by M B Vincent
‘And?’
‘And . . . your lot were hassling that lot and then I spotted somebody I was at school with, so I wanted to find out how come she was one of Pan’s people, see what they’re about.’
Eden sat back in his chair. ‘What are they about?’
Knott returned with a plate of custard creams and slapped them huffily on the table.
Jess knew she had Eden’s full attention. Cramming two biscuits into her mouth, she said thickly, ‘Dunno.’
Eden slid the plate away from her.
‘I really don’t know!’ she protested, bereft. ‘I haven’t seen Caroline in years. She’s always been an airhead who jumped on any old bandwagon. If they’re all like her, they’re hardly a threat to national security.’
The door flew open. In strode a tall man in a pinstripe suit. He placed a leather briefcase squarely between them on the table.
‘Thank you, DS Eden,’ he intoned, like a Hugh Grant-a-gram. ‘Would you and your colleague mind stepping out while I consult with my client?’
Jess pulled in her chin. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
The man’s equilibrium faltered. ‘I’m your counsel, Ms Castle. Rupert Lawson.’
‘Yes, I know who the fuck you are. I meant what are you doing here?’ She turned to Eden. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Not unless you want to be.’ Eden seemed to be enjoying the sitcom unfolding before him.
Rupert Lawson interjected, ‘Detective Sergeant Eden, I should remind you that—’
‘Oh shut up and sit down,’ snapped Jess, as if the strapping lawyer was a naughty schoolboy.
Fazed, Rupert sat down heavily.
‘Okay, here goes,’ started Jess, ‘in sixth form, Caroline dabbled in New-Age stuff. Crystals, chanting and whatnot.’
‘So what?’ said Karen, surprising Jess, who’d forgotten about her. ‘It’s the West Country.’
Eden nodded agreement. ‘Nothing unusual in that round here.’
Wolfing another custard cream, Jess said, ‘What I’m saying is, Caroline was searching for something, for the meaning of life.’ She swallowed noisily. ‘It’s a cult.’
‘How do you know that? Aren’t they just hippies, travellers, whatever?’
‘I don’t know know, I just know.’ Jess, wiping her mouth with a baggy sleeve, saw how Eden’s eyes met Rupert’s for a moment, as though the two men shared a thought. A thought that was unflattering to her. ‘Look, they’re not travellers. For one thing they’re not rough enough. These are bored trust-fund kids. And that “Pan” idiot was spouting some sort of witchcraft lingo when he was carted off, but it was complete bollocks. It’s not like he was quoting from Benjamin Ray’s Satan’s War Against the Covenant or something. Caroline was transfixed. He’s using them. It’s about control. It’s pound-shop paganism.’
Eden put his hands behind his head. ‘I see, Miss Castle. We’re an expert on paganism, are we?’
Rupert puffed out his chest. ‘Sergeant, my client is finished here and so—’
‘Shut up, Rumpole.’ Jess turned to Eden. ‘Yeah, I am an expert, DS John Eden. PhD from Exeter. Doctor Jessica Castle to you.’
Cogs seemed to whirr within Eden as he stared at her. Impulsively, he opened the folder in front of him and splayed three or four photographs under Jess’s nose.
‘Christ!’ Jess recoiled from the vivid images of blood and animal hair. Dead eyes with a slit instead of a pupil stared out at her. ‘What’s this?’
‘Exactly. What is it?’ demanded Eden. ‘Satanism?’
‘No, it’s a sheep.’ Ambushed, Jess felt no compunction to play nicely. ‘A dead sheep, come to that.’
‘What’s happened to it? Is it a sacrifice of some sort? Are we dealing with Satanism here?’
Her curiosity kindled by his urgency, Jess took the question seriously. ‘Everybody thinks ooh, black magic when an animal’s throat is cut, but this isn’t a sacrifice.’ She tapped one of the images, a woolly cadaver spreadeagled on a bush. ‘Look. Its throat’s been cut but it hasn’t been bled. Sacrifices are bled. Blood, DS Eden, is sacred.’ She paused. ‘This is somebody playing at sacrifices, somebody with no real knowledge of the rituals involved.’
Pulling out a drawing in thick pencil, Eden slid it towards her. ‘And this symbol?’
Jess shook her head. ‘Not one I’ve seen before.’
Rupert butted in. ‘Lovely though it is to chat, my client doesn’t have to—’
Both Jess and Eden ignored him, the policeman cutting across him to ask, ‘Could it be religious? Pagan, maybe?’
Jess shook her head, certain of herself. ‘Not any religion I’ve studied. Possibly Ancient Greek. Except it’s not. I reckon it’s made up. Pretendy sacrifice, pretendy symbol. Where’d you find this?’
Eden looked down at the images, then lifted his head and sighed, as if he’d come reluctantly to some sort of decision. ‘It was carved into a body.’
Jess stared.
Eden spoke slowly. ‘What do you know about crucifixions?’
Rupert slapped the table. ‘Okay, time’s up. This isn’t an interview. Unless I’m missing something, my client’s not under caution, so this little tête-à-tête is over, Detective Sergeant.’ He gestured for Jess to stand. He was brisk now, determined.
Eden sat back, blowing out his cheeks. ‘Fair enough. You’re free to go.’ He eyed Jess. ‘Don’t disappear. I might be in touch again.’
‘Ooh, can’t wait,’ said Jess.
Rupert, already at the door, held it open, but Jess lingered. She crossed to a map of Castle Kidbury on the wall and trailed her finger along Kidbury Road to where it met Gold Hill. ‘This crucifixion—’ she began.
‘Nobody said there was a crucifixion,’ said Eden.
‘You kind of did,’ smiled Jess. Her finger halted at the junction of Kidbury Road, Richleigh Road and Gold Hill. ‘My dad said there was police activity on Gold Hill. If the crucifixion was on the hill, that makes it a double cross. A cross on a cross.’
Eden tucked the photographs back into the folder.
Rupert let out a sigh.
‘That’s very powerful. Crosses were hijacked by Christianity but they’ve always been a significant symbol. They represented joining, coming together, the combined energy of male and female. In maths, the cross has evolved into the character for addition.’
‘And?’ Eden wasn’t really listening.
Knott growled under her breath.
‘If this murderer is keen on symbolism, and it looks like he is, then the double cross points to Hecate.’
Knott perked up. ‘Do you know where she lives? I can go pick her up this minute, sir.’
‘She’s a goddess,’ said Jess.
Knott jumped.
Eden pretended not to notice, but Jess had. ‘Am I on to something? Have goddesses been mentioned already? Hecate’s a wild girl. Pre-Christian. Ancient Greek. Like all pagan deities, she’s very human, imperfect, complex.’
Eden coughed, brushed down his shoulders. The interview was over for the second time. ‘You talk about this Hecate in the present tense.’
‘Well, it looks like she might have a hand in this.’
‘I’ll ask my people to pick up any Ancient Greek ladies they see on Castle Kidbury High Street.’
‘They’ll easily recognise her,’ said Jess, finally giving into Rupert’s impatience. ‘She has three heads.’
Jess stared at the blurred hedgerow through the passenger window of Rupert’s leather-upholstered Mercedes convertible. It was near silent. Nothing like a Morris Traveller, she thought. He’d ‘done well’, she supposed, since she’d last seen him. He’d done exactly what he’d been groomed to do. Following the rut his father and grandfather made from public school to university to the bar, just like her brother Stephen.
Rupert’s success wasn’t surprising. Even aged ten, in the throes of a childhood crush, Jess had seen something in Rupert. Something she liked.
Pity he turned out to
have no imagination whatsoever.
‘Well, Jess, you certainly have a knack for turning a drama into a crisis. First day home and you’re in the slammer.’
Jess shifted in the luxury seat. ‘Fuck you, Rumpole. Anyway, how come you appeared on your white charger?’
‘Eden’s no fool. Once he heard the Castle name, he called your brother.’
Jess’s innards did a backflip. ‘Terrific.’ Another black mark to very obviously not discuss at Sunday lunch.
‘Stephen’s in court all day, so he called in a favour and here I am.’
‘Whatever.’
Rupert’s groomed eyebrows climbed a little. ‘Oh no. Not at all. Stop with the thank yous. Please don’t mention it. I like nothing better than a mouthy pro bono case before lunch.’
Lost in thought, Jess ignored the invitation to spar. Turning suddenly to Rupert, she said, ‘A crucifixion. Here, of all places.’
‘If there’s been a crucifixion, it’s none of your business. All that matters is that you were in a police interview and now you’re not.’ Rupert was immune to the excitement bubbling up in his passenger. ‘Eden didn’t confirm it.’
‘Rumpole, don’t you have blood in your veins? There’s been an actual crucifixion right here in chocolate-box Castle Kidbury. You mark my words.’
Rupert smiled. ‘Your father says that.’
DC Karen Knott was officious. ‘Gentleman to see you, sir.’
The gentleman turned out to be Paul Chappell, who was on first-name terms with both Eden and Knott. He was, Eden noted, looking unusually dapper.
‘Is that the right word?’ John Eden liked plain words, ones that did their job and went no further.
‘I’d like to think so.’ Paul Chappell’s body was not a temple, but a testament to KFC. A divorcee, he ate at his desk at the Kidbury Echo, and it showed. He did a twirl to show off the grey suit. ‘Haircut.’ He pointed to his Weetabix wedge of frizzy hair. ‘Got me teeth done.’
Suppressing a smile, Eden joked, ‘Who’s the lucky lady?’ but it turned out that there was a lucky lady.
‘Way out of my league. Sexy, educated, charming. This online dating is a godsend for men like me.’ Paul wiped a damp strand of no-colour hair from his sweating forehead. ‘You can woo them with words, see, before you take them out. I’m treating her to lunch at the Seven Stars tomorrow.’
‘Pushing the boat out then?’ said Eden. The Royal Seven Stars was a hundred metres from the door of the Echo.
‘I got your press release about poor old Keith Dike. I’ve already interviewed his missus. She’s in the dark about what happened to him, but I’m guessing it was murder, yes?’
‘I can’t comment, Paul. You know that.’
‘When I say “guess”, I mean I know it was murder. A little bird told me the method was . . . unusual.’
‘We’ll brief you when we’re ready.’
‘Come on, John! A murder on my patch. Throw me a bone. A chat with the widow isn’t enough. I’m drowning in stolen bikes and parrots who can swear. This is actual news! A murder in Castle Kidbury at last.’
‘I’m not as chipper about it as you are.’
‘This,’ said Paul, producing a carrier bag, ‘is why I’m here. I believe it’s pertinent to your enquiries.’ The bag made a thump as it landed on Eden’s desk. Paul was grave. ‘I warn you, John. This is properly horrible.’
DS Eden pulled on thin plastic gloves and opened the bag carefully with his pen. ‘How did you come by it?’
‘It was left on the Echo’s step. I almost fell over it coming into work. All wrapped up in brown paper and addressed to me. I’ve kept the paper for your forensics boys.’ Paul waved the precious evidence he’d rolled into a ball.
Eden frowned. ‘A box.’ It didn’t look too horrible to him. In fact, it looked rather beautiful. He took it out and set it carefully on his blotting pad ‘This is yew, I think.’ Eden knew it was a fine wood, not some soft stuff from a builder’s yard. ‘Nice marquetry work.’
The lidded box, an elegant soft rectangle, was out of place in his practical office. Warm, handmade, it glowed. Eden said what he saw as he examined it.
‘Inlaid depictions of trees along the top. Four of them. Each one different.’ He had a sinking feeling. This new case was unfurling in a peculiar way. Already getting away from him. ‘That one’s a yew, I think. Is that a poplar?’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Paul. ‘There’s more stuff around the sides.’
‘These are inlaid as well.’ Symbols were set into the box so expertly that the effect was seamless. Eden wanted to feel them; the forensics guys would crucify him if he touched the evidence. Instead, he turned the blotter slowly. ‘One vertical line on each side of the box, with dashes through them. Oh, and these two here, like the letter V on its side, they’re mathematical.’ He thought of Jess. ‘The signs for “more than” and “less than”.’
Symbols were even worse than fancy words; they misled, they lied.
‘Bugger me if I know what any of it means.’ Paul took a seat, his thighs lapping over the sides of the chair. ‘It’s what’s inside that made me bring it here.’
Gingerly, Eden opened the lid. He gagged. He recovered. ‘Eyes,’ he said, needlessly.
The maker of the box had carved a pair of concave dents, just the right size for the eyes that sat in them. They looked in opposite directions. Trailing ribbons of gore were tucked neatly around the white orbs. They looked alarmed. As well they might. They looked fresh. They were, without doubt, the eyes only recently removed from Keith Dike.
Snapping the lid shut, Eden thanked Paul. ‘You could have run with this on your front page, but you did the decent thing.’
‘I will have to publish, though.’ Paul sat forward. The office chair complained.
‘Not yet. Please.’ This week was only a day old and already like no other week Eden had lived through. ‘Withholding this information could be vital. Nobody knows that the murderer removed the eyes. That might help us nail him.’
‘I don’t want to get in the way of justice. And I want to keep our relationship shipshape. So nothing yet. But as I’ve scratched your back, could you please tickle mine?’
The mental image was almost as bad as the eyes. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I won’t publish yet. Scout’s honour. But when the time’s right give me the nod so I can be ready ahead of the big boys. ’Cos the nationals’ll be sniffing around if my source is correct and poor old Keith Dike was crucified.’
That little bird needed strangling.
Eden owed Paul. Eden always balanced his books. He nodded once, barely. ‘Nothing yet, Paul.’ He held up a forefinger. ‘You can print that somebody’s helping with our enquiries. I’m sure you know it’s that Pan bloke from Pitt’s Field, but no names yet, okay? I’m letting him sweat a bit before I interview him. We found plenty of Mary Jane, so we have forty-eight hours to play with.’
‘That’s a deal.’ Paul rubbed his hands gleefully. ‘Next time we meet I’ll have seduced my future wife. Wish me luck, John.’
DS Eden didn’t hear. He was staring at the eyes and the eyes were staring back.
‘John, those lines with the dashes through them, could they mean passage of time? You know, like prisoners mark off the days on cell walls.’
‘Possibly.’ Eden would come to no conclusions in front of a journalist.
‘Maybe this box is telling you when the next murder is.’
‘The next one?’ Eden gaped at Paul. ‘Isn’t one enough?’
The Mercedes glided to a hushed stop alongside Jess’s Morris Traveller.
‘You still have that old heap.’
‘Yes, I do. I love her.’
‘It must be older than both of us put together.’
‘Since you ask, she was born in 1970.’ Jess undid her seat belt.
‘How do you keep it running?’
‘My mate takes care of it.’
‘He must be a whizz with a spanner, this mate.’
Jess opened the passenger door. ‘He’s a she, actually. Catch you later.’ She slipped out briskly, making for her car without a glance behind her.
Rupert shook his head and rubbed his eyes, as if recovering from something. He put the Merc into reverse, turning to check his blind spot.
A knock on the window, and Jess was there.
Rupert jumped.
The window hummed down. ‘Yes?’
Jess smiled. A real smile, giving up her dimples.
‘Thanks, Rumpole,’ she said.
Chapter 4
THE EYES HAVE IT
Tuesday 17 May
A smudged face close to Jess’s own. Colourful, like a clown’s.
The face rippled. Disappeared into the depths of the water.
Jess gasped for breath. She was sinking.
She was awake.
Jess opened her eyes, still quivering. The room took shape, at first unfamiliar, then all too familiar. She wasn’t drowning, she was home.
Bogna put on her glasses and read aloud from her iPad. She read slowly. Inching along the lines. A chicken strutted beneath the table. Moose seemed uninterested.
‘ “The murder of local man, Keith Dike, 58, of Abbotts Avenue, has appalled Castle Kidbury residents. DS John Eden remains tight-lipped about details, stating only that an individual is helping the police with their enquiries.” ’ Bogna slapped down the tablet. ‘That means he did it!’ Bogna was triumphant. ‘I heard,’ she said, looking left and right, as if a spy might lurk by the Aga, ‘that this poor Keith was hanged.’
Shelling peas at the table, Jess shook her head. ‘Nope,’ she said. She’d almost finished her chore. She would have liked to shell peas all day. It was a timeless task, something women had done for hundreds of years. Something she’d done with her mother. She looked up to see Bogna tie an apron round her waist. ‘Where’d you get that?’
‘This?’ Bogna looked down at the candy-striped pinafore. ‘Hanging up, my darling, in pantry.’
‘I made it.’ Jess remembered the sewing teacher, her dried-up apricot face. ‘For my mother.’
Suddenly still, Bogna looked down at the apron. ‘Ah, well, she can’t use it now, can she?’ All a-bustle once again, she began to weigh flour.