Death Unholy

by Phillip Strang

‘There is no threat, only fact. You and your people will not leave this village.’

  ‘Tomorrow, this place will be swarming with police.’

  ‘Tomorrow is a long time away. I suggest you return to your supposed crime scene. Take the man who was critically injured when your police car hit him.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Prepare yourself for the inevitable.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Your death and that of your sergeant, Sergeant Clare Yarwood.’

  Chapter 33

  ‘You’ve heard Wylshere,’ Tremayne said. He, along with Clare and Jim Hughes, was back at the crime scene. The critically injured man they had brought back with them was in one corner of the garage.

  ‘He might live,’ Hughes said, glancing over at the man.

  ‘Constable Hopwood’s dead though,’ Clare said. She sat glumly, unsure what to feel. After so many deaths, including the murders of Vic Oldfield and Kathy Saunders, she could see that their remaining time in Avon Hill would be short.

  With Hughes’s team no longer working in the woods, most were huddled in the church vestry in an attempt to keep warm. The crime scene resembled a horror movie. There was the church, its spire looming high in the sky, the headstones in the graveyard standing to attention. Clare imagined she could hear noises other than the chanting. She wanted Harry, she knew that, but he was not contactable, and he’d be behind the bar at the Deer’s Head dispensing beers, sharing a joke and generally being his usual affable self.

  Clare knew one thing: if they ever left that village, Harry could have his wife at home looking after the children, ensuring there was a meal when he arrived, her loving arms around his neck. If policing meant that she had to endure another Avon Hill then she did not want it. If it meant that she had to suffer the deaths of people who she had worked with, attached some fondness to, then the cost of policing was too much, and Tremayne, her mentor and a person she greatly admired, could have his Homicide department to himself.

  ‘Yarwood, what are you doing there?’ Tremayne shouted. Clare lifted her head and looked at him.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘No use sitting there feeling sad for yourself. We’ve got to do something. We still need help.’

  ‘But how? We’ll never get out by road.’

  ‘How far are we from civilisation as the crow flies?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Not far if you cut across the fields.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Not us, but someone’s got to go. Any ideas?’

  ‘I’ll ask,’ Clare said, ‘but everyone’s just waiting for the morning now.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘What do you mean, guv?’

  ‘You never saw inside that bar.’

  ‘What did you see?’ Clare asked. She had only heard the voices of Tremayne and Wylshere through the open window of the car.

  ‘They were getting dressed up in their robes. Some had masks on as well.’

  ‘The same as in the church?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s clear what it means. You heard Wylshere. What do you think he was saying?’

  ‘He was threatening, talking big when there was nothing else to say. The classic standoff.’

  ‘Yarwood, you’re sitting there hoping it will all go away. Well, let me tell you, it won’t. They were arming themselves in that pub. They are going to fight, and it won’t be an immortal or phantom spirit or eerie sounds from the woods; it will be twenty to thirty men armed and willing to kill.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, guv?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting, I’m saying. We need help, and within the next hour, otherwise that bunch of lunatics will be down here.’

  ‘They’ll kill us?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Why not? What have they to lose? They know, or at least Wylshere does, that after tonight no one in this village will be free of suspicion. Once we start diving into the underbelly of this community, we’ll find at least those in the bar guilty of murder, and then there’ll be an explanation of how Eric Langley died. Wylshere’s going down for a long time, as is his wife, and we’ve seen all those up at the pub.’

  ‘What about the other people in the village, the women and the children?’

  ‘Have you seen any of them?’

  ‘None, other than Elizabeth Grimshaw and her neighbour.’

  ‘I don’t get it with these people, but it doesn't matter now,’ Tremayne said. ‘We need help, armed help, and it needs someone to cut out across those fields.’

  Eventually one of Hughes’s CSIs agreed to go. Tremayne had rejected an offer from one of the uniforms as they were trained in unarmed combat and they had also had weapons training, and he needed them.

  Two hours later, it was into the early hours of the morning, and Clare was hopeful that the night would pass uneventfully. Tremayne had posted one of the uniforms on guard duty to keep a watch on the pub. Most of the CSIs were sleeping or attempting to. Clare was dozing, dreaming of Harry, trying to think pleasant thoughts. Tremayne could not rest, and his eyes were focussed on the pub and the village of Avon Hill; only the pub had lights, everywhere else were ghostly outlines. He wondered how anyone could live in such a place, even when there was no threat of mayhem and evil. He was, he knew, a man who needed movement, whether it was people or cars, and some noise, but in that village, there was nothing. He could see why Clare felt scared there. He had to admit to himself that the place scared him as well and that anyone susceptible to a fertile imagination could see things that weren’t there, believe in things that had no foundation in reality.

  The one certainty in the whole sorry saga of Avon Hill was that Dr Edmund Wylshere was certifiable, and those that followed him were misled or equally mad.

  ‘Yarwood, wake up,’ Tremayne said, shaking Clare’s shoulder. ‘Something’s up.’

  ***

  Edmund Wylshere could see there was dissension and conflict, so much so that some in the pub were openly defying him.

  Disregarding those dissenters, Wylshere made his plan. The first stage was to deal with those down at the church. He knew that would not be difficult.

  ‘Wylshere, you’ve condemned us,’ one of the elders said, his face covered in a mask.

  ‘The gods are always stronger after we have made a sacrifice.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Tomorrow those that come will find nothing.’

  ‘And us?’

  ‘We will not exist.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The elder was confused. He had agreed with the death of the others, necessary in his estimation, but now their leader was plotting wholesale carnage.

  With Wylshere not willing to give an answer, the elder moved away. He, even as one of the most fervent, did not understand the logic of the man. He would support Wylshere, but he had a feeling the night was not going to end well. He wished it could be different, but decent people who had meant no harm to anyone were to die for something they did not understand. He knew that was how it had always been – the weak destroyed by the strong.

  He looked out of the window at the church. So near, yet so far, he thought. He regretted that he had not dealt with Wylshere before. But they would all be condemned for their murderous activities, those condemning not knowing the truth of the matter. He had seen their power when they had brought the heavy snow down on the road out of the village, and then the cold that had frozen the one who had mown down the people outside the pub. He remembered the first of the police officers, Constable Dallimore, and how he had looked when he had struck him across the face, the sight of his blood as he lay dying, and then the look of the second officer as he lay freezing, his back against a tree.

  The elder knew he was damned, as were the others, equally as guilty as Wylshere. The decision had been made, he would comply.

  Chapter 34


  Tremayne’s initial concerns about the tenuous situation in Avon Hill proved to be ill-founded. Not only did the anticipated assault on the crime scene not eventuate, but they received a visit from one of its inhabitants.

  ‘Who are you?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘They will come for you tonight. You must leave.’

  ‘We’re police officers, sworn to uphold the law, not people who will scurry away at the slightest provocation.’

  ‘You don’t understand. Their strength comes from the quality of the offering.’

  ‘If they’re looking for a virgin to sacrifice, they’re too late,’ Tremayne said in a moment of rashness.

  ‘You will all make ideal offerings, especially your partner.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Clare asked. The man in front of her was making her scared, not that he needed to try very hard. He had a menacing tone in his voice, the voice that she would expect death to use.

  ‘They’re too late for the virgin,’ Clare said.

  ‘What are you here for?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘You must leave now.’

  ‘There is no way to leave. The road is blocked.’

  ‘Then you must walk out.’

  ‘We’ve already sent someone to go for help,’ Clare said.

  ‘He did not make it.’

  ‘There are some at the pub who do not want this to continue. They have asked me to tell you to leave.’

  ‘Are there many of you who feel the same way in this village?’ Clare asked.

  ‘There are others.’

  ‘Elizabeth Grimshaw?’

  ‘She followed their orders.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police with this knowledge?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Would you have believed us?’

  ‘That there were pagan worshippers in the village of Avon Hill; regular people by day, murdering heathens by night? Probably not.’

  ‘That is why no one came forward. We live in fear here.’

  ‘You could always leave.’

  ‘No one leaves without their permission.’

  ‘Whose permission?’

  ‘Edmund Wylshere and the other elders.’

  ‘If, as you say, they are coming for us, will you and the others in this village give us assistance?’ Clare asked.

  ‘No one will help. We have only come to warn you. Leave this place.’

  ‘This is a crime scene. We cannot.’

  ‘Then you have been warned. Tomorrow, when it comes, we will see what remains.’

  ‘What do you expect to see?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Unless the two of you leave immediately, you will both be dead.’

  ***

  Tremayne, left confused by the unexpected visit, did not know what to say. He checked the gun in his pocket; it was still there, although it would not be enough to hold off a mob intent on mayhem and murder, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to shoot someone.

  Clare, suitably frightened by the ominous villager, wondered what they should do. The villager had recommended that they all bolt for it: the crime scene investigators, the patrol car drivers, the uniforms, as well as her and Tremayne. She knew that would never happen, and besides, how could they explain it back at the police station. They’d be laughed out of the police station, her and Tremayne, as two people who had allowed their fantasies to get out of hand. And she knew that her DI would never back off.

  ‘The situation’s grim,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Clare asked.

  ‘There’s not much we can do. We can’t get the people out, and besides reducing the numbers would make our situation more precarious.’

  ‘Have you ever come across a situation like this before?’ Clare asked.

  ‘In Wiltshire, never. In London, when I was starting out, there was a riot. That was violent, some people were hurt, but there we had tear gas and backup; here we’ve nothing. He mentioned the last person we sent out to get help is dead as well, which means these people have killed two police officers and one crime scene investigator since we’ve been here. They’re not going to stop now.’

  ‘They’ve no reason to,’ Clare said.

  ‘I suggest we prepare our line of defence.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘We’ll block the entrance with the vehicles.’

  ‘They’ll be on foot. They’ll just walk around them.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  ‘We barricade ourselves in the church until daylight. Then we can reassess the situation. They’re bound to come looking for us in due course.’

  ‘That could be twenty-four hours.’

  ‘They’re not as strong during the day.’

  ‘Not that ancient gods nonsense again, Yarwood.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, but the people up at the pub believe it.’

  They positioned the five remaining vehicles as best they could to obstruct any unwelcome visitors.

  Tremayne, unable to relax, positioned himself outside the main entrance to the church, his eyes focussed on the pub. Clare, not wishing to be outside, knowing that it was her responsibility to be with Tremayne, could see occasional flickering lights in some of the houses.

  ‘There’s no one asleep up there,’ she said to Tremayne. He had a cigarette in his mouth, the red when he inhaled giving an eerie glow. Clare, not a smoker, could only watch as he found solace in the nicotine.

  A hush fell over the crime scene area, only disturbed by the muffled sound of a generator inside the church. ‘I don’t like it, Yarwood,’ Tremayne said.

  Clare knew what he meant. The mist was swirling, the temperature was still dropping, and up the road a malignant group of individuals waited to carry out their master’s bidding. She imagined herself as the sacrifice, tied to a cross in the woods while they stoked the fire beneath her. She could imagine herself screaming in sheer agony while those watching relished the moment.

  Tremayne broke the silence. ‘There’s movement up at the pub.’ Clare looked and could see the men milling around the front door, its light casting a shadow over some of them.

  ‘They’re dressed up,’ Clare said. Even though it was some distance, she could still make out the shapes.

  ‘How long to daylight?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Long enough for them to do what they want.’

  ‘Hours, not verbiage.’

  ‘Three hours.’

  ‘Long enough for them to cause trouble. How are we placed to defend ourselves?’

  ‘You know the answer.’

  ‘We’re not. I’ve got a loaded gun, but it’s only good to take down six.’

  ‘You’d use it, guv?’

  ‘For warning them to back off.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I’ve no gun. And I’m not about to shoot them dead the moment they cross the line.’

  ‘But they would kill us.’

  ‘They’ve already killed tonight. A few more won’t make any difference.’

  ‘Then you know the answer,’ Clare said.

  ‘I can just imagine Moulton’s reaction if we get this wrong.’

  ‘He’s not here facing a bunch of murdering imbeciles, is he?’

  ‘If they cross the line, I shoot to kill, is that it?’

  ‘What option do you have? Everyone here will back up your story.’

  ‘No one will believe us. They’ll put it down to mass hysteria. Even if they believe us, do you think they’ll want to admit that there is a bunch of paganists worshipping ancient gods, committing murder in their midst?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘It’s not the first time?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Not that I know around here, but these cults occur from time to time.’

  The activities near the pub began to intensify, the chanting became more audible. Jim Hughes came out from the church, took a deep breath as he felt the blast of cold air. ‘There’s some that want to make a run for it,’
he said.

  ‘Are you one of them?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘It’s better than sitting here. My people have been in the woods. We’ve seen the graves, two of the bodies. That group coming down here are not the local Boy Scouts.’

  ‘It’s your decision, but it leaves us exposed.’

  ‘I’ll stay, the others can go if they want to,’ Hughes said.

  ‘Then tell them to go now and to send help for us.’

  ‘How long?’ Hughes said, referring to the chanting mob walking towards the church.

  ‘Five minutes before they’re here, another ten while I remonstrate with them, fire my gun in the air a couple of times.’

  ‘That’s a waste of two bullets,’ Clare said. She looked up towards the mob, their bizarre uniforms and masks now more visible. Some, she could see, were carrying staves, others were brandishing knives. ‘They're going to cut us up,’ she said in a sheer panic.

  Hughes took one further look at those approaching and moved back inside the church. Two minutes later, six of the crime scene examiners left from the rear of the church. Tremayne and Clare looked up at the mob. ‘They’ve seen them,’ Tremayne said. ‘Two of the mob are going after them. I hope our people can run faster than the locals.’

  ‘Can they?’ Clare asked.

  Tremayne did not answer her question. ‘How many in that mob now?’

  ‘Seventeen or eighteen.’

  ‘We can’t hold them off. It might be better if you make a run for it.’

  ‘And leave you defenceless?’ Clare replied.

  Up the road, the mob continued to move forward, their chanting more rhythmic, louder. They did not appear to be in a hurry. A sound of anguish came from behind the church. ‘They’ve got one of ours,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘We should help,’ Clare said.

  ‘How? And what would it achieve? We need to make a stand against this lot here.’

  Jim Hughes returned to join Tremayne and Clare. ‘Did you hear it?’

  ‘We heard.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ the crime scene examiner asked. Clare could sense his fear. It was clear that all three, as well as the others remaining, would not see the morning sunrise, and she, for one, would not feel Harry’s arms around her. She started to cry. Tremayne handed her a handkerchief.