The Devil's Moon

by Peter Guttridge

  ‘Where does this take us in the investigation of a murder, a theft and a church desecration?’

  Heap coughed. ‘Presumably Gluck knew something of the potency of datura when she named her painting. But the thing is, ma’am, these datura look like lilies to anyone who isn’t a gardener and even to people who are. I wondered if someone mixing up datura tubers and lily bulbs is what poisoned you and Kate. And that takes us right back to Saddlescombe.’

  ‘Good thought. But tell me you’ve figured out if Lesley Henderson is a man or a woman and I’ll be truly impressed.’

  ‘I would like you to be so, ma’am. I’m working on it.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  For the remainder of the date Travis’s off-key exuberance irritated the hell out of Watts. As he drove back to her home he was trying to think of an excuse not to go in. Nothing had come to him by the time he pulled up behind a deux chevaux parked in front of the house.

  But Travis surprised him. Leaning close, her perfume wafting over him, she said: ‘I’m not going to invite you in, Mr Watts. You’ve quite tired me out.’

  Watts probably should have made a token effort to persuade her. Relieved, however, he simply said: ‘Of course. I’m pretty tired too.’

  She gave him a quick look then kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘It’s been such a day,’ she said.

  Watts didn’t say or do anything when she got out of the car. He watched her sashay to her front door. She gave him a wave and blew a kiss before she went inside. He put his car in gear, pulled round the other car and drove away.

  Gilchrist found Kate sprawled on her sofa bed, her handbag on the floor beside her, things spilling out of it. Gilchrist thought she might be drunk but couldn’t smell alcohol.

  ‘Kate?’ she said, shaking her gently.

  Kate didn’t respond at first then opened one bleary eye. ‘What’s happening?’

  Her voice was croaky.

  ‘You tell me,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘It was like the other evening but I haven’t eaten anything today.’

  Gilchrist glanced down at the contents of her bag. She picked up the scrunched-up programme. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘I went to church.’

  Gilchrist opened out the programme and saw it was actually a service sheet. As she read the first page she was aware her fingers were beginning to tingle. She glanced down at Kate’s half-open hand beside her head. She reached down and opened it. The palm was scarlet.

  Gilchrist dropped the service sheet and rushed to the kitchen sink. She grabbed TCP from the cupboard and poured it over her hands then scrubbed at them. When she had dried them on kitchen towel she called Heap.

  ‘Emergency, Bellamy, so no pissing about. Ingesting datura – did you say you can ingest it by touch?’

  ‘Transcutaneously?’

  ‘By touch, Bellamy.’

  ‘Sure, ma’am. It gets into your system through the pores. In South America and some Asian countries they saturate business cards or publicity flyers with burundanga – that’s what they call scopolamine. They hand the impregnated paper out to tourists then follow them until the drug takes effect. Then they attack them. There is talk they do the same in the US.’

  Gilchrist glanced back at the service sheet and down at her friend. ‘What happens if you overdose on it?’ she said, glancing at Kate, who was still pretty much comatose on the sofa.

  ‘Drowsiness, dizziness, agitation, fever, excitability.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Seizures, convulsions, hallucinations, coma and death.’

  ‘Better get an ambulance round here, Bellamy. I think Kate’s OK but best to be sure. And get someone over to the Church of Holy Blood with a search warrant. I want to talk to the vicar and the staff about impregnating their service sheets with scopolamine.’

  ‘I’m on it, ma’am. One more thing about scopolamine. In Colombia it’s known as the Devil’s Breath.’

  She frowned.‘Because it smells bad?’

  ‘No, ma’am. Because it steals your soul.’

  Watts was in his poky Brighton house, sprawled on the sofa, shoeless, drinking a black coffee when his mobile rang. It was a landline number he didn’t recognize, except that it was a Brighton code.

  It was Nicola Travis.

  ‘It seems like only a moment,’ he said.

  ‘Bob, I’m so sorry I sent you away. Too much excitement in one day for a Sussex girl. Quite exhausting, actually. Please forgive me.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive,’ he said. ‘Probably as well I didn’t come in.’

  She laughed throatily. ‘Well, I’m not so sure about that.’

  He gave a quick laugh.

  ‘I left my purse in your car, I think,’ she said abruptly. ‘I hope. It has my phone in it.’

  ‘I can go and look. Do you want me to bring it over tomorrow?’

  She was silent for a moment, then: ‘How gallant. I wonder if you would first mind checking that my purse is actually in your car? If it isn’t I need to phone Glyndebourne. But no peeking now.’

  Watts was already on his feet. ‘I’ll call you back in ten minutes.’

  He found his shoes and went out into the night.

  Her purse was in the pocket of the passenger-side door. He saw her cold box too, sitting in the back seat.

  He phoned her from the passenger seat. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ She sounded more than relieved. ‘And my phone is in there?’

  ‘I don’t like to pry,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’m not asking you to scroll through my texts. Just see if it’s in there.’

  ‘OK. Hang on.’

  There was actually little in the bag. Watts groped around in the bottom and touched something hard and oblong. He pulled out the latest iPhone. He was using the same one himself. The screen was dark but he touched something by mistake and it lit up. There was an image of a flower as the screen saver. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.

  ‘It’s here,’ he said. ‘Shall I bring it over tomorrow? The ice box is here too.’

  ‘How sleepy are you?’ she said.

  ‘You’d like me to bring it over now?’

  ‘I know it’s a horrible imposition but a girl without her mobile . . . Would you?’ Her voice was throaty again. ‘It doesn’t have to be a return trip.’

  Don-Don was sitting in the interview room with a bald-headed man who had nicks all over his head. The man was sitting back, legs apart, a kind of sneer on his face. Gilchrist thought he had his hands together in his lap in prayer until she saw the plastic restrainer on his wrists. She could tell the sneer wasn’t going down well with Donaldson, who was leaning across the table, clenching and unclenching his fists. He jerked to his feet when Gilchrist entered the room.

  ‘Ma’am, this is Nick Cropper, the vicar of the Church of the Holy Blood. He was just pointing out that tropane alkaloids come under no illegal drug classification. I was pointing out that forcing them on unsuspecting members of his congregation probably was illegal. He was disputing that point.’

  ‘Why is he wearing restraints?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Have we arrested him?’

  ‘He has been charged with assaulting a police officer, ma’am, yes.’

  ‘You?’

  Donaldson grinned. ‘Not likely, ma’am. The officer sent to collect him. He apparently doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s with one of his parishioners.’

  Cropper grimaced. ‘Bursting in on a man doing God’s Holy Work.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a highfalutin way to describe sex with someone young enough to be your son,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘A friend of mine might have died because of you, Mr Cropper,’ Gilchrist said, taking the chair beside Donaldson. ‘She’s spending the night under observation in hospital.’

  ‘Reverend Cropper. My church just gives people a bit of a high. Some people can’t handle it.’

  ‘Reverend – buy that title on the Internet, did you? Do any of
your congregation know what you’re doing to them?’

  ‘Enhancing their lives? I would think so.’

  ‘Where did you get the scopolamine you impregnated the order of service with?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘None of your business,’ Cropper said. ‘It’s not an illegal substance. I have a patch on my arm impregnated with it at this very moment.’

  ‘You suffer from travel sickness?’ Donaldson said with a frown.

  Gilchrist glanced at him.

  Cropper bared big white teeth. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘If it’s legal there’s no harm in telling us who supplied it, is there?’ Donaldson said.

  ‘Saddlescombe, by any chance?’ Gilchrist said.

  Cropper just looked at her.

  ‘There’s a lot of religion going around,’ Gilchrist said. ‘What do you know about recent events in Brighton?’

  Cropper leaned forward, his face suddenly intense. He raised his hands and pointed as best he could with the first finger of each. ‘Here, in your sleepy town, Lucifer has risen.’

  ‘Early riser, is he?’ Donaldson said. ‘Because he’ll need to be to get a hold here.’

  Gilchrist glanced at Donaldson. He really wanted to punch the vicar.

  ‘Tell me about the murder of a vicar committed not by the Devil but by some real-life individual.’

  Cropper shrugged. ‘Can’t help you there,’ he said, and leaned back again.

  ‘He was murdered in a barbaric way,’ Gilchrist said. ‘He lived in fear of his life.’

  ‘He was afraid of the Devil?’ Cropper said. ‘A wise man.’

  ‘He was afraid of the Devil because some human had put the idea in his head,’ Donaldson said.

  Cropper looked intently at Donaldson. ‘I know many vicars. All are wary of the Devil if they are true to their faiths. But which one has been murdered? Vicar Dave?’

  ‘Who?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘He casts out demons and writes Christian songs – very, very bad Christian songs.’

  ‘That’s enough to be killed, in my book,’ Donaldson muttered.

  ‘Not him,’ Gilchrist said. ‘A real vicar: Andrew Callaghan.’

  Cropper nodded and jerked both hands up to put his finger on a bloody scab above his ear. ‘A real vicar indeed.’

  Donaldson produced the only photograph they’d been able to find of Callaghan. It was some ten years old.

  ‘You know him?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be so eager,’ Cropper said. ‘Do you think I’d admit to knowing him if I’d done something to him?’

  ‘It’s been known,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘Nothing is known,’ Cropper said. ‘A lot is presumed.’

  ‘OK,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Did you know him?’

  Cropper levelled a look at her. ‘I did.’ He turned his mouth down. ‘Liberal sort. Which doesn’t mean I would kill him. Why would I? I didn’t even know he’d been killed.’

  He looked back at the wall.

  ‘Why would you think vicars would be killing each other?’

  ‘To avoid a plague of them?’ Gilchrist said.

  She looked away as Cropper picked at the scab on his pate with a horny fingernail, his other hand hanging from the restraints in front of his face.

  ‘That’s very funny,’ Cropper said.

  ‘How did you know Andrew Callaghan?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘He came to ask my advice about someone who’d come to him for help.’

  ‘Who?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Well, he didn’t name names. Someone who caused him concern because of his sexuality.’

  ‘What was it about this person’s sexuality?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘What does it matter?’ Cropper said.

  ‘Let us decide what matters,’ Donaldson said. ‘What specific advice was he looking for?’

  ‘I’ve known Andy many a year. A little straight for my tastes but he has his depths. Had his depths.’

  ‘How did you meet?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘A conference of vicars. He was a good listener. I’m a great talker.’

  ‘You’re mesmerizing, I believe,’ Gilchrist said. ‘With a little help from hallucinogenic substances.’

  ‘An enhancement of my effect and not the cause of it, I assure you.’

  ‘OK – why did he think you could help him with this person?’

  Cropper gestured at his scarred and sutured head. ‘He thought I might have experience of such a person since I go to the dark places of my religion.’

  ‘What was dark about this person’s sexuality?’ Donaldson said. ‘I thought the church had pretty much every kind of sexuality covered these days.’

  Cropper bared white teeth in a grin but said nothing.

  ‘And had you experience of such a person?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘In fact not.’

  ‘What was your advice?’ Donaldson said.

  ‘In Brighton? Are you kidding? My advice was: embrace the difference.’

  ‘Are you going to stop dancing around the maypole and tell us what this person’s problem is?’ Donaldson said.

  Cropper looked at his cuffed hands; held them up for a moment as if in prayer. ‘A confusion about sexual identity.’

  ‘Swings both ways?’ Donaldson said.

  Cropper shook his head.

  ‘This person is both ways.’ He guffawed abruptly. ‘Lucky person has a penis and a vagina. Both fully functioning.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Donaldson said, grimacing. ‘Poor sod might have the worst of both worlds: might be frigid and impotent.’

  Gilchrist was thinking about the photographs she had seen in the Jurassic Museum.

  ‘This person wasn’t called Lesley Henderson, by any chance?’

  Cropper shrugged.

  ‘All I know is it was a hermaphrodite,’ he said.

  ‘Intersex,’ Gilchrist said.

  Donaldson turned to her. ‘Sorry?’

  Before Gilchrist could explain there was a tap on the door and Heap came in.

  ‘I’m hoping you’re not here to spoil the broth, Chef Heap,’ Donaldson said, leaning in to the recording machine to add: ‘Detective Constable Heap has just entered the interview room.’

  ‘I am a lousy cook, Detective Sergeant, so I probably would if we were cooking. However, I’m here with information.’

  ‘Before you give it,’ Gilchrist said, ‘just explain to the DS and Vicar Nick Cropper here about intersex people.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Heap said. ‘The term “hermaphrodite” is considered misleading and insensitive. Now such people are DSD and we refer to their status as intersex.’

  Donaldson laughed. ‘What the fuck’s DSD?’ He glanced at Cropper. ‘Excuse my language, Vicar.’

  ‘Disorders of sex development,’ Heap said. ‘It acknowledges a discrepancy between the external and the internal genitals – testes and ovaries. Medical science has no idea what the underlying cause might be.’

  ‘Both lots of kit apparently work in this case,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So “discrepancy” doesn’t quite cover it.’

  ‘I was quoting the technical description, ma’am,’ Heap said. ‘But what you describe – true gonadal intersex – is extremely rare.’

  ‘This is all getting on my gonads,’ Donaldson said. ‘DSD. Intersex. Jesus.’

  ‘Like you, Detective Sergeant, I do prefer the old name,’ Heap said. ‘Hermes and Aphrodite conjoined.’ He looked at Cropper. ‘Does the person under discussion have breasts in addition to a penis and a vagina?’

  Cropper nodded. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘How old is he/she?’ Heap said.

  ‘Mid-thirties, I believe,’ Cropper said.

  Heap turned to Gilchrist. ‘It’s unheard of for someone of that age not to have been assigned a gender. In the days when this person was born, gender was assigned within days, sometimes hours. Usually the gender assignment was based on a quick look at the external genitals – which sex looked more developed – totally ignoring the chromosome gender.’


  ‘You mean how big the willy was?’ Donaldson said.

  Heap ignored him. ‘It was easier to reconstruct female genitalia rather than functioning male genitalia so the child was often assigned to be a girl. That could cause problems later for the individual if, as frequently happened, the chromosome gender was male. Female body, male brain. But not doing any surgery, not assigning a gender at all – unheard of.’

  Gilchrist was, as usual, impressed with Heap’s knowledge.

  ‘No sleep again, Constable Heap?’ she said.

  ‘Do you need me any more?’ Cropper drawled. ‘You three seem to have it sorted.’

  They all ignored him.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Heap said. ‘These days chromosomes, neurons, hormones, psychological and behavioural factors are all taken into account. Surgery is delayed for as long as possible – but not as long as twenty or thirty years.’

  ‘Snails and slugs are functioning hermaphrodites,’ Cropper said abruptly. ‘In the absence of a male, slugs self-fertilize.’ He smirked at Gilchrist. ‘One slug – the banana slug – has such a big cock in relation to its overall size it sometimes gets stuck inside another slug. If that happens, they bite off the cock and the eunuch only mates as a female thereafter.’

  Cropper winked at Donaldson. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

  THIRTY

  It had been a long day for Watts but it was still relatively early in the evening when he headed for Lewes. The rain had let up for some time now but he almost missed the comforting swish of the windscreen wipers.

  The lights were against him at Five Dials. He was sitting twiddling with the car radio when his daughter walked in front of his car, draped over a man. She was taller than the man so leaned down against him, her long hair spilling on to his shoulder.

  For that reason it took him a moment to realize the man was Vicar Dave.

  Anger had been an abiding problem for Watts – well, one of them – but he felt helpless as it surged over him looking at this horrible man with Watts’ lovely daughter.

  He hurled himself out of his car, bellowing: ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  His daughter whirled as if attacked, stumbling against the kerb. Vicar Dave steadied her and brought her on to the pavement. He kept his arm protectively around her as he gave Watts a cold look.