by Sam Christer
The words are as difficult to digest as the lasagne. His mind drifts back to his childhood. His father had taken him into the garden late at night and pointed out the stars. He’d named various constellations and spoken of the orbits of the sun and the moon. Magical stuff.
Across the room, beneath a dust cover in the far corner, he spots his father’s old telescope. How had he not seen it before? It’s shrouded in a polythene cover yellowed with age. Gideon bends down and unwraps it like he’s been given a surprise present.
The telescope is a Meade. So expensive, so prized, that his father never let him use it unless he was there right by him. It was an indulgence Marie would never have allowed. Thousands of pounds’ worth of reflector optics, almost observatory standard, with zero image-shift microfocuser and special mounts for cameras.
As he stands again, he cracks the back of his head on the low roof above. He gives his skull a rub and glares accusingly at the ceiling panel. It looks odd. He presses hard on it and it pops loose at the bottom. As Gideon lets go, the panel swings down on a hinge and reveals a side-sliding window and beyond it a long, flat roof.
Gideon twists a key, slides the window back and climbs out into bright sun. The ledge is bitumen, flat and turns a corner. He walks it gingerly around the hidden room to a wide open space.
Right above the centre of the house, on an area between two red-tile apexes, is a small wooden shed about ten feet long by six feet wide and five feet high. It’s so peculiar that he immediately recognises it. One of his father’s handmade observatory boxes. A shelter from the wind and rain, equipped with hinged roof.
Inside he finds his father’s things. They are spread everywhere. An old camping kettle, cups, tea bags, pens, paper, astronomical charts, reference books and photographs. Lots of photographs. On the walls and on the floor.
It is easy to imagine the old man sitting here stargazing. Lost in his own world. Drawing up charts. Gideon unrolls one of them. It shows the sun aligning with the galactic equator at the time of the summer solstice. He finds another. A depiction of the position of key planets at the point of the winter solstice.
He looks at the photographs pinned to the walls. An exhibition that he’s never seen by an artist he barely knew. There are dozens of Polaris, enough to trigger memories of his father explaining the role of the great North Star, how over the ages its position as the leading light for astronomers and sailors passed from one star to another.
He studies pictures of another star cluster: Pleiades. The Seven Sisters. A line from Byron comes to him: ‘Many a night I saw Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid.’
In a nostalgic mood he sits on the floor and slowly sifts the photographs and charts. And then he sees it. A single image that shatters the pleasant moment. Stonehenge.
It’s a high-angle, side-on shot that shows the circle, not as it is now, but as it must have been when the ancients first completed it. Gideon looks closer. Faint white lines run from the giant stones to pricks of white above them. Gradually he realises what he’s looking at. Stars and constellations. The stones are aligned with planetary and stellar movements. Thin lines divide the chart into four. Tiny letters mark out north, south, east and west. Two more faded words – one at the top and one at the bottom – are barely visible. Earth. Heaven.
Gideon feels cool air prickle the back of his neck. The Followers evidently didn’t just believe Stonehenge was central to all their lives. They believed it was much more.
The centre of the sidereal zodiac.
The centre of the entire universe.
79
By the time Megan and Jimmy leave the burned-out barn, the roads have started to jam with cars crawling towards Stonehenge. Megan curses the pre-solstice traffic. They get back to HQ an hour later than she hoped. She immediately calls her ex to check on Sammy.
‘How’s it going?’ Adam sounds surprisingly chatty.
‘Good.’ She plays with the wire on the phone. ‘Or at least I thought it was until a few hours ago. I’m off the inquiry.’
‘Why?’
‘Her Majesty Jude Tompkins, that’s why.’
‘Seriously?’ He sounds sympathetic. ‘What’s going on? They scaling the case down?’
‘No. Just the opposite. They’re bringing in bigwigs from the Met. No room for yours truly. Just as it was getting interesting.’
‘You got a lead?’
‘Not on the girl, but the boyfriend’s death is now officially a murder. Pathologist confirmed it.’
Adam tries to be helpful. ‘Look Meg, if you want me to have Sammy tonight, I don’t mind. If you think some more time will get you back on the case, then I’m more than happy to have her.’
‘You sure?’
‘Totally. I love having her stay during the week.’
Adam has Sammy every other weekend. That’s the agreement. The routine. She wonders if he’s soft-soaping her for some ulterior motive. ‘What’s the catch? Because if you think I’m going to alter visiting and custody arrangements, I’m not.’
‘Don’t be cynical,’ he snaps. ‘I was just offering to help.’
She sees the door of opportunity closing. ‘Then okay, thanks. Having her tonight would really be a big help.’
‘Great. I’ll take her to KFC.’
‘Don’t you dare.’
They both hang up smiling.
Jimmy puts a mug of black tea down in front of her. ‘Don’t know how you can drink this stuff without milk.’
‘Like everything else, you get used to it.’ She leans back in her chair and checks her computer for case updates. She clicks an icon and watches a message pop open.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes! Thank you God.’
‘What?’ Jimmy leans in to read her screen.
‘Records found a match for the fingerprints SOCOs lifted from the Camper.’ She jabs at the monitor. ‘Prints from the handle of the side door and from the interior side of a window belong to one Sean Elliott Grabb. He’s got spent convictions for burglary and assault.’
‘And a lot of explaining to do,’ says Jimmy.
80
Megan feels like she’s shaking hands with a giant. The grip crushing her fingers belongs to the new man in charge, Metropolitan Police Commander Barney Gibson, from the formed Specialist Crime Directorate.
‘Take a seat,’ he says with a deceptively gentle smile. ‘And tell us about the autopsy.’
Megan sits at a table already supporting the elbows of Jude Tompkins, the Head of CID John Rowlands and Gibson’s number two, Stewart Willis. She knows this is her last chance to get back on the case. ‘Sir, the post-mortem examination was performed by Professor Lisa Hamilton. She puts the time of death at somewhere around ten hours before Jake Timberland’s body was burned in the Camper. Her findings mean that the blaze was staged to make it look like he’d been killed in a drink-related accident. He hadn’t.’ She slides a full copy of the post-mortem examination across the table. ‘This report clearly indicates that Timberland had been murdered.’
Gibson speed-reads the first page ‘Cause of death?’
‘It’s on the next page, sir. Blunt trauma and heart attack. He was hit on the back of the head with something heavy like a rock.’
‘Not a rock but something like a rock?’ He glares at Megan.
‘It may have been a rock, sir. It certainly wasn’t a brick or a hammer but it could have been a boulder or stone.’
‘I see.’ He reads a little more of the report then looks up. ‘The professor mentions soil and grit samples embedded in the skull. Do we have anything back from the lab to suggest where these might have come from?’
‘No, sir. But I believe them to be from Stonehenge.’
Gibson seems surprised. ‘Why?’
‘The solstice, sir. I think it’s reasonable to assume that Timberland hired the van to take Lock to see the sunrise there. They would have arrived in the early hours of the morning. Which is the time I think t
hey encountered their attackers and the time Professor Hamilton cited as his TOD. It’s possible that Timberland tried to stop Lock being abducted and in the struggle he was killed.’
‘Many things are possible, Detective Inspector.’ Gibson looks towards his DCS. ‘Stewart?’
Willis weighs up Megan with his tiny brown eyes. ‘Kidnapping someone like Caitlyn Lock takes careful planning, long-term surveillance and expert execution. We’re talking about the Vice President’s daughter. The type of people involved in that kind of swoop and snatch operation come with full military training and automatic weapons. They don’t come empty handed and hit people with “something like a rock”.’
Gibson gives Megan a judgemental stare. ‘Anything else, DI Baker?’
She feels humiliated and intimidated. She knows she has one last chance to change their minds about her. ‘Yes, there is, sir. SOCOs found fingerprints on the door handle and a window of the Camper. They fit a local criminal.’ She glances directly at Willis. ‘A petty local criminal called Sean Grabb from Winterbourne Stoke. His home is not far from the henge.’
Gibson looks to Rowlands. ‘Can you have someone check this man Grabb out? If he is as the DI suggests, he may simply have come across the Camper by mistake.’ The commander looks back at Megan. ‘It’s possible your petty criminal was lifting tools from barns and sheds and he opened the Camper out of curiosity and got a nasty surprise.’
‘Many things are possible,’ says Rowlands, pointedly.
Megan sees an opening in the cross-fire. ‘Sir, I’d be very happy to track down Grabb.’
Gibson slides the pathologist’s report across to Tompkins. ‘I’m told you and DS Dockery have other pressing duties.’
Megan fights the urge to storm out. ‘Sir—’
‘You can go, Baker,’ the commander nods towards the door. ‘We’re grateful for your work.’
Megan doesn’t breathe until she’s outside. She walks into the ladies room, screams and slaps the wall. Those bastards are going to follow up on her leads.
81
Caitlyn senses something different about the hooded men moving her from her hell hole. They’re on edge. More careful with her than usual. Much slower. Less relaxed. Her heart lifts. It must be because they’ve decided to let her go. Then her hopes fall again. More likely they’re just moving her to another location. It’s something kidnappers do. More useless wisdom from Eric.
No sooner has her sight adjusted to the light than a blindfold is slipped over her eyes. She reaches up to her face but hands grab her wrists. They cuff her. Cold metal jaws bite her flesh.
They walk her down a corridor. The loss of sight makes her sway like she’s seasick. Unseen hands sail her round several corners and then halt her in a room where the temperature is at least ten degrees warmer.
‘Sit her down.’
The voice is male. Educated. English. Authoritative.
She is positioned on a chair. It feels good. Wood and leather, not cold stone.
‘Caitlyn.’ The voice is calm and measured. ‘We are going to ask you some questions. Easy questions. It is very important that you answer us honestly. Do you understand?’
She reminds herself of what Eric said. Build contact – any form of contact – with your captors. It can be the difference between life and death. ‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ The voice sounds pleased.
‘Can I have something to drink? I’m very thirsty.’
‘Certainly.’ He waves to one of the Helpers.
‘Not water,’ she pleads. ‘Anything but water. I’ve drunk enough to drown. Maybe coke or juice?’
‘We only have water.’
Caitlyn feels a glass being pressed into her hands. She raises it, tips it a little too much and spills some while she drinks. Someone lifts the tumbler from her hands.
‘What is your name?’
A different voice. Younger. Thinner. A slight accent. Not so educated.
‘Caitlyn Lock.’ She says it with pride.
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘Purchase, New York.’
‘What is your happiest memory about your father?’
The question throws her. ‘Say again?’
‘Your father, what is your happiest memory of him?’
It hurts even to think about it. There’s a long pause as Caitlyn decides what to say to them. ‘My dad used to read to me. Every bedtime he’d sit beneath the quilt with me and read until I fell asleep.’ She manages a pained laugh. ‘He made up stories about a fairy princess called Kay and her adventures, and then …’ She fights hard not to cry. ‘Then I’d fall asleep holding my daddy’s hand.’
‘And your mother, what is your happiest memory about her?’
She is hurting. The image of her father is clear in her head. She misses him. Aches to slip her hand in his and feel safe again. ‘I don’t recall much about my mother.’
‘Try.’
She takes a minute. She’s thought badly of her for so long it takes an effort to remember the better times. ‘I guess I remember her tying yellow bows in my hair for my first day at school. Cos I hated the blue uniform. I remember making waffles with her at grandma’s house. Almost every time we went round. And she used to sit me up on a cushion in her make-up room on the lot and have her own personal artist pretty me up.’
Now she thinks of it, she has lots of good memories of her mom. If only the woman hadn’t cheated on them, hadn’t left them.
‘Okay. That’s enough.’
The voice is the older man again.
She hears a click and a dying buzz, like something electric was just turned off. Footsteps cross the floor to her.
‘Why are you asking me these things?’
No one answers. Hands start to lift her from her seat.
‘Jake, what happened to Jake?’ There’s desperation in her voice. ‘Where is he? Can I talk to him?’
They’re turning her around, forcing her to walk.
‘Tell me! Tell me what happened to him.’ She digs her heels in, leans backwards, makes it hard for them to push her. Strong hands sweep her off the floor.
‘Motherfuckers!’ She wriggles and kicks but at least four of them are holding her, carrying her. ‘My father will kill you for this. My father’s men will get you and kill every fucking one of you.’
82
The private Citation jet crosses the Atlantic at a cruising speed of almost a thousand kilometres an hour. The flight is less than six hours – almost two quicker than a regular transatlantic charter.
Vice President Lock and his estranged wife Kylie buckle their seat belts as the jet zips into UK airspace. They’ve barely spoken throughout the journey and the grief-laden silence continues as an armour-plated Mercedes and detail of Secret Service agents whisk them away from Heathrow.
Six police outriders, sirens wailing, accompany them on the last leg of their journey. In Wiltshire, they’re held up by a straggling pilgrimage of cars and campers crawling through the country lanes towards Stonehenge. They pass them, corralled by the outriders, and finally arrive at police headquarters in Devizes.
Thom and Kylie Lock are shown into Hunt’s office and after a round of handshakes and hellos settle at the large conference table. Opposite them are Commander Barney Gibson and Home Office Minister Celia Ashbourne. The woman, a small but forceful northerner in her late-forties, starts the meeting.‘The Home Secretary sends his apologies. Unfortunately it was impossible for him to cut short his visit to Australia. I am here to assist you and to assure you that the British government and all its agencies are doing everything possible to find your daughter.’
‘We are making good progress,’ says Hunt. ‘The vehicle Caitlyn travelled in has been found and although burned out, it is being thoroughly analysed by forensics.’ His face saddens. ‘As I think you know, we also recovered the body of the young man she’d been travelling with.’
Kylie Lo
ck reaches in her handbag for a tissue.
Hunt continues: ‘Did either of you have any knowledge at all of their relationship?’
She shakes her head.
‘It must be new,’ says Thom Lock. ‘Believe me, the team I had guarding Caitlyn would have reported any meaningful relationship.’ He senses his wife’s growing distress and takes her hand. The first sign of affection between them. ‘Have you had any contact from whoever has taken our daughter?’
‘None at all.’
‘Do your investigators have any intelligence on who her captors might be?’
‘We have the most senior detectives from the Met’s Specialist Crime Directorate working on that at the moment.’
‘MI6?’
‘The Special Intelligence Service has been informed,’ Ashbourne cuts in. ‘At the moment we don’t think it would be advantageous to involve them actively. Should a clear foreign or terrorist dimension develop then we’ll reconsider.’
The Vice President exhales. ‘Mrs Ashbourne, my ex-wife and I appreciate your efforts and the hard work of the police service. But – and I hope you don’t mind me saying this – we both would feel more comfortable if the operation were integrated with specific people I can send you. The FBI has noted specialisms in this field.’
Ashbourne smiles compassionately. ‘I understand how you feel Mr Vice President, I have a daughter the same age. Rest assured we are more than willing to cooperate fully in terms of exchanging information with the FBI and appropriately apprising them – and you – of any progress that’s being made. However, clear control of this investigation is of such paramount importance that operational integration really isn’t advisable.’
The Vice President drops his wife’s hand and leans forward. His eyes glint with steel forged in the white heat of campaign trails. ‘Minister, Chief Constable, I spoke with the President of the United States before I got on the plane. It was very late but he was concerned and kind enough to call me to express his concern as a personal friend and as the ultimate guardian of all American citizens. We can move forward here in one of two ways. You can accommodate my request and secure the deep gratitude of Kylie, myself and the President. I recommend that you do that. Or in a few hours the President will personally call your Prime Minister and express his grave concerns over how this investigation is being run. He will then hold a press conference on the White House lawn to share those concerns with the American people.’