Hunting Angels (Box Set) (The great horror writers (Masterton, Saul, Herbert) and now Jones)

by Conrad Jones

  The stinging sensation was so bad my eyes felt like they had acid in them. My airways constricted and I couldn’t catch my breath, and the skin on my hands and face was on fire. Debilitated is not the word. I was out of the game completely. I was rolling around my lawn, coughing and spluttering when the officer dropped his knee onto the back of my skull. I heard Big Gordon shouting, his voice mingled with Officer Wright’s, and the first kick in the head landed. White light flashed through my brain and I felt like I was going to choke to death. The second kick sent me to a world of darkness and pain.

  Chapter 8

  In the Cells

  The journey to the hospital was a blur. I was handcuffed to a policeman and my wrist was twisted at an awkward angle. The paramedic rinsed my eyes and skin with something, but the burning sensation didn’t wane. My eyes streamed, my throat felt like I had swallowed glass and my head felt like it would explode. I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done to deserve this. Was the police officer mad, or was I? I know I have a short fuse and can wind people up sometimes, but I genuinely didn’t believe I had done anything wrong. Something else was going on. I could only feel grateful that Officer Wright had attended the scene.

  At the hospital they cleaned my eyes again and bathed my hands and face. They checked me for signs of concussion and X-rayed my skull before giving me the green light to go back over to the police. They cuffed me and put me into the back of a patrol car and drove me to the cells. Brilliant – kicked senseless and handcuffed for my troubles. The highlight of my day thus far was chatting to one of my escorts about my books. He’d read all of them during a two-week holiday in Turkey. Interestingly, he let slip that Knowles had been investigated before. He also told me that the park ranger’s injured arm had raised a few eyebrows at the hospital. The doctor informed the police that the wound had been caused by a thin sharp blade, like a Stanley knife, and was definitely not caused by a dog. That information made me feel relieved that Evie Jones was off the hook, but it was almost incomprehensible that the woman had tried to set me up.

  They processed me as any other criminal would be. They took my belongings from my pockets and the chain from my neck and bagged them with my wallet and mobile. The Desk Sergeant asked me to remove my belt and shoes and then they put me in a urine-stinking cell. There was a stainless steel toilet in one corner and a thin rubber mattress in the other. There was graffiti on the tiles near a narrow window high on the wall. Apparently, “Paul Howarth takes it up the arse.” The cell door was painted navy blue, and as it slammed closed it seemed to be fifty feet thick. I sat down and tried to make sense of it all. If I’m honest, I was so frustrated that I felt like crying. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have done because the next thing I remember was waking up with my neck at a painful angle against the wall.

  The police were looking into the incidents and keeping me locked up while they talked to Officers Wright and Knowles. I had seen plenty of police cells before, but I could always walk out of them when the job was finished, and being locked in one is no fun at all. I had an idea of how innocent men who are convicted of crimes they didn’t commit must feel: completely helpless. I remember a friend, a prison officer, taking me into the punishment block of the prison where he worked. I can’t name it as I shouldn’t have been there. They showed me the strip cell, which was for prisoners who had lost the plot. As I stepped in to look at it, they closed the cell door and locked me in. It was funny for five minutes, then it wasn’t funny anymore. This time around it wasn’t a jest; this was the real deal. I was locked up for something I hadn’t done.

  Anyway, that afternoon and night dragged by. I was half sleeping and half awake. The sound of drunks yelling and kicking their cell doors added to the madness of it all. They held me in a police cell against my will, but what can you do if a police officer lies? The truth is, nothing. They can frame you and throw away the key. The Park Ranger was making allegations of assault against Evie Jones and me, and Officer Knowles was accusing me of attacking him. Who would they believe? As I contemplated trying to explain myself to a judge, I heard footsteps approaching and the metallic grind of the lock opening.

  Sergeant Peter Strachen put his head around the door. I was pleased to see him, to say the least. “What have you been up to?” he smiled, but there was concern in his eyes.

  “I think I pissed someone off,” I replied. My throat was still sore and talking was difficult. Peter handed me a cup of weak tea and a bag, which contained my belongings. I gulped the tepid liquid down. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Officer Wright and your big friend have backed up your story,” Peter smiled. “What can you remember?”

  “Not much to be honest.” I sipped the tea noisily. The liquid eased my throat a little. “There was a bit of a row at the park with some jobsworth ranger, and when I got home your lot arrived. Officer Wright was sound, but that Knowles character kicked off for no reason. Did they tell you what he did the night before?”

  “It’s the talk of the station at the moment. They’ve suspended him from duty. It took three officers to pull your mate Gordon off him,” he laughed. “Tell me what happened when he pulled you over.” Peter sat down on the mattress next to me.

  “I went to Mac’s on the way home from the hospital and Knowles pulled me over at the top of Long Lane.”

  “When, after we met at Winwick?”

  “Yes.” I drained the tea and looked around for somewhere to put the empty cup. Cells are short on coffee tables so I opted for the floor. “I was hungry when I left so I went for a burger.”

  “Did he follow you from the hospital?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. As I turned into Long Lane, he pulled me over. He asked me where I’d been and he had a real nasty attitude on him, but after a bit of arsing around I told him I’d been at the hospital with you. He had a real bad attitude. He said you were a fucking idiot and that you didn’t realize how much shit you were in!”

  “I hardly know the man, Conrad,” Peter frowned, but he didn’t look confused. There was something else which flickered in his eyes. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was anger; I’ll never know. “What else did he say?”

  “He told me to leave the investigation alone or I would regret it. He told me my life depended on it.” I swallowed hard.

  “Sounds a bit dramatic!” Peter scoffed. “Did he mention Jennifer Booth?” He looked confused this time.

  “No, the other girl,” I said. “Pauline Holmes. He said that we both knew they were connected.”

  “Then what?” he asked.

  “Then he spat in my face, ran back to his car and drove away,” I shrugged. It was all getting on top of me. I wanted to go home. “The next thing is, some bitch in the park kicks off and he’s at my gate with his pepper spray.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, but there have been some very strange things happening since the Holmes murder and most of them involve Knowles.” Peter shook his head and frowned. “We won’t fuck around with bad coppers, Conrad. He’ll be sorted out; you mark my words.”

  “‘Strange’ is not a good enough description for the last twenty-four hours!”

  “Yeah, well, the Booth girl seems to be rattling a few cages upstairs,” he said. “To be honest, the doctor still can’t give us straight answer about Jennifer’s state of mind; it isn’t going well.”

  “I thought you said it was open and shut.” I coughed and spat phlegm into the toilet bowl. I needed another drink.

  “Yeah, didn’t I just? We got the report back from forensics and it was the victim’s blood on her face and hands, no doubt about it. We have positively identified the victim. She was Caroline Stokes. She was a twenty-year-old hooker from Salford. There was no blood on Jennifer’s clothes, which backs up her version of events. Whoever killed Stokes would have been covered in blood.”

  “What has Jennifer Booth said since we left?” I threaded my belt through my jeans and fastened it. I feel vulnerable without
a belt, as if my pants will fall down. Putting my keys and phone in my pockets almost made me feel human again. I was gagging for a shower and some proper sleep.

  “Well, she keeps asking for you, which is complicating things. My Governor has gone apeshit that she was told you’d be there. She’s ranting about a group called the ‘Order of Nine Angels’. She’s rattling on about one of your books.” Peter looked deep into my eyes as he said their name. “That is what the Governor wanted your help with. You’ve written about them haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” I think he already knew the answer to that question. He was as subtle as a brick. “I used a similar cult in my second book, but I changed their name to the ‘Eighteenth Brigade’. And then I alluded to them in The Child Taker.” Peter looked confused; the significance of the name change was lost on him.

  “She says they killed the Stokes woman to convert one of them into a feeder, whatever that is. We haven’t got a clue what she’s talking about and she won’t elaborate.”

  “What exactly did she say about the Nine Angels?” I asked. I was uncomfortable talking about it in a police cell.

  “She said that they killed Caroline Stokes. They were trying to initiate one of their members because she has the ability to see things. What she sees is beyond me. She’s babbling most of the time. We’ve had a toxin screen done and she’s clean. There are no drugs in her system. She’s obviously mad as a hatter, but she’s drug free.”

  “I’ve researched the Nine ‘Angles’ more than Nine Angels, but they’re all from the same mould. There are literally dozens of similar cults.” I walked out of the cell and pulled on my boots. They were outside the door as if I had left them there to keep the cell floor clean before I went to bed. As I glanced around, there were half a dozen pairs of men’s shoes and a pair of red stilettos neatly placed next to the cell doors. It looked like it had been a busy night for the Custody Sergeant.

  “You have looked into both, though?” Peter frowned. “So what’s the difference?” He was a nice bloke, but not academically blessed. I’m no mastermind, but my writing requires all kinds of research into all kinds of things. I am lucky because my mind retains information; if I read something that I’m interested in, I can remember it word for word. I remembered the “Nine Angles” well from researching my second novel, but their information was dated. The newer sites and more recent postings were related to the Nine Angels. I researched them in depth.

  “Well, there are two distinct groups.” I finished sorting my belongings out as I answered. Peter wanted answers, but I wanted to taste fresh air again. “Can we get out of here now?”

  “Let’s walk to the custody desk and get you released.” Peter patted me on the back. I flinched. There were obviously bruises there. “We can talk in the car.”

  Peter led the way through from the cells to the custody suite. There were curious looks here and there from his fellow officers, or maybe I was being paranoid. I think I had every reason to be. “Look, I’ll tell you what, we’ve just got a warrant to go round and check out her place, why don’t you come?”

  “Do they want to take a statement from me before I leave?” I asked. I couldn’t face a detailed interview. I was knackered, but I was at the mercy of the police force. They would be waiting to see if their officer was guilty of a serious assault, but I was hoping that interviewing me then was premature.

  “No, the ranger has dropped her allegations. The wound on her arm wasn’t caused by a dog. She’s been interviewed for wasting police time,” Peter said quietly. “The governor wants to gather all the information first. I think there’s more going on here than we know about.” He didn’t expand. “Do you want to come to Jennifer’s flat or are you too tired?”

  “I’m interested enough to wait a few more hours for my bed,” I agreed eagerly. Too eagerly maybe, but the girl intrigued me and I wanted to see inside her mind. I thought that a visit to her home might provide some sort of insight into who she was.

  The Custody Sergeant was a portly man in his fifties, probably serving the last few years of his career behind the safety of a Perspex screen. He ignored us just long enough to let us know who was in charge. “You’re being released without charge, pending further investigation, Mr Jones,” he said chirpily. “If you sign that you’ve had all your belongings back, Sergeant Strachen can show you the way out.”

  “I would normally say thank you, but under the circumstances it doesn’t seem to be as appropriate as ‘fuck you very much’,” I replied, equally as chirpily. I signed the form without reading it and handed it to him with a grin. The Custody Sergeant eyed me coolly and went back to his computer screen without another word. Peter grabbed my elbow and ushered me towards the door before I could do any more damage.

  We left the cellblock and the fresh air smelt good. Although the station is situated in Warrington town centre, the air was as good as it is in the heart of Snowdonia, although the cloying scent of piss lingered in my nostrils for a while. We climbed into Peter’s silver Citroën and headed out of the compound. It was a sporty hatchback, which looked like most of the other sporty hatchbacks on the road apart from the Citroën logo on the bonnet.

  “The SOCO team have been in her flat all morning. I hope they’ll be finished by now and we can have a snoop around,” he said as we pulled into the traffic. A Virgin train to London was pulling out of Bank Quay Station as we drove by. The line of black cabs outside was shortening slowly as passengers emerged with their suitcases. Life was trundling along normally for most people; it was my world which had spiralled into the bizarre.

  “Do you mind if I pick your brains about these Satan worshippers on the way?” Peter asked, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. I didn’t know as much about them then as I do now, but I knew a lot more than Peter and his colleagues.

  “I can tell you what I learnt from my research, although there are far more knowledgeable people out there and a rack of books on the subject,” I shrugged. “I can tell you what I do know: these groups are widespread but fractured. There are dozens of groups who publish information online about their culture and beliefs, and you can take it for granted that there are dozens more individuals and small groups that aren’t using the Internet. They’re the dangerous ones.”

  “How so?” Peter tried to look interested, but I could tell that he wasn’t. His superior had told him to ask me a few questions about it, but I could tell that Peter had already made up his mind about the girl.

  “Their axiom is ‘Do as thou wilt’, which basically means do what you want. They encourage indulgence as opposed to abstinence, to cut a long story short; their goal is chaos and anarchy.”

  “Sounds like a punk rock band,” Peter scoffed.

  “You’re not far off the mark there with some of these people!” I laughed because I knew what I was talking about. Peter threw me a puzzled glance. “Look, there are as many anti-satanic websites as there are pro-satanic. I remember one that I looked at will always stick in my mind, ‘godhatesgoths.com’.” I waited for Peter’s expression to change but it didn’t. “You know what goths are, right?”

  “Are you taking the piss?” he snorted.

  “No, far from it,” I sighed. “Google it when you get home. There are groups of Christian families campaigning against music that some believe has motivated teenagers to practice the occult and kill. They attribute some of the recent school massacres to the messages in the music.”

  “Bollocks!”

  “Maybe it is, but maybe they have a point.”

  “Enlighten me,” Peter mumbled.

  “Do you remember the Columbine massacre?” I looked at him and he nodded. “Most goth websites hail the perpetrators of the massacre as heroes. It’s a fact that they dabbled in the occult. There was a similar shooting at a place called Red Lake High School, carried out by a kid called Jeffrey Weise, which claimed ten victims and seven wounded.” Peter was about to interrupt, but I held up my hand and carried on. “Let me finish or you won’t get the poin
t.”

  “I’m not thick,” he snapped, glancing sideways.

  “I know, but if you look at this in isolation it means nothing. Please bear with me.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but keep an open mind,” I said calmly. He nodded that he would try, although his face said a different thing. “There was a case at another school, Dawson College, which fortunately claimed only two victims, but nineteen were critically injured. Both of these ‘goth’ school shootings have one thing in common. All of the killers claimed the two shooters involved in the Columbine massacre, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, were their ‘heroes’, and they were both fascinated by the occult.”

  “It’s a coincidence,” Peter grunted. “What has that got to do with anything here?”

  “I like coincidences,” I replied to the challenge. Debating things that I know a lot about is one of my favourite pastimes. “Did you know that the 19th of April is one of the most important dates in the satanic calendar?”

  “Funnily enough, I didn’t know they had a calendar!” Peter laughed.

  “They do!” I laughed with him. “They have holy days just as the Christian calendar does. From the 19th of April a thirteen-day festival called the ‘Blood Sacrifice to the Beast’ begins, culminating on the 1st of May.”

  “How do you know all this shit?” he sneered. He was laughing, but there was little humour in his laugh. His ignorance was winding me up.

  “Remember those dates,” I pointed my finger at him. “Many believe that Adolf Hitler was sent by the devil, and on the 19th of April 1943, Nazi storm-troopers incinerated the last few Jewish freedom-fighters in Warsaw.”