by Adam Hamdy
Schaefer turned away from the fireplace, towards Gilmore, who was in the process of pouring two drinks at a small cabinet.
“Single malt okay?” Gilmore asked.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Water?”
“Ice,” Schaefer replied.
“There are those who believe a good malt can be destroyed by rocks,” Gilmore said as he plucked a couple of cubes from an ice bucket, “but the head of Glengyle Distillery once told me that’s complete poppycock. It’s your dram, he said, you put what you damned well like in it.”
Gilmore handed the crystal tumbler to Schaefer who responded with a nod of his head.
“Your health,” Gilmore proposed.
Schaefer raised his glass in salute, and then took a sip. He was no expert, but that tasted like a fine Scotch.
“So, Thomas, what can I do for you?” Gilmore asked.
“I found Derek Liddle,” Schaefer replied.
“Excellent. His parents will be relieved.” Gilmore sat in one of two leather wingbacks, and gestured for Schaefer to take the other.
Schaefer sat down, and contemplated his drink.
“What’s on your mind, Thomas?”
“Does the name Leon Yates mean anything to you?” Schaefer asked.
Gilmore shook his head.
“He ran the Area Boys,” Schaefer said. “It’s a street gang that uses cult techniques to indoctrinate members. The mysticism helps ensure their loyalty. That’s where I found Liddle.”
Schaefer paused for a moment, trying to recall exactly what had passed between him and Yates.
“I had a chance to talk to Leon Yates before he threw himself off a tower block. He mentioned a name.”
Schaefer found himself worrying the tumbler with his fingers, pressing them into the crystal ridges. He didn’t want to say the name. He didn’t want to admit that his first lead in years had died a few hours ago.
“What did he say?” Gilmore asked, sensing Schaefer’s struggle.
“Amber.”
Schaefer saw Gilmore studying him. No doubt the doctor was trying to gauge exactly just how unbalanced his most reliable investigator was.
“I see,” Gilmore said. “And after all these years rescuing unfortunates from charismatic cult leaders, you have finally chanced upon something that you cannot explain.”
Schaefer was aware of Gilmore’s feelings on the supernatural: mysticism was the preserve of the ignorant. As far as Gilmore was concerned nothing in mind or body could not be explained by science and logic: the spiritual world did not exist. Schaefer wilted slightly under Gilmore’s considered gaze.
“What did he say exactly?” Gilmore probed.
“He said that I was a recurring man, and that someone had done something beautiful. He said that we served the same master,” Schaefer replied. “And he said the name Amber.”
“And there’s no chance you misheard?”
Schaefer shook his head.
“And this was just before he threw himself off the building?” Gilmore asked. Schaefer caught a hint of scepticism in Gilmore’s voice.
Schaefer nodded.
“And these Area Boys, they sell drugs?” Schaefer could already see where Gilmore was going: Yates was a deranged, drugged-up lunatic who stumbled upon something that mattered to Schaefer.
“I don’t think Yates was high,” Schaefer replied.
“But you can’t be sure,” Gilmore countered. “There is a chance that this man was not only deranged, but intoxicated.”
“How would he know her name?” Schaefer asked sharply.
“You have a reputation, Thomas,” Gilmore replied, diplomatically. “Know thy enemy, isn’t that what they say? It is possible he read about your case.”
“Maybe,” Schaefer conceded. But there had been something in Yates’ eyes that suggested more than just a passing knowledge of Schaefer’s situation.
“There’s someone I’d like you meet, Thomas,” Gilmore said. “A mother. Her daughter went missing a week ago.”
Gilmore paused. Schaefer’s instincts told him he would not like what came next.
“She’s ten,” Gilmore continued.
“No kids,” Schaefer countered.
“You should…”
Schaefer cut him off, “No kids. You know that.”
“You should meet her,” Gilmore persisted. “She gave me a copy of a symbol she found in her daughter’s room.”
Gilmore produced a small piece of card from his pocket and handed it to Schaefer. The white card was marked with a mandala, a spiritual symbol common in parts of Asia. Usually mandalas were formed of geometric shapes within a circle. This particular mandala contained three overlapping triangles, their points touching the edge of the circumference. Schaefer felt a painful pang of recognition: he had seen this design before. He looked at Gilmore, the disbelief clear in his eyes.
“This was in her daughter’s room?” Schaefer asked.
“On her bed,” Gilmore nodded gravely. “Now you understand why I feel you must see her.”
Schaefer studied the mandala that had come to symbolise all the evil and darkness in his life.
“Her number is on the back,” Gilmore said.
Schaefer turned the card over and saw a telephone number and a name: Sally Blake.
FOUR
Noel looked around nervously as he ferreted in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes.
“The nobs won’t be happy if they find out I’m talking to you,” he said.
Schaefer curled his mouth. There wasn’t much he could say to that. He wasn’t going to crawl under a rock, and he knew that, much as Noel might complain, the policeman needed Schaefer. He wasn’t bound by their rules or procedures, and every now and again the police found it useful to ask Schaefer to follow up a lead or interrogate a suspect. He was quite happy to do their dirty work as long as they threw a few favours his way.
Schaefer and Noel stepped away from Kennington Police Station, a modern, brown brick building that cut four stories into London’s mid-morning sky. Noel shrank into his coat as he lit a cigarette, trying to avoid not only the wind, but the gazes of any passing police officers. Kennington Road was busy with people and traffic, but Schaefer didn’t recognise any of the faces.
“Four officers dead, another one injured; this is an official clusterfuck,” Noel said. He drew on his cigarette. “They want heads, and I’m putting yours on a plate, Schaefer. Until you came along, intelligence hadn’t even heard of the Area Boys.”
Schaefer considered whether he had misjudged the man; perhaps Noel didn’t need him after all. Or maybe the blowback from the previous night’s operation was simply too intense.
“Stack the paperwork however you like, Noel,” Schaefer responded. “I don’t care. I’m not police. The only way they can punish me is with prison, and I know I haven’t done anything illegal. Not on this one.”
Schaefer saw Noel relax slightly. He had obviously been concerned about how Schaefer would handle the news that he was to be the fall guy. Schaefer had told the truth; he didn’t care about the police, he used them when he needed to.
“Did you find anything?” Schaefer asked.
“A treasure trove at the flats. Guns, money, drugs, stolen goods. But since the principal is dead, we’re just reeling in minnows,” Noel said with more than a hint of accusation. “You got your man though.”
Schaefer ignored the pointed dig. “What about the house?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Why the booby trap?”
“When I say nothing,” Noel continued, “I mean nothing. The place is stripped bare. A couple of the minnows say it was a shrine. Personally I reckon it’s where Yates used to do his banging. These cult guys have always got hard-ons, and he’d want to keep any tarts clear of the young bucks at the flats.”
Noel’s theory made Schaefer realise just how much he had learnt about the dark world of cults. If Yates had left one of his ‘tarts’ naked in the corridor and gone on
a round-the-world cruise, she would have been untouched upon his return. Such was the power of these cult leaders. Someone like Noel, who had never experienced the devastating hold of these charismatic men and women, could never understand that the mundane never applied. The way cults operated was so far removed from normality that Schaefer didn’t even bother disabusing Noel of his theory.
“You get anything on him?” Schaefer asked.
Noel shook his head.
“His real name wasn’t Leon Yates. He had a couple of Nigerian tattoos. We’ll get the embassy in Abuja to check prints and dental records with the local law.”
“Do you know how long he’s been in the country?” Schaefer asked.
“No idea. Not until we find out who he really is.”
“Thanks,” Schaefer said. He placed a reassuring hand on Noel’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about Kent. I liked him.”
Noel tried to mask his sadness with a shrug. Neither man said anything for a moment; Schaefer could see Noel trying to suppress the swelling lump in his throat.
“Make sure you stick around,” Noel said, his voice cracking slightly. “We’re going to want an official statement.”
Schaefer nodded.
“I’ll be here.”
As he walked away, Noel called after him, “And, Schaefer, do me a favour. Don’t bring us any more cases.”
*
The alley was cordoned off at the street, and there were signs advising members of the public that they would be prosecuted if they breached the cordon. Schaefer slipped under the cordon and retraced his steps of the previous night. He had spent the past couple of hours watching Yates’ house from his car. The last members of the police forensics team and their uniformed escort had left half-an-hour ago. Schaefer had sat in the car and waited. Over the years he’d learnt the value of patience, and wanted to be sure that Noel or his superiors hadn’t posted a permanent guard. After thirty minutes, Schaefer was certain that the house was empty and that nobody was coming back. I guess there’s one reason to be thankful for the cuts, Schaefer thought to himself as he’d exited his car.
Schaefer emerged from the darkest section of the alley, and immediately saw the imprint of the previous day’s carnage: scorch marks on the walls; a small crater etched into the ground at the epicentre of the blast; and dark patches on the concrete paving, where someone had pressure-washed the bloodstains. Four men had died in that small back yard and Schaefer refused to believe that it was because Yates did not want them to catch him in his love nest.
Schaefer walked through the ragged blast hole in the garden wall and climbed the small steps to the back door. He used a pocket knife to slice through the police masking tape and pulled out a small case that contained his lock picking tools. In addition to the locks built into the door, the police had affixed a heavy duty padlock. It took Schaefer less than three minutes to crack them.
The afternoon sunlight shone through the open door, and Schaefer could see the remains of a kitchen. He flipped a light switch located next to the door, but nothing happened. Schaefer looked up to see that the light fitting was missing a bulb. He entered, shut the door behind him, and produced a small torch from his pocket. A narrow beam of light cut into the darkness. Schaefer pointed it at the window, and saw that there were no curtains or blinds. He walked over and touched the glass: paint. He shone the torch around the room and realised that the entire place had been painted white: the windows, the walls, the floorboards. The room had been stripped; crooked gas and water pipes jutted into the room, and electrical wiring hung lose from painted plaster.
Schaefer moved out of the kitchen into the hallway and found a similar arrangement; the floorboards, the walls, the narrow windows had been covered in thick white paint, and there was no bulb in the light fitting. Schaefer walked carefully and slowly, his thin blade of light offering little to combat the growing feeling that he was somewhere very dangerous. He peered into what must have once been a living room, and saw the same white walls, windows and floor. This was no love nest, Schaefer told himself, Yates was using this place for something.
Schaefer climbed the stairs, his torch leading his eyes around the dark house. He was looking for something – anything – that the police had missed. Noel had said they’d found nothing, but Schaefer knew that he was far more thorough than any of their forensics officers. And yet, here he was, unable to find anything. Schaefer goaded himself with his failures. He’d been a failure for ten years and his catalogue of errors grew thicker with each year that passed. Allowing Yates to die was the latest in a long list of failings. He needed to correct that mistake. He needed to find something. Amber was counting on him. Schaefer crossed the landing and peered into the smallest of the upstairs rooms, which was a complete white-out like the rooms downstairs. Schaefer checked the three other upstairs rooms, which were all the same, apart from the largest, which must have once been a bedroom. Illuminated by the torch, there, in the centre of the white room, Schaefer saw a small, white single mattress. Schaefer considered the mattress as he approached. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe this was Yates’ bolt-hole. Schaefer took a closer look at the mattress. It was pristine – no stains, no wear. It looked like it had never even been slept on. Schaefer could see a slight disturbance in the surrounding dust, probably where forensics had examined it. Schaefer lifted the mattress and looked at the white floorboards underneath. Was there something there? Or was it a trick of the light? Schaefer pushed the mattress out of the way and edged about a yard over. He looked at one of the floorboards and noticed a tiny imperfection; a small, maybe two or three millimetre, section of bare floorboard where the paint had been chipped. Schaefer pulled out his pocket knife and wedged it into the crack in the floorboards immediately adjacent to the chip. With a gentle push, the floorboard gave way. Schaefer pulled it up to find a small cubby hole underneath. Inside the hole was a shoe box. Schaefer checked the box for wires and pressure sensors; anything that might trigger a booby trap. Satisfied that it was safe, Schaefer took the lid off the box. Inside were six light bulbs. Schaefer examined one of the bulbs and then turned his attention to the light fitting in the centre of the room.
The truth is always hidden in plain sight, Schaefer thought, as he slipped the bulb into its fitting. That’s what Yates had said before he had thrown himself off the roof. Schaefer crossed the room and flipped the switch. The dark bulb bathed the room in ultraviolet light revealing the occult symbols that covered every inch of every surface. Light sensitive ink, Schaefer noted, as he slowly turned and took it all in. Schaefer recognised some of the signs, but most were unfamiliar to him, and he found that unnerving. He’d been investigating cults for ten years, and had a reputation as an expert. This room made him feel like a novice. The symbols that he could decipher were all incantations that summoned great evil. Whatever Yates did here was in the service of a profound darkness.
Schaefer collected the remaining light bulbs and put them in the empty light fittings as he retraced his steps through the house. The results were all the same: every single room was covered in occult markings. The painted white floors, the blocked windows, the ceilings – everywhere glowed purple as the light sensitive ink revealed Yates’ secret. Schaefer took photos as he went, recording whatever evil Yates had been engaged in.
There was one bulb left. Schaefer slotted it into the fitting in the kitchen and switched on the light. Life had taught Schaefer to be prepared for anything, but even after all the years spent learning that particularly hard lesson, Schaefer couldn’t help but feel shaken by what he saw. Dominating the back wall was the mandala featured on the card that Gilmore had given him: three overlapping triangles, their points touching the edge of the circle that enclosed them. The same symbol he had found in his daughter’s room the day after she had been kidnapped.
*
Schaefer staggered into the sunlight, glad to leave the dark house behind him. There was a direct link between Yates and Amber’s disappearance. A few minutes alone with Yates in
a police interrogation room and he would have forced the man to spill his secrets. Schaefer cursed himself for letting Yates die. He looked up at the blue sky and thought about Amber. Schaefer suddenly realised he was feeling the familiar pang of self-pity, and smothered it with the resolute anger that had burned within him since Amber had been taken. Feeling sorry for himself helped nobody, he needed to continue doing what he did best: follow the trail, find the victim. Schaefer pulled out his phone and dialled. He got through to Noel’s voicemail.
“Noel, it’s Schaefer. Send your photographer back to Yates’ house. The décor will prove you’re dealing with more than an average street gang.”
Schaefer hung up and walked out of the scorched yard.
FIVE
The tenth floor corridor was eerily quiet. Schaefer ducked under the police tape and stepped out of the emergency stairwell. He tried to imagine what it was like to be a resident in one of these buildings when a cancer like Yates moved in. How did he get control of an entire floor? Intimidation? Violence? These were local authority flats, and the people who lived in them would not have had many choices. Hardworking people striving for a better life, pensioners who wanted nothing more than to see out their days in peace, and the odd petty criminal who would suddenly come to understand the true meaning of crime when they came up against Yates. Did they leave without a fight? Schaefer wondered about the rest of the people in the building, and what steps Yates took to keep them in line to ensure that his activities were kept private.