by Ryan Casey
Justice he was willing to fight for. Justice he had to be willing to fight for.
Because if no one fought for justice in this world, criminal organisations like the Children of the Light would breed until the world burst at the seams.
He pushed harder on the door but it was locked. Course it was locked. Middle of the afternoon on a weekday. Everyone else at work. Everyone else going about their lives. God taking a siesta.
He turned around and prepared to get into his car to do some serious fucking thinking when he saw the woman standing at the bottom of the steps.
She was blonde. Long hair down to her shoulders and a narrow face. Her skin was good for her age—which Brian assumed to be fifties or sixties. In fact, she looked good for her age all round. Dressed well, in a black blazer and a deep red shirt. Black skirt, black tights, slender legs, black shoes.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Brian scratched the back of his neck as this woman walked up the steps towards him. Her high heels clinked against the concrete. She walked in them like it was second nature. Not like some women, which you could visibly see struggling. With complete composure. With balance. Like she’d walked in them many times before.
“I’m with the police,” Brian said, unsure whether to play up or play down his role. “Know when this place opens?”
The woman smiled. Reached into her leather handbag. “For officers doing the good work of the law? It’s open whenever I want it to open.”
She walked past Brian and stuck the keys in the door. Turned them, opened it, held a hand out.
Then she looked at Brian and smiled. “After you, Detective. I assume you haven’t just come here to take a look at the front door.”
Brian nodded.
And then, hesitantly, he walked through the doors.
That feeling crept up along the back of his neck.
The same feeling he’d had when he’d walked into Robert Luther’s office all those years ago.
When he’d gone searching down that alleyway beside African Connection.
A feeling that he shouldn’t be here.
A feeling that he should just turn around, right away, and get out of here.
A feeling that, like so many other times in his career, he ignored.
The woman’s name was Lilian Chalmers.
“I always preferred the architecture of the old church. But unfortunately the architecture wasn’t too keen on us. Barren state. Unsustainable. So the council deemed fit to demolish and replace it.” She lifted her hands. Smiled, blue eyes illuminating as she did. “And this is our home now.”
Brian looked around the Methodist church. He’d got a sense of normality about the place on the outside—a sense that there wasn’t anything to this place, not suspicious. That feeling intensified now he was inside. Shiny laminate flooring, not a speck of dust in sight. Empty pews. An altar, with a small stain-glassed window of Christ on the cross, although it looked tacky and forced, kind of like the more recent Simpsons episodes look compared to the basic nostalgia of the older ones. Gloss wasn’t always a good thing.
“So this is where you hold your meetings?” Brian asked, walking down the aisle, footsteps squeaking against the floor. The air had the same smell as every church. That familiar mustiness. Not pleasant exactly, but comforting. A warm smell. In the same way echoes felt warm. An emptiness. But a presence.
Brian didn’t believe in God, but he could understand why people did when the church manipulated people’s senses like this. Like Subway pumping out the smells of sandwiches to tempt people into their stores. Sensory rape.
“There’s services on the usual days,” Lillian said, smiling as she walked down the aisle towards the door on the left of the altar. “I believe the next one is on Saturday mornings. So if you’d like to come along then you’re more than welcome to—”
“This the Children of the Light service we’re talking about?”
Lilian stopped. And just for a moment Brian thought he saw her smile falter.
She turned. Looked at him. Narrowed her eyes. That confident smile returned to her face. “I’m talking about the standard services for practising Christians. And you’re here about the vandals who broke in two weeks ago. Stole from the donation boxes. That is what we’re both talking about, right?”
Brian wasn’t sure how to interpret Lilian’s words. There was both a naivety and curiosity to them. Like she knew damned well what he was referring to by the Children of the Light but she was just playing some kind of game. Following the motions of the cover up. Buying herself some time.
Brian didn’t want to allow her any.
He walked slowly down the aisle, approaching her. “I’m sure you’ll have heard about the three recent murders. Harry Galbraith. Jodie Kestrel. Carly Mahone.” He let that name hang a little, tried to look for some kind of reaction from Lilian.
“Indeed I have,” Lilian said, fast and sharp. “Terrible.”
“Right. And if I were to mention that these murders occurred in similar circumstances to two historical murders—the first on July 28th 1974, the second January 28th 1995, both twenty and a half years apart—which is incidentally how long has passed since January 28th 1995 … and if I were to mention that they show the hallmarks of a cul … of a religious group calling itself the Children of the Light, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Lilian held Brian’s gaze. His voice seemed to bounce off the walls. The air of the church felt like it was heating up, readying to boil. “Like I said. I wouldn’t know a thing.”
Brian smiled. Nodded. “Right. Just I have it on record that the Children of the Light use this place for their meetings—”
“And I have it on record that you’re an officer approaching retirement, Detective McDone.”
The sudden shift in Lilian’s voice made the hairs on Brian’s arms crawl.
She turned back and walked in Brian’s direction. Walked slowly, her high heels echoing against the walls. “I have it on record that you’ve hardly been a good boy in your past. I have it on very good record that you’re walking on a very, very fine line.”
She stopped. Stopped right in front of Brian. So close that he was bathed in her perfume, so strong that he wanted to sneeze.
“I also have it on record that you are off duty right now. So I’d hate anything to happen. Any harassment reports to fly into the desks of your seniors.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“Oh I don’t doubt that,” Lilian said, leaning closer to Brian’s ear. “I just worry about the future of your beautiful partner and your gorgeous son if their loyal daddy doesn’t bring home the bacon they’re expecting. I’d hate to see you fail them, Detective.”
Mention of Hannah and Sam almost made Brian grab Lilian. Almost made him grab her by the neck. Push her to the floor. Arrest her right here simply for fucking mentioning them.
But he couldn’t.
He had to keep his cool.
He couldn’t risk a thing.
Couldn’t jeopardise a thing.
Lilian put a hand on his arm. He felt the cold metal of her gold ring press through onto his skin.
“Walk away, Detective. This is literally going to get you nowhere. Unless you’d like to help me track down those vandals. Although I fear you’ve got more pressing concerns on your hands right now.”
She moved her hand to his fingers and Brian snapped it away before she could tighten her grip.
She smiled at Brian. Looked up at him with those twinkling blue eyes.
“Thought so,” she said.
And then she turned around and walked back down the aisle of the River Edge Methodist Church, footsteps tapping against the floor, echoing against the walls, and Brian felt lost again.
Thirty-Four
Lilian Chalmers tried to hold her smile as she lifted the phone to her ear.
She’d been used to holding a fake smile most of her life. Came with the territory of her upbringing. An abusive fa
ther, a neglecting mother. Yes, the typical sob story. The predictable past life. She didn’t dwell on it. Didn’t bathe in self-pity like most victims did. She didn’t even think of herself as a victim, for accepting victimhood was accepting defeat.
No. Instead, she sought out new experiences. She tried to find ways to make sure people like her—people who’d had a raw deal just like her—could find new experiences. New ways to feel purpose.
But what happened to Carly Mahone and the others was unfortunate.
That was never planned for.
That was never in the Children of the Light manifesto.
She leaned against the creaky oak table and held the phone to her ear. On and on the dialling tone rang, longer and longer Lilian waited for an answer. She scratched at the table, right in the spot she’d scratched so many times in the past.
It was always unfortunate. There were always unfortunate elements to her job.
But it was her duty.
It was the only way.
It was what she’d worked so hard to build.
She looked back through the partly open door to the office in the River Edge Methodist Church and she saw the altar. And she wondered what the Christian God would think if he looked down on her now. She wondered if he’d give her a chance, an opportunity in his haven for her rebellion against his word. She wondered just how merciful he was. Whether he’d forgive a Muslim simply for following another life path. What acts he’d forgive in other gods’ names.
Whether he’d forgive the Children of the Light.
And she thought about Detective Brian McDone, too. She’d heard a lot about him. Of course she had. It was a part of her job. A part of her duty. And she’d always expected she’d meet him one day. After hearing of all the noble acts he’d committed in the name of his morals, she’d always imagined they’d stand opposite one another and stare each other in the eye.
Just not like this.
“Yes?”
The voice on the other end of the line made her jump. She twirled the coiled cord of the archaic wired phone around her long rouge nails. “We need to talk. We might have a problem.”
No voice. No response on the other end of the line. Nothing but static. Crumbling static.
“It’s a detective,” Lilian continued, catching the coil right around her slim forefinger. “Brian McDone. I think we’re going to have to do something about him.”
Thirty-Five
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr Holloway. We really didn’t know where else to go.”
It was a lie, of course. There were plenty of other places Brian could’ve gone. He could’ve pressed Alison West’s family. He could’ve investigated Harry Galbraith and Carly Mahone more closely. He could’ve followed the leads and the links between those two and their comatose neighbour, Joe Kershaw. He could’ve dug deeper into the raw information former detective George Andrews had left him with.
Instead, he sat in the dimly lit lounge of Simon Holloway. Brother-in-law of Jodie Kestrel.
Former husband of Melissa Kestrel, Jodie’s sister, who’d died in an accident many years before.
But a man whose photographs and love letters had been discovered scattered around Jodie’s old house by the SOCOs. What happened between them didn’t leave a lot to the imagination.
Simon perched on the end of his black leather sofa. He held his veiny hands together. His hair was greying, specks of black few and far between. His skin was a bit on the grey side too, and he had dark circles under his eyes. A narrow face. The white polo neck shirt he wore stunk of cigarettes, as did the baggy jeans—which were probably intended to be slim fit. His fingernails were yellow. His blackout blinds were closed even though it was the middle of the day. Bare walls. A television that looked like it was never used.
Beer bottles lining the windowsill.
“Just don’t get why it’s me you gotta speak to,” Simon said.
Brian leaned forward on the unsupportive chair. “Let’s not lie here, Simon. My colleagues found evidence that you and Jodie were together. That you were having an affair with your wife’s sister.”
“I never meant to hurt Melissa.”
“I know,” Brian said. “I can believe that. And I’m not here to chastise you about your extra-marital affairs. I’m here about Jodie Kestrel. I’m here to find out if you really know her as well as that correspondence suggests. Are you willing to co-operate with me?”
After a moment’s bleary-eyed hesitation, Simon nodded. Which was a relief for Brian. He’d had his phone on silent ever since he’d left the station. He knew Marlow would be calling him. Knew Arif or Annie would be calling him to warn him Marlow was calling him.
Fuck. He knew he was in deep shit.
But he needed to know the truth.
He could smell it. Like a predator closing in on its prey. Like he was standing above an “X” marking the spot.
He just wasn’t sure how far below the surface the answers were buried.
“Jodie was … she was lovely, y’know? And I don’t—I don’t say that as a …”
“As a lover?”
Simon winced. “I say it as family. As my sister-in-law. She was a good person. A real good person. And I guess that’s why … when things weren’t goin’ as well between me and Melissa, well, it just happened.”
Brian could see the remorse on Simon’s face. He couldn’t help but sympathise. “Did Jodie ever mention any … religion?”
Simon scratched his head. Flakes of dandruff floated down. He puffed his lips. Shrugged. “No. I mean I dunno. After what happened to Mel, she kinda went weird. Like she couldn’t cope anymore.”
“Weird in what way?”
Simon scratched his arms. “Just … just like she shut off. Shut off and couldn’t speak to no one. Think she was just guilty, y’know. ’Cause in a way I think she always wanted to tell Mel what was goin’ on. She wanted her to know the truth. About … about me and her. But she never got that chance. Mel died thinking me and her were together. Fuck. Fuck.”
He shook his head and placed it in his hands.
“Did Jodie speak to anyone at all?”
Simon’s face resurfaced from his hands. “Like a shrink?”
“Like anyone. I just want to know if she … if Jodie reached out at all. To any individuals. To any groups.”
Simon searched the dusty air with his empty eyes. Puffed out his lips. “Started with therapy but couldn’t hack it. Got a dog, which helped her I think. But fuck. She didn’t even speak to me. Like, she moved in with me for a bit after what happened just … just ’cause we needed each other there, y’know? We thought we did, anyway. But she didn’t even speak to me, man. Like I was a—a ghost. Like it was my fault in some way. Like everything happened was my fault.”
Brian’s stomach sank. Perfect. So Jodie Kestrel hadn’t reached out to anyone. Or maybe she had but this guy didn’t know. He didn’t know a thing.
“There was that church,” Simon said.
Brian had to take a deep breath simply to process the words. “A church?”
Simon nodded. Scratched the back of his neck. “Some old church. Somewhere she went as a kid or summat. Caught up with some old friends there.”
“This church. Where is it?”
Simon opened his mouth to respond. Then he closed it. Narrowed his eyes. “Actually I’m not sure. I really ain’t sure. She never let me go with her. Sorry. What’s it got to do with anything?”
Brian’s heart pounded. Jodie Kestrel reached out to some “old friends” at a church. Some “friends” from years ago. So she’d been in the Children of the Light. She’d joined them when she was younger, just like Carly Mahone, just like Alison West, and then she’d tried to reach out to them and they’d killed her.
They’d killed her because they couldn’t let the truth slip out.
The truth about Level Ten.
“Did she tell you anything at all about this church? About these friends?”
Simon shook his head. “Nothi
n’ at all. Was like what happened there was private. And I respected that, y’know. I respected that. ’Til she started coming home with those weird letters.”
Brian’s eyelids narrowed automatically. “Letters?”
Simon nodded. “I know it’s bad but I knew things weren’t gonna work after seeing um. I knew she needed help. Proper help. Help I couldn’t give her.”
“What was on the letters?”
“Well I’ve still got um. If you wanna see um.”
Brian smiled and nodded. Just about the most defiant fucking nod he’d managed this entire case. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
Simon rubbed his hands together and stood. “Just wait here and—”
“I’ll come with you,” Brian said, shooting to his feet. “If that’s okay.”
Simon shrugged. “Whatever. Just … just scuse the mess.”
“I’m not here to lecture you on how tidy your house is. I just want to see those letters.”
Brian followed Simon through to the bedroom area. It was a ground floor studio flat with everything on one floor, but there were walls between each room. Decent place. Simon had obviously done well for himself at some stage of his life. Just a shame he’d let the place go to waste. Oranges turning green in the kitchen. Dead flies on the windowsill. Half-eaten pizza sitting on top of the crumb covered marble work surface.
“They’re just through here,” Simon said. “Tried to keep it just like it was. Thought about pullin’ it all down but I guess I couldn’t. ’Cause even though it’s batshit crazy, it’s the last piece of her in this place. Y’know?”