The Descent (Detective Louise Blackwell)

by Matt Brolly

  ‘This was not cut and dried,’ said Robertson, handing her the signed paperwork. ‘Judge Boothroyd was reluctant but I persuaded him we had just cause.’

  Louise wasn’t sure what Robertson wished to achieve by telling her that – as pep talks went, it wasn’t the most inspiring – but she didn’t respond. ‘Thanks, Iain, I’m sure you were very persuasive,’ she said, taking the document. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve got something,’ she added.

  Everyone was primed so they set off immediately. Louise drove alone at the front of the convoy of cars towards Berrow. She didn’t know what she hoped to find at Chappell’s house, still had no real idea what the man’s involvement in the case was beyond knowing Sally Kennedy and his knowledge about DMT. Yes, he was arrogant but that was hardly a unique character flaw among the people she was used to dealing with. The best result would be for Chappell to return home so she could question him again. If he was somehow involved in the women’s deaths, she doubted he would be stupid enough to leave anything suspicious at his home. Her only hope was that her earlier visit had somehow spooked him and had led to him making a mistake.

  She stopped by the patrol car to confirm Chappell hadn’t returned before pulling up on the driveway. Outside, she heard the distant rumble of the sea behind the more pressing noise of the chirping grasshoppers. Thomas arranged the officers around the bungalow before Louise knocked on the door and called through the letterbox. With no answer she instructed the uniformed team to use the enforcer, the force’s name for a battering ram.

  A faint odour of fish hit her as she stepped through the threshold. She moved to the kitchen as the bungalow was secured, noting the remains of fried salmon in an unwashed frying pan.

  ‘Looks like he may have left in a hurry,’ said Thomas. ‘Was it this desolate when you visited him?’

  ‘I only saw the living room but that was pretty empty except for the bookcase,’ said Louise, moving back into the hallway. Aside from the kitchen and living room, there were three bedrooms and a bathroom, each as sparse as the next with the exception of the smallest bedroom that had been turned into a small office. Books lined the room, on the shelves of two rickety wooden bookcases, and were piled high on the desk.

  ‘Inspiration?’ said Thomas, holding up a copy of Helter Skelter.

  Louise took the book and turned to the blurb at the back, describing in brief the life of the cult leader Charles Manson.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Thomas, pointing to a line of biographies of other cult leaders including four books on the Jonestown massacre.

  ‘You going to tell Robertson we have the next Jim Jones on our hands?’ said Louise, with a sigh. ‘Not sure how he’d take that.’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you, boss,’ said Thomas.

  Among the other books were true-crime tomes as well as numerous paperbacks, the majority of which were old science fiction and horror tales. Although she was being flippant, the suggestion that Chappell was heading some sort of cult wasn’t as far-fetched as it seemed. It didn’t have to be on the scale of Jonestown or Manson, but it was easy enough to imagine Chappell exerting some influence over the four deceased women. They already knew he’d been close to Sally Kennedy, and the images they had of them on the pier suggested she had doted on him. He was certainly charismatic and persuasive enough; couple that with the vulnerability of the four women, and it wasn’t beyond reason that he could have had a cult-like sway over them.

  She was getting ahead of herself but what if all four women knew not only Chappell but each other? DMT had been found in the hair samples of each. Did he kill them after they took the drug? Was it part of some cult ritual, each taking their turn over the weeks?

  Louise placed the Manson book back on the shelf, pleased she hadn’t aired her views. There was speculation, and there was jumping to outlandish conclusions with little or no evidence.

  ‘Found this,’ said Thomas, jolting Louise from her thoughts as he handed her a framed photograph of Chappell with two women and a man dressed in some sort of ceremonial robe.

  Louise took the photograph out of the frame. On the back in small digital ink dots was the date and location. ‘Where’s Coimbra?’ she asked.

  Thomas checked on his phone. ‘Portugal.’

  Louise placed the picture back in its frame. ‘Let’s search this place from top to bottom. I’d be keen to discover some drugs, in particular DMT.’

  ‘You might have to let the team know what that looks like.’

  ‘Bag anything suspicious. And find out who else is in this picture.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  It was close to midnight before Louise left Chappell’s bungalow. Chappell had yet to return and the search had so far proved fruitless. She sat in her living room, holding the photograph they’d recovered from Chappell’s home: a younger-looking Chappell with two young women and a man dressed in ceremonial robes. She tried an image search but lacked the necessary skills and equipment to find a match. She’d already sent the image to Coulson and hoped he could somehow work his magic.

  She wanted to sleep but her mind was racing so she prepared a bowl of cereal and switched on the television. She wasn’t sure where she’d expected to be at thirty-nine but it sure wasn’t sitting alone in a retirement bungalow in Weston after midnight, eating cornflakes for dinner alone.

  Collapsing on to the sofa as if her legs had given away, she returned to the articles she’d uploaded on cults. As ludicrous as the thought of Chappell running some form of cult from his home in Berrow sounded, the man matched many of the characteristics associated with cult leaders. Louise couldn’t deny his charisma, the intensity with which she’d held his gaze. From what she knew of him he was intelligent and it wasn’t a great leap to imagine him manipulating Sally Kennedy and the others.

  Not that she could even mention the word ‘cult’ to Robertson or her other colleagues. The word had connotations that would be misconstrued. At this stage, Louise only had a working theory that Chappell had some form of hold over Sally. The link of the DMT was still unproven and without connecting Chappell to the other three women she knew the line of investigation could go cold. Either way, she wouldn’t rest until they’d at least spoken to Chappell again; it could be coincidental that he hadn’t returned to his house that night, but if he didn’t return tomorrow she would have to consider requesting a warrant for his arrest.

  With a sigh she tried Paul’s and Amy’s phones again before sleeping, regretting it the minute she switched off the light. Her thoughts were bombarded with the very worst scenarios her imagination could muster. She’d seen such terrible things in her time on the force and her mind appeared hell-bent on thrusting Emily into each of those scenarios. Louise tried to convince herself that she was being hysterical – that Emily was with Paul in a remote caravan park, safely tucked up – only to be reminded of her earlier conversation with Tracey about the money Paul owed and the people he was associating with. She could forgive her brother almost anything, had done so on many occasions, but she wasn’t sure she would ever forgive herself for putting Emily in such peril. She’d yet to tell her parents but when they finally got Emily back, Louise planned to push for her parents to take custody of her on a permanent basis. At that moment, she couldn’t see any other way to bring Paul to his senses.

  And if she couldn’t, what then? Louise shuddered, imagining Emily years from now in thrall to someone as manipulative as Chappell. It was so conceivable that in Louise’s mind it was becoming almost inevitable. With no mother, and a father as irresponsible as Paul was behaving, it was hard to picture a positive future for her niece.

  When her phone rang at 6 a.m. she wasn’t convinced she’d slept. Surprised to see the name Simon Coulson on the screen, she pressed the answer button and shut her eyes as the IT specialist spoke.

  ‘DI Blackwell, did I wake you? I’m sorry, I thought—’

  ‘It’s fine, Simon. What have you got for me?’

  ‘I’ve been up all night
trying to trace that image and I finally got a hit. In fact, I got a hit at three in the morning but I didn’t want to disturb you. I was going to call it in—’

  Louise forced her eyes open. ‘Slow down, Simon. Tell me what you’ve got.’

  ‘The man in the photo. The one with the robes. Went by the name of Maestro Bianchi. He called himself a shaman. Ran a retreat out of Coimbra in Portugal for people who wanted to experience Ayahuasca.’

  Louise didn’t like the fact that Coulson was using the past tense. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Coulson. ‘So are the two girls in the photo.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Louise.

  Yet, Coulson did just that. ‘Suspected suicide,’ he said.

  Coulson was waiting with a full printed-out report for her when she reached the station thirty minutes later.

  ‘Did you sleep here or something?’ she asked him, accepting the cup of coffee he’d made for her with a smile.

  ‘Haven’t slept yet. This is the newspaper report. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve made contact with the Portuguese police team. The investigator named in the report isn’t due in for another two hours but they promised he would call you directly when he gets in. An Inspector da Costa.’

  Louise took the printout. ‘Thanks, Simon. I’m presuming you didn’t talk in Portuguese?’

  ‘No, broken English.’

  Coulson had printed up two reports he’d found online. Both repeated the same story. A tragedy had hit a retreat in the area of Coimbra. Two young women and the so-called shaman, Maestro Bianchi, had been found dead, hanging from trees in the forest.

  ‘I’ve been looking into these places. Taking DMT, or this Ayahuasca tea, is obviously illegal here but possession and personal use is legal in Portugal. There are a number of these ceremonial retreats where people can go to take the drug,’ said Coulson.

  ‘Saves a trip to the Amazon,’ said Louise.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Simon. Let’s hope this da Costa can shed some light on all of this.’

  Louise poured herself another coffee. It was clear Chappell’s involvement went beyond mere coincidence and Louise made some notes in preparation for Robertson’s arrival. She wanted a full-scale manhunt conducted on Chappell the second her boss arrived at work.

  Typically, Robertson chose that morning to be the last in. Like every other number she called, his went straight to answerphone. She couldn’t start without his backing so with Coulson, she began updating the rest of the team as they arrived. Despite her tiredness, Louise had to fight her nervous energy as she both waited for Robertson and for her call from Portugal.

  Out of what was fast becoming habit she called Paul’s phone, the sound of his answerphone message both expected and frustrating. She was about to try her next pointless call to Amy when Robertson arrived.

  ‘Have I missed something?’ he growled, as he walked past her desk.

  Louise followed him into his office and shut the door. Robertson sat and waited a beat before speaking. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  The DCI’s face was unreadable as Louise updated him. She chose her words carefully, avoiding the words cult, retreat and shaman as best she could. ‘I wish I’d stayed in bed,’ he said, when she’d finished.

  ‘We need an arrest warrant,’ said Louise.

  ‘Do we know when Chappell was in Portugal? Sounds like some sort of bloody kibbutz to me.’

  Louise frowned. It was clear Robertson had no idea what a kibbutz was but she wasn’t about to contradict him. ‘According to the photo we retrieved from his house, it was the same month when these suicides took place. It’s beyond circumstantial now, Iain.’

  ‘I agree.’ He sighed. ‘We had him in custody.’

  Louise lowered her eyes. They’d had no way to know when Chappell turned up at the office that he would become the number-one suspect, and even with her suspicions they couldn’t have kept him in custody. Yet, wasn’t there a hint of accusation in Robertson’s words?

  ‘That’s hardly our fault, Iain. We had nothing to charge him with.’

  Robertson ran his hand over his face. ‘Looks like I need another conversation with Judge Boothroyd.’

  ‘I think we should go to the press, Iain,’ said Louise.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘He must know we’re on to him by now. We need all the help we can get before he disappears for good.’

  ‘Think about it, Louise. We’re already known as Suicide by Sea. We start informing them about bloody retreats and ceremonial drug-taking and they’ll have a field day.’

  ‘It’s going to come out at some point, Iain.’

  ‘Let’s hold off on that for now. They’ve already run a photo of Chappell. It’s not going to look good if we ask them to do it again when they know we questioned him. It hardly makes us look professional, does it?’

  Simone knocked on the door before Louise had a chance to answer. ‘Call for you, Louise. Inspector da Costa from Portugal.’

  ‘Put it through here, please, Simone.’

  Louise placed the call on to speakerphone and introduced Robertson to the Portuguese officer. Louise was ashamed of the officer’s fluent English when her Portuguese was non-existent. Da Costa murmured a couple of times as she explained the situation.

  ‘That is very interesting, DI Blackwell,’ he said, once she’d finished. ‘You think there may be a parallel with what happened here.’

  Louise wasn’t sure from his tone if this was a question or statement. ‘Could you tell me if there was anything suspicious about what happened at the retreat?’

  ‘Beyond four people attempting to take their lives?’

  ‘Four? I thought only three people died.’

  ‘Four attempts, three successes. Apologies. That is the wrong word to use in the circumstances.’

  ‘The deceased were local?’ asked Louise.

  ‘No, all four were foreign nationals. The shaman, Bianchi, was resident but originally from Peru. The two women, Greta and Sandra were from Germany. The man who survived was from the United Kingdom. I thought you would have a record of this, no?’

  Louise glanced at Robertson. ‘Could you tell me the survivor’s name?’ she asked, an excited tremor to her voice.

  ‘Mr Charlie Barton,’ said da Costa.

  Robertson seemed to visibly deflate in front of her.

  ‘This isn’t the man you’re looking for?’

  ‘No, sadly not. Can you tell me in more detail what happened? How Barton survived?’

  ‘Blind luck really. The four bodies were found by another member of the commune.’ Da Costa went silent for a second. ‘Yes, Mila Bakker. From the Netherlands. She hadn’t seen the shaman or the others and went in search of them. She found the three deceased people hanging from trees. The branch holding Mr Barton in place had snapped. He was unconscious with severe trauma to his neck but he survived.’

  Louise thought about the hint of scarring she’d seen on Chappell. ‘Was there any sign of drugs?’

  ‘Yes, according to Barton all four had taken the Ayahuasca tea prior to their suicide attempts.’

  ‘Did Barton give an explanation as to why?’

  Da Costa’s voice changed, his tone taking on a sharper quality that Louise couldn’t read. ‘He told us that they’d all seen the other side. That they were waiting for them.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘I can send you the transcription. We were of the opinion that the drug was influencing his thinking and obviously that of the three suicides. We sent him for medical treatment but he stopped talking.’

  ‘Was there any hint that he’d coerced the deceased that day?’

  ‘No, no. He couldn’t have faked those injuries. I didn’t understand him. He appeared distraught to still be alive. In the end he was free to return to the UK.’

  ‘Inspector da Costa, can I take your mobile phone number? I’d like to send you an image.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

 
Louise sent him the image she’d recovered from Chappell’s house, of Chappell with the shaman and the two women. She showed the image to Robertson as they waited for da Costa to receive the message.

  ‘Yes, that is them,’ said da Costa after a brief interval.

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Yes. The three suicides and Mr Barton.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  It had only just gone 8 a.m. but the man standing in front of Amy stank of alcohol. There was a faraway look in his eyes as he ordered a fried breakfast as if he were struggling to comprehend exactly where he was and why he was there. Nicole hadn’t shown up for work and Keith was refusing to move from the grill so Amy was running the tables on her own. She thought about Nicole’s suggestion that she set up a place and smiled at the memory of the girl’s naivety.

  Not that it made a difference either way. Neither Nicole’s no-show nor Keith’s uselessness could dampen the way she felt. Jay had spent the night for the first time ever. Warmth radiated through her as she remembered their night together. To begin with, she couldn’t believe what was happening. They’d never slept together before and although Megan had hinted she’d had sex with Jay, Amy hadn’t thought it would happen between them. Jay had been kind and gentle, just as she’d imagined on countless times.

  In between, they’d talked and talked. They shared their experiences with DMT, marvelling at the similarities: the recollections of shape and sound, the dislocation from the body and the beings that waited to guide them to the next world. It wasn’t something either could explain to someone who hadn’t tried it. It was easy to dismiss as imagination but Jay knew as she did that what they experienced wasn’t simply some trip, some extended illusion of their imagination. There were too many consistencies and similarities of experience, and more than that it simply felt real. It wasn’t like dreaming. Amy had no doubt the DMT took her into another reality and because of that she’d long ago stopped fearing death; and because of Jay, she now welcomed it.