Toomey asked.
Nick turned to her. “Yeah… how many of the women Caleb attacked still live in the area?”
“One,” Toomey replied. “She's the only one still alive. Barbara Maynard.”
Nick tried to remember. “Wasn't she that well-heeled bird?”
“I wouldn't call her a bird.… She's more a middle-aged woman, now. A titled lady, no less. Her husband's dead, but he was Viscount Langdon.”
“What was that big house called where: hey used to live?” Nick wondered.
“Halkin Grange. She's still there. Why?”
Nick paused to think. “I'm wondering if there's any value in going having a chat with her?”
Toomey raised a finely drawn eyebrow. “Not sure she'll thank you for raking it all up again?”
“I'm sure she won't” he replied, “but this is murder inquiry, after all.”
“You want to go now?”
“Not yet,” Nick said. “I fancy a look at Long Meg first. Any chance?”
“Sure.”
Just then, a clap of what sounded like distant thunder came rolling from the northeast. Its booms echoed for several moments on the still, warm air. Nick glanced curiously around.
“Shot blasting,” the woman constable explained. “That's Gilderdale Quarry. It's about eight miles away. There's an open-cast mine there. They're dynamiting.”
Nick nodded thoughtfully, then tossed his car keys to Andy. “There you are, pal. Don't take her anywhere near Gilderdale.”
Five minutes later, Nick and Toomey were cruising up a narrow lane. The woman handled the heavy vehicle smoothly, taking each sharp curve with deft precision. Nick wasn't sure which to be more impressed by… her driving skills, or the generous expanse of nylon-clad thigh now visible. He hadn't been with a girl for some time. The opportunity occasionally came along, but the memory of Amy always intervened. This policewoman, however, was a singularly desirable specimen.
“Doesn't this road go up to Halkin Grange eventually?” he asked, trying to put his mind on something else.
“Yeah,” she said. “It's the long way around, though. It's much quicker across country.”
Nick nodded. They drove on in silence for another two minutes, then pulled up by a stile in the drystone wall. Toomey climbed out. Nick did the same, stretching and breathing deeply of the fresh air. On the other side of the stile, a footpath wound uphill through a meadow deep in buttercups, then a copse of silver birch. The somber shapes of standing stones were visible beyond it. The place was astonishingly quiet.
“Do you get many people up here?” Nick asked, as they set off up the path.
“A few,” the constable replied. “We're off the beaten track, but this is one of the largest stone circles in the country.”
They passed through the copse. The circle was now clearly visible, constructed of boulders rather than pillars, each one spaced about twenty feet apart. As always v/ith these ancient monuments, there was a stillness here, a peace, an aura of solemn antiquity.
“How many stones are there?” Nick wondered.
“They're supposed to be uncountable,” the woman replied. He glanced at her. She chuckled. “It's a local myth. In answer to your question, though … I don't know. Sixty, seventy… something like that.”
They now walked into the very midst of the henge. It occupied a wide area, three hundred square feet at least, and was more oval than circular; it even encompassed a stretch of country track, which led through to a cluster of farm buildings on the far side of the pa
sture. The boulders were of varying shape and size, some jagged, some smooth, all coated in lichen. Several had fallen over during the passing of the millennia, but remained in place; one or two of these had partially sunk and were visible only as uneven slabs of granite.
“What's that?” Nick asked, indicating a separate megalith a few yards outside the main circle.
“Long Meg herself,” Toomey replied. “The rest of the rocks are ‘her daughters.’ According to tradition, they'd formed a coven and had gathered here to perform a Black Mass, but were confronted by a saint, who turned then all to stone.”
Nick strolled toward the center, where a ten-by-ten square of ground had been fenced off with fluorescent crime scene tape.
“And what's the official line?” he wondered, gazing into the square.
“The usual,” she replied. “It's neolithic, it was a calendar, or a giant sundial, or something like that.”
“Which is bull, isn't it?” he said, turning to look at her. “Only a personal opinion, of course, but I prefer the more romantic view.” He glanced back at the fenced-off square. “And I suspect someone else does, too.”
“So what's your theory?” she asked.
He smiled. “I'm not here to come up with theories. All we were sent for was to establish that this is not a routine sudden death, which is clear enough from the outset. We'll need more detectives up here now, maybe a few local lads to do the leg-work, set up an incident room, that sort of thing.…”
Just then, there was a crackle of static and a tinny voice came over the air: “Whiskey-Echo One to Seven-eight-two-two?”
“Receiving,” Toomey replied, “go ahead.”
“Shoplifter, Mel. At Langwathby… lady in the corner shop's caught some kid pinching sweets.”
The constable rolled her eyes. “Roger. En route.” She turned to Nick. “Duty calls.”