by Sam Christer
Gideon wearily trudges back upstairs to the diaries. They lie strewn where he left them, open at pages that seemed significant. So many refer to the stones. Stonehenge, a site his father published books on, its links to the vernal equinox, the earth’s precessional cycle, its mystical connections with the celestial equator, Plato, the Great Sphinx.
Mumbo-jumbo. That’s what he always felt it was. Yet some of the fragments he’s discovered are coming together, forming a path like crazy paving that leads to the heart of his strange and troubled childhood. His father forced him to learn Greek, wrote codes in it and gave him the worst birthday gift a ten-year-old could ever get – a copy of Plato’s Republic. Not the racing bike he’d lobbied for but instead a wedge of impenetrable philosophy about happiness, justice and the fitness of people to rule.
Looking at the diaries, he sees the old philosopher’s shadows in his father’s words. Passages emphasise the role of the Sacreds in celestial mechanics and the Platonic year – the time required for a single complete cycle of the precession of the equinoxes. In hard numbers, about 25,800 years. About the same amount of time Gideon thinks it will take him to fully decode and understand everything his father has written.
72
Chief Constable Alan Hunt heads up the eight a.m. press conference. News of Jake Timberland’s death and the imminent arrival of the girl’s parents have ratcheted up the pressure. He can’t let this go wrong. Not when he’s in the running for the Met Commissioner’s job. He knows that how he handles this inquiry is going to determine whether or not he gets the job.
Reporters settle around a well-planted forest of TV cameras and radio microphones. Flanked by Dockery and Rowlands, he taps the desk microphone and hears thunder crackle across the hall. He learned long ago of the benefits of knowing the sound levels before you speak. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending at such short notice. At two o’clock this morning, my officers discovered the body of a thirty-one-year-old male in a burned-out vehicle. A vehicle we had been seeking to locate in relation to the disappearance of Caitlyn Lock, who most of you know is the daughter of Kylie Lock and Vice President Thom Lock.’ The Chief pauses to give the print journalists a chance to get their notes up to speed. ‘Given this development, I have asked that our force receive the assistance of expert officers from the Metropolitan Police.’ He raises a cautionary hand. ‘I need to stress to you that these are preventative and cautionary measures. At this moment we have no indication of Miss Lock’s whereabouts and have received no communication from her or anyone else to suggest that her life is in danger. Operational command of the inquiry is currently in the hands of Chief Superintendent Rowlands, reporting directly to Deputy Chief Constable Dockery. They are ready – within reason – to answer your questions, but first they have a request for your assistance.’
DCS Rowlands clears his throat, picks up a press pack and holds it high so everyone can see the photograph of Caitlyn on its front. ‘You are all going to receive one of these handouts. Inside is a DVD containing video footage and still photographs of Miss Lock, the man she travelled down from London with, Jacob Timberland, and the VW Campervan they were driving. We are interested in any sightings of this van or these people over the last twenty-four hours. No matter how trivial people think it is, we urge them to come forward and tell us exactly what they saw.’
A reporter jumps in. ‘Can you confirm that the dead man is Jake Timberland, the son of Lord and Lady Timberland?’
Rowlands bats him off. ‘The family of the deceased has not yet formally identified the body, so that is not something I am prepared to do.’
‘Can you confirm that the dead man was murdered?’
Again he reacts cautiously. ‘I am yet to receive the full report from the Home Office pathologist who carried out the post-mortem examination. I won’t prejudge her findings.’
‘Where was the dead man found?’
Rowlands hesitates. ‘The exact location is something we are not currently prepared to disclose. I hope you understand there are aspects of this case that we need to hold back for operational reasons.’
An old hack with skin the colour of bacon sniffs an opening. ‘Is that because you fear Caitlyn Lock has been abducted and only the kidnappers know the location of where they murdered her boyfriend?’
It’s an astute question and too close to the truth for comfort. Greg Dockery steps in to field it. ‘I have to emphasise what DCS Rowlands has said. The investigation is in its early stages and there is information that we need to hold back for operational reasons. We need you to respect that and help us find Caitlyn. You won’t help her, us, or even yourselves with speculative journalism.’
Hunt senses that the reporters are going to keep on poking and prodding unless they get something juicier. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t overstate the importance of your role in this inquiry. Responsible reporting is essential. There may be an innocent reason behind Miss Lock’s disappearance, there may not. If she is being detained against her will, those people will be reading everything you write and listening to everything you say. That is why we have to be circumspect. At this point that is all we have to say. Thank you for your attendance.’ He allows a fractional pause for unrest to grow, then gives them what he knows will be their headline lead: ‘Later this morning, I will be meeting in person with Vice President Lock and Kylie Lock, who are flying in from New York as we speak. I hope to have good news for them. I hope we will have knowledge of their daughter’s whereabouts and if not, I hope to reassure them that the force and the people of Wiltshire, and the government and people of the United Kingdom, are doing everything within their powers to find her and bring her safely home. Thank you again for your attendance.’ He stands, grabs his papers from the desk and walks slowly and confidently off the conference stage.
73
News that the Met has been drafted in doesn’t go down well at the post-press conference team briefing.
Jude Tompkins pulls Megan aside at the end. ‘The Chief Super has just talked to Barney Gibson from the Specialist Crime Directorate. He’ll be here in an hour with a couple of others and they’ll take over operational control. John will report to them and I will report to him. I need you to go to see the pathologist, get a briefing on Timberland’s death. Once you’ve reported back, you’re off the case.’
Megan is stunned. ‘What?’
‘Did you mean, pardon, ma’am?’
‘I thought Rowlands said I was doing a good job.’
‘You were. Right up until the point you wanted to dance in the spotlight. Now I need you to go and carry out my orders, not question them. Warren and Jenkins have already been reassigned.’
Megan manages a polite nod before turning away and mouthing a silent stream of obscenities that doesn’t stop until she’s back in CID.
Jimmy Dockery calls to her from his desk ‘Boss—’
She doesn’t let him finish. ‘Get your coat, Jimmy, you’ve pulled.’ She grabs her jacket off the back of a chair and her car keys off the desk.
74
Serpens is in meltdown.
The guilt is unbearable. Images flash relentlessly in his tortured mind. The young man dismembered and minced at the abattoir. The vodka-soaked body set ablaze in the Campervan in the barn. There is no escape from it all.
Despite this being the busiest time of the year for the security company where he works, he calls in sick. Head pounding, he guns up the old Mitsubishi and drives. He has to get away from it all. Find some peace.
An hour later he’s in Bath. A well-scrubbed tourist city where he holidayed as a child. A place with happy memories. Maybe enough for him to come to peace with himself.
He parks at the Southgate Centre and buys a six pack of lager and half a litre of Scotch. Wise old locals glare soberly at him as he drinks while he wanders. By the time he’s circled Grand Parade and Boat Stall Lane, the beer is finished. He takes a leak in bushes off Orange Grove and meanders east towards the banks of the river.
/> Resting in the cool shade, his back against a tree by the water, closes his tired eyes. A monstrous mosaic of sounds and sights forms in his head – the empty noise of the rolling bottle that Musca threw into the Camper, the rough scratch of a match, the dull boom that rocked his heart and the fireball that roared through the Camper, splitting the old barn’s parched rafters.
Serpens unscrews the top of the Scotch and takes a swig as hot as the flames that haunt him. The more it burns the better. He swallows it down in painful gulps. He killed the guy. Cracked him with a rock and brought his life to an end. One minute the poor sap is on top of the world, making out with his girl, then thwack, he’s dead and his corpse is about to be burned to cinders.
Serpens’ phone rings. It’s not a shock, it’s been going all morning. He knows who it is and what they want. He pulls it from his pocket and hurls it into the river. Plosh. Makes him smile for the first time in days. He takes another jolt of booze and coughs. It must have gone down the wrong way. Nearly drowned himself. Drowned in Scotch, now that would be a fitting way to end it all, wouldn’t it?
Noisy children run past him. A red-faced young boy chases an older girl who’s teasing him. Life in the making. He gets groggily to his feet, watches them spin around a tree, giggle and head back to a tartan picnic blanket, where a woman is laying out cling-filmed sandwiches and cans of pop. Happiness. An alien world to him.
Serpens gulps more of the whisky. Pours it down his throat until it kicks back like water in a blocked drain. He drops the bottle to the balding grass, spreads his arms wide and falls like a felled tree into the fast flow of the Avon.
75
Under the brutal glare of the autopsy lights, Jake Timberland’s body looks even worse than Jimmy Dockery remembers it. What’s left of the fire-blackened and blast-damaged corpse has been opened up and the internal organs extracted and weighed.
Professor Lisa Hamilton reads the minds of the two detectives opposite her. ‘It wasn’t the fire or the explosion that killed him. The blast blew out some of the blaze in the van interior so there was enough viable tissue, organs and fluid left to establish that he’d been lying dead on his left side for about ten hours before his body was burned.’
Megan double-checks the time. ‘Ten hours?’
‘About that.’ Lisa explains her approximation. ‘After death, gravity takes over. Blood stops pumping from the heart and as it settles it marks the tissue.’ She gestures to the splayed corpse. ‘He was moved a long time after his heart had stopped beating. We know this because of the extent and position that the blood stained the skin. Somebody moved him from the position he’d originally been left in after death and laid him out in the Camper to make it look like he’d had an accident. Unfortunately, they dropped him on the wrong side, his right, with his back slightly raised. Entirely inconsistent with the evidence provided by post-mortem staining.’
She moves around the autopsy table and glides a hand over Jake’s grey torso. ‘The cause of death is a massive heart attack, brought on by a heavy single blow to the back of his skull with some form of improvised weapon. I found particles of soil and some pretty dense rock embedded in the bone.’
Jimmy paints the scene. ‘So, he’s hit on the back of the head outside somewhere, then shifted back into his van and laid out on the floor by the cooker. The offender sets the Camper on fire to make it look like our friend here had been on the booze, fallen over and caused the blaze.’
Lisa nods. ‘Almost. Remember, I said that there was postmortem staining on his left side because that’s how he’d been lying for ten hours.’
Megan understands her point. ‘What you’re saying is, whoever killed him spent those ten hours working out what to do. Eventually, they came up with the plan to put the Camper in the barn, move him around to look like he’d fallen and then torch everything.’
‘Exactly. Another thing: although forensics found two empty vodka bottles near the body, there were no traces of metabolised alcohol in his system. His blood showed only tiny amounts of ethanol but the liver was clean. This is entirely inconsistent with him consuming vast amounts of spirits.’ Jimmy is about to ask a question, but Lisa doesn’t let him. ‘Examination of lung tissue showed no evidence of smoke inhalation. No particles, no tissue damage. Nothing. He’d clearly stopped breathing before the fire had started.’
‘The whole scene was faked,’ concludes Megan. ‘Credit where it’s due, Jimmy, it’s exactly as you said it was.’
‘Really?’ says Lisa, expressing genuine shock.
‘Really,’ repeats Jimmy, proudly.
76
The Master keeps his phone call with Draco as short as possible. ‘Have you solved our operational problem?’
‘Unfortunately not. Our man wasn’t available.’
‘Uncontactable?’
‘I am afraid so. He isn’t on any of his numbers. I’ve left messages but he hasn’t returned them. And he phoned in sick at work.’
‘And do you think he is?’
‘No. I’ve been to his house and he’s not there. Nor is his vehicle.’
The Master tries to be positive. ‘He has been under stress lately. It could be that he felt the need to get away, clear his head. Would that fit his character?’
Draco is not sure. ‘It’s possible. I have people asking his friends where he might have gone. We’re also trying to get one of them to reach out to him. Perhaps he’ll return their calls.’
‘Good.’
Draco feels the need to reassure his leader. ‘We’ll find him.’
‘I am banking on you doing exactly that. Hold for a moment.’ He pauses while an assistant presents him with a file of documents for signature and in a hushed voice reminds him of his lunch appointment with a county judge. He waits until the assistant has left before picking up the conversation with Draco. ‘And on the other matter, I have a plan to give us some breathing space. Can you meet me?’
‘Of course. What time?’
The Master checks the calendar on his desk. ‘Three p.m.
I’ll have about an hour. Don’t be late.’
77
Megan and Jimmy park a mile from the burned-out barn. It’s in the middle of the largest area of chalky grassland in north-west Europe. A bleak and isolated table of endless land.
Down in a dip dotted with wild flowers they finally see the charred hulk, an ugly black wound on Salisbury Plain’s soft green skin. Megan points to tracks through the grass. Vehicle marks and footmarks heading to and from the barn. ‘Have we got lifts of any tyre prints?’
‘I think so.’
She scowls at him. ‘You’re a DS; you either know so or it isn’t so. Make sure we have them.’ They walk on a few steps and she sees he’s hurt by her sudden frostiness. She stops. With time and patience she knows he could become a good copper. ‘Look around Jimmy and you’ll hear the grass tell you stories, tales of who’s been coming and going.’ She leans close, so that his eyes are guided along her pointing finger. ‘Over there – those deep depressions are where the fire trucks came in.’ She swings him round and points again. ‘Over here – indentations from at least three different kinds of vehicles, much lighter ones than the first. I’d take a guess at some of these coming from our Camper and maybe two other vehicles.’
‘Why two others?’
She wishes she had a tape measure to help explain. ‘Look at the depth and the width of each track. This gives you the thickness of the tyres and indicates the length of the wheelbases. Do you see now that they’re different?’
He does. ‘So two cars. That would mean at least two people.’
‘Good. Get traffic to carry out a thorough inspection. SOCOs will have looked at the marks already but traffic are best at this type of thing.’ She squats down and gazes across the grooves in the long grass. ‘Question: why would these people be travelling separately rather than together?’
He looks up and down the tracks, then hazards a guess. ‘One guy stays in the barn minding the Camper an
d our deceased. The other one goes away to do something, maybe get the vodka, arrives later?’
‘Good.’ She gives him an impressed nod as she stands again. ‘Let’s go further. What does that tell you?’
He’s confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What does that tell you about the relationship between the two men?’
Jimmy’s lost. Behavioural science is foreign to him.
Megan helps out. ‘One of them is a doer, the other is a teller. The guy who stays with the body is the doer. It’s the worst and riskiest of jobs. He was told to do it by the teller. This is evidence of rank, a pecking order, a structure that those two parties accept.’ Her eyes wander to the massive black wound in the earth and scabs of charred barn timbers. ‘Of course, it might be two doers at the scene and two tellers arriving later.’
‘Organised crime?’
She shrugs. ‘Of sorts. Just how organised, we’re still to find out.’
78
By mid-morning Gideon needs a break. He makes a short trip to the shops and returns with a newspaper, two-litre carton of milk and stack of ready-meals. He wolfs down a greasy, microwaved lasagne then resumes his decoding of the diaries.
Very quickly it becomes apparent that the more his father learned of the Followers the more he was drawn into their ways: ‘I have dispensed with my watch, such a crude instrument. My world is to be governed by an older way, one calibrated to the spiritual: sidereal time, the rule of the great astronomers, the natural instrument that we use to track the stars that guided them and their learning. The real importance of the sidereal zodiac has become known to me, the significant alignments of the great signs with the galactic equator.’